It Was The Dog That Barked

Published in Overland Journal Europe, Summer 2019

Time travel to Portugal—2,000 kilometres forward; 100 years back. Daylight was fading fast as we took a last exploratory walk through the twisted alleys in the almost deserted village of Antigo de Sarraquinhos. We stopped in front of the only house with a dim light shining through an open door at the top of a flight of uneven wooden stairs. The sight in front of us was mesmerising: rich brown hams and rings of chouriça (traditional Portuguese sausage) hung in abundance from the rafters under a rudimentary ceiling pitch-black with soot from decades of smoking. A single light bulb dangled unceremoniously at the end of two wires emitting the amber glow that had attracted us like moths to a flame. José and I edged closer for a better look—that was when the dog raised its head, looked down at us from its vantage point on the landing, and growled menacingly. 

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