"Once Upon a Time" Legends of Viana do Castelo

And that mountain, to where he had thrown his stick, came to be called Santinho's mount, for peace and happiness reigned there too. It's a shame that the name of this Santinho is not known.

Once upon a time there was a king named Oural, whom a terrible sorceress, envious of his power, through all lands between Lima and Cávado, transformed him and the kind queen, into a mountain range. The two unhappy sovereigns had a son born there from the womb in the form of a fountain, in a joyful and palmer jumping of water, on rocks, grass, and mud. Knowing him thus, healthy and pure, the king Oural wanted to see him grew, to strengthen of the severe images of the rocks and to run, free, by the valley that was torn to him at the feet. After baptizing him with the name of Neiva, so similar to Mist, his parents said to him a moving goodbye, with tears freezing white on their hard breasts, like bright spots of frost.

And he saw the sea! With what pride did he penetrate it, he stretched himself for it, stretched himself in the salt of his high waves, cold, in a salutary shiver! How proud he was that deep, hoarse sea, always restless, feeling bigger and softer, in the meekness of caressing the fine body of the sand with foam, proving less dangerous in the swinging of the fishing boat. And Neiva suddenly recognized that he was the virile soul of his father, prisoner of the wickedness of a spell, again to fecundate with abundance and to make progress his former dominions, and the goodness of his mother to fill the landscape with beauty and love the heart of the earth. And just as God, at the end of every day creator of the universe, saw that all this was good.

Even the heart of Don Mécia did not resist the seducer. It was she whom Álvaro Peres preferred, in his gallantry. But D. Rui de Sousa searched through old nobiliaries, heavy heraldry books, of the genealogy of the unknown. And finally discovered with deep regret that the blood of Alvaro Peres was not clean and belonged to the Jewish race, so hated, so detested, then, and even deserving of the purifying bonfire of the Holy Inquisition. Knowing the terrible truth, Dona Mécia wanted to spy, with grief, that infant love, at the cloister of the Convent of Sant'Ana, where an aunt Abadessa, D. Guiomar de Sousa, welcomed her with affection, covering her with the veil of the novice. His breast did not soothe, however, the prayers she held in the heavens, in the silence of the church where every night she retired, before an ivory crucifix, where Christ agonized. The image of Álvaro Peres did not leave her of the thought, nor of the heart.

In the outburst of vision, all the excited soldiery supposes to stand before that river Lethes, the river of forgetfulness, an unparalleled river of which the legends and the narratives of his country spoke to him. And from oblivion, why? Because it was said that whoever dared to cross it, bewitched by its beauty, would soon forget the homeland, the family, the name itself. The soldiers were shocked by these warnings, the whole army refused cross the enchanted waters, obliged to trample the ford of the passage that would take him safely, the opposite bank. In vain the commanders gave them orders to advance. In vain the supreme chief, Décio Júnio Bruto, threatened their disobedience with imprisonment and death. No one moved, paralyzed by emotion and fear.

THE LEGEND OF SANTINHO

Once upon a time there was a mountain called Monte de Roques, and it was in Vila Franca, Mujães and Subportela, where the Lima River flows. There had been a small village of castles inhabited by primitive people, dedicated to shepherding and hunting, for in the darkness of the grove the ferocity of the bear, the elegance of the Corsican, and the bloody impetus of the boar had been hidden in the darkness of the grove. The clan worshiped the god of fertility and also the sun, as the creator of life, presiding over the crops, maturing the fruits, warming men and animals. One day, a strange old man with big bearded fangs climbed up that hill, wearing rags of bunting and wearing sandals worn and dusty. He was leaning his trembling body to a thick, knotty staff, with which he felt the rough and tortuous paths.&nbsp;

Once upon a time there was a small village born on the right bank of the Lima. It was called Atrio, and it had a thick mountain of grove, where on top there was the fortification of a castro inhabited by unnamed people and who, at a certain point, descended to the coast, seeking, in the fishing, better food and more commerce. It was extremely beautiful, among cultivated fields, palms of lush gardens, orchards and vineyards, but its main vocation was the sea, the fishing. On the beach, several boats waited until dawn to be launched. In the evening, the boats returned to the Atrium, to the joy of the women and children, with the bottom of the boat filled with throbbing fish: sardines, horse mackerel, pout, conger ...

At that very moment, two dozen Moorish soldiers appeared behind the princess, who respectfully invited her back to the palace, where her father was waiting for her, in concern. But seeing, on the other side, the Christian knight, they crossed the river to give him combat. Before the princess's despair, the battle of arms was so brief, so unequal! Wounded by the knight's sword, some soldiers were left, bleeding and moaning. But the others, in loud cries, went in pursuit of the young enemy, who went into the woods to kill him. Lamenting a love so soon gone, the princess returned to the arms of her father, vowing never to grant the hand of wife but to that knight of the blue eyes that had snatched the heart to him. And, in the hope of finding him again, he would descend constantly until the time, and there he would weep, his eyes watered, seeing the deserted banks. That's how years have gone.

No one knew his name, or where he came from, or where he was going. With calm but steady speech, he asked for a shelter in the humblest hut in the village. Although ignorant of all their past, the children, the old and the sick knew to be in the presence of a good and pious man, for he had always the sympathy of a smile