The sound of golfball-sized raindrops deafened that of my own heart beating inside my throat. I could barely see past the black flashes that struggled to sweep the violent downpour battering our Euro-sized rental. Waterfalls started to form to our right along the nearly vertical face of wildfire-charred earth, sending debris across the road and down the thousand foot drop an arm's length to our left. I inhaled deeply while continuing to navigate each rail-less hairpin turn as flash flooding overtook the one lane cliffside road to Piódão. 

I tried to maintain some semblance of stoicism as not to convey to my partner Cate, or my in-laws, the fear that was creeping through my skin. This wasn’t quite how I imagined introducing them to the country of my ancestry.  

The Portugal of today is almost unrecognizable from the yesteryear trips I made with my parents as a child. Tourism erupted through the past decade as the country steamed through a post-recession renaissance. In 2019 the World Travel Awards named Portugal the World’s Leading Destination three years running and, according to the National Statistics Institute (INE), the country saw a record year in 2018 with more than 12.8 million foreign visitors landing on its sandstone shores.

The sharp increase in growth was palpable since my last visit to Lisbon. Views from the famed miradouros are now marred by wart-like construction cranes dangling above remodeled facades, while multi-story cruise ships eclipse the terracotta roofs that are a staple of the city’s skyline. Even my parent's native tongue seemed to get lost in the cacophony that enveloped the crowded September air.

I knew I needed to escape deeper into the countryside to show my new family the authenticity of the land my blood family calls home. But I didn’t count on my plan for a scenic three-hour drive through central Portugal to turn into an unnerving affair.

Even at less than 15 miles per hour, this was the most scared I’ve ever been in my life. My imagination couldn't help but picture the truck that would come careening around the corner into my limited line of visibility, or the landslide that was readying itself to bury us in this little mechanical coffin. Thankfully everyone kept their heads down, so the white-knuckled grip that glued me to the steering wheel went unnoticed.

There was debate to pause our journey, but there was nowhere for us to pull over. So, I made the unpopular decision to continue testing the depths of the running rivers now collecting on the road and praying that my calculations wouldn't send us plummeting down the mountain pass.

During the last few switchbacks of our hellish ride into the Serra do Açor mountain range, the sun started to peek past parting clouds. The post-storm petrichor blended with the scent of singed pine and eucalyptus, filling the car with nature’s much needed therapeutic touch. Across the valley, set on a lush leafy green mantel top, a nativity-like village appeared in the dying light.

As we made our approach I couldn’t help but notice the idiosyncratic planning of Piódão, one of twelve historical villages designated by the Portuguese Tourism Center. Schist stone, layered one over the other, climbed up the hillside before settling into a neat amphitheater array. “This place looks like Portugal’s Rivendell,” Cate observed, conjuring the Elven realm from Tolkien’s fantasy epic.

After parking in the cobblestone-laden town square, we stepped out into the fresh mountain air, clearing the stench of terror that stained our clothes. As if immediately knowing the trial we endured - or just being a masterful salesman - the local proprietor of Café A Gruta, Senhor Carlos Lourenço, motioned us over.

“Come, you look like you need a drink,” Carlos said as he handed us each a shot glass filled with a cloudy, aromatic liquid. “This one is an elderflower liqueur, it helps with the sinuses. And this one is chestnut, good for digestion,” he continued while pouring various fermented concoctions from the collection of glass bottles on display. Although I’m not entirely certain his health claims are backed by science, the five shots we took did help settle my anxiety. Perhaps, I thought, Senhor Lourenço should lead with that cure in his pitch. Either way, I figured we might soon need some additional medicinal assistance, so we left the stall with two bottles of his regional elixirs.

We pulled our bags across the cobblestone - no easy feat after the dose of anxiety reducers – before stopping at the steps of a structure that looked misplaced. It caught our attention from the distance. Like the spots on a fawn, the earthen coloring of Piódão is dotted with a dozen or so whitewashed exteriors. The one before us is the most prominent. Of course, in old-world fashion, this unique building turned out to be a house of worship. But compared to the ornate Manueline architecture of religious sites across the country, you could say that the Igreja Matriz exudes an understated beauty. The smooth exterior seemed almost cake-like. Vanilla buttercream icing covered its entirety. A final touch of soft blue piping accented the layers of tiered frosting.

The Igreja Matriz is a rather young addition to Piódão, built in dedication to Our Lady of the Conception towards the tail end of the 18th century. The village itself dates back to 1527, the year of Portugal’s first national census, where it was thought to have been a haven for fugitives and highwaymen. And that first perilous road into town? It wasn’t laid until 1974.

