Milling around a backwater

Just north of Rego, in the municipality of Celorico de Basto, there is an impressive collection of restored mills known collectively as the Moinhos de Argontim. It's the kind of place that can have me drooling. We had passed the little brown and white sign to the mills many times over the years, always with a promise to visit 'next time', but it wasn’t until one warm Sunday that we actually got around to turning off the main road to go and have a look. It advertises itself as a ‘circuit’ of ten water mills spread along the little River Bugio and we decided that a stroll along the river to inspect the ten mills would be a good pre-picnic lunch appetiser.

That’s what we thought, but the reality was somewhat different. It was all very easy to find the place - a mere 300 metres from the road - but once we’d arrived we found that the museum-cum-information centre was firmly locked and we found that access to the mills themselves was very limited. There was no one else about, which made it quite eerie.

Some of the paths along the river were seriously overgrown and I regretted not having put the machete in the car because the trail in both directions, upstream and downstream, soon became impassable. We went where we could, bravely ignoring the rip of brambles on exposed flesh, and were able to count nine of the ten buildings but could only reach half of them – and they were all closed.

The location of the tenth remains a mystery to this day. Shame.

As I said, I love looking at the machinery that goes to make these things work: the wooden pinions and cogs, the iron spindles, the hand-cranked sluice gates, the leather strapped brakes. The best I could do was to stare through the windows and dribble down the glass. The mills along the Bugio had mainly been in the business of grinding grain - and there is a history of them in that location going back to the eleventh century, though one was dedicated to pressing olives while the largest one was an ancient serração de madeiras, a sawmill powered by two impressive vertical water wheels.

Moinho de água

The official name for a water mill in Portuguese is moinho de água but a frequently used word for them is azenha. I hadn’t realised until looking for some information about the mill at another location that azenha refers to a particular type of water mill. The other type of mill is a rodizio, which, in my experience (and that of many others), is a term usually reserved for a humongous Brazilian-style meat buffet. The difference is simple; an azenha features a vertical water wheel and a rodízio boasts a horizontal one. The horizontal wheel mill was first introduced around the time of the Roman occupation and for a long time, they were the most common form of mill in the country due to their relative ease of construction as they don’t require a gearing mechanism.

There was a little shaded picnic area by the rushing river and we decided to have our lunch and wait. A faded notice on the door of the old saw mill-cum-information centre suggested that someone would be there at two, though it didn't say on which day, month or year this great event might happen. It might as well have said that someone might or might not be there at two or at some other time if the light was right and the wind wasn’t blowing from the east and the cat didn’t need deworming. Or something. But we couldn’t have chosen a better place for lunch so we tucked into some quiche and salad while sitting at a stone table overlooking the mill pond. The sound of running water always adds a soothing background and it was overlaid by a sweet song of some hidden bird, a warbler of some description, I believe.

Our attention was captured by a pair of electric blue dragonflies who were involved in a highly complex and stagy dance, using leaves floating on the water’s surface, a few reeds and some moss as their stage set. We were not the only ones watching them swoop and flutter, poise and spring. An emerald green dragonfly sat on a twig and watched them too. No doubt she went home later and complained about the Blues showing off again and how embarrassing they were.

Two o’clock came and went and so did half past two and there was no sign of the place being opened. Indeed, there was no sign of anyone at all. Eventually, we decided to join the rest of the world, the world that didn’t consist mainly of warblers, dragonflies, sluice gates and water races. Come to think of it, someone arriving clinking keys to open doors would have broken the spell, so perhaps we had a lucky escape. I recently discovered that the mills are about to be refurbished and smartened up for visitors. I do hope they remember to let the public in.

Fitch is a retired teacher trainer and academic writer who has lived in northern Portugal for over 30 years. Author of 'Rice & Chips', irreverent glimpses into Portugal, and other books.

Fitch O'Connell