The Expats of Portugal’s Algarve

I awake to wind. “Its the bad wind,” they tell me over breakfast: “The Spanish wind. The Levant.”

The wind rumbles out of the east and enters our small valley farm with a constant dirt-churning rush. The eucalyptus trees roll like the waves of the ocean, the chickens and turkeys hide within their roosts, and the plants of the farm bend under an energy and fury that seems both impossible to resist and destined never to end.


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