This centuries-long isolation is what formed Piódão’s unique construction. Due to the remoteness of its location, the original settlers built their homes out of materials gathered within the region. Schist, slate, and wood formed its foundations. Though, curiously enough, as we paced around the narrow streets, we noticed a familiar splash of color. Wooden doors and window frames all painted in a similar blue hue as the accents on the Igreja Matriz. Legend has it that the reason behind this was less aesthetic than pragmatic in nature. It was the only choice of paint in the single hardware store that existed.

We finally stumbled across our sleeping quarters in the maze of stone alleyways. The owner of the guesthouse, Senhora Inés Ribeiro, greeted us with a key that looked as if it were pulled from another century. When we made our reservation for lodging, Senhora Ribeiro informed us that her flagship four-room location, Casa Da Padaria, was fully booked. She offered us two rooms at her smaller inn named Casa do Avó. My knowledge of Portuguese told me immediately that these might be aptly named locations. Casa Da Padaria was the site of the original village baker, and Casa do Avó was, in fact, her great-grandfather’s own home. Each venture held tightly the remnants of its former charge, adding to our sense of immersion in the Portugal we were after.  

In this village of sixty, residents can often trace their lineage to the very doorsteps where they now do business. Although most locals, like Senhora Ribeiro's family, fled their rural upbringing to search for opportunities in major cities, many returned to their roots. Now they work the farms, shops, and restaurants that allow Piódão to retain its character. The overtourism of city centers is becoming the driving force that is repopulating this hilltop hamlet.

It was around 8 p.m. when we finally unpacked and headed out to continue our tour of the rustic surroundings. The night air was brisk and quiet as we explored by the yellow artificial glow of scattered street lamps. The only sounds that accompanied us was the gurgling of running water used to irrigate the village farms. Natural springs traveled from the top terraces, through street-level aqueducts, and down various man-made waterfalls to the bottom of the settlement. This ancient farming technology has been feeding the valley for nearly 500 years.

"I think it's time for dinner," Cate said, picking up on the Portuguese tradition of the late meal, even here in the remote mountains. The smell of grilled fish guided our grumbling stomachs to the seats of O Fontinha. It is one of only four operating restaurants in Piódão, and it might as well be like sitting for dinner with a neighbor. Tables and chairs that could have been sourced from my childhood home filled the single dining room. Our amiable hosts, the Lopes family, served up regional fare in a truly farm-to-table environment. Cheese from goats raised up the hill, a traditional Portuguese farmer’s stew made from lambs with names, and a perfectly grilled trout fished from the rivers just hours before we sat down.

The following morning, we awoke to the sound of a rumble that shook the schist surrounding us. On that same road which we narrowly escaped, smoke rose as the puttering of a hundred bikers on 1970’s single-cylinder motorcycles weaved down the valley. In an instant, Piódão tripled in population. The bikers set up shop just outside the Igreja Matriz, where a king’s roundtable was set for their arrival. Although our nerves were a little jittery at the site of this invading army, a sense of ease flooded over us when we heard my parent’s language abound in their spurts of laughter. The battalion was a local weekend motorcycle club on their yearly trek through the mountains, stopping at the historical site to enjoy cold beers and a warm meal in the afternoon sun.

We spent our final hours in town lounging around one of Piódão’s “river beaches,” an odd way to categorize a swimming hole dozens of miles from the Atlantic. The natural pool filtered directly from spring waters that carved the stones forming its basin. We walked down what felt like miles of craggy stairs, receiving directions from the local velhotas seated gossiping on their shaded terraces, before reaching the beach’s cold jade waters. Picnickers sun-bathed along the edges just below two arched stone catwalks and an ancient suspension bridge that connected the homes to the main thoroughfare.

My gaze wandered to one of the dwellings that overlooked this intersection of nature and human ingenuity. I wondered what it felt like to first set eyes on this rugged locale, and then deciding to build a life within the hills. Just like us four Americans, they must’ve been searching for an escape, for a connectedness often hidden outside of comfort. They were a hardy people. And their descendants no less so, eschewing the hustle of the walled cities and returning themselves to the earth.

Our ride back to Lisbon was less terrifying the second time around. The roads were dry and the sun guided our path. We felt refreshed from our encounter with a piece of untouched Portugal. With the rest of our time spent enjoying the crowded capital, my in-laws came away with a sense of fondness for the country that indirectly formed me. They even picked up a bit of the Portuguese melancholy after their return to the States. My phone buzzed with a single word: Saudades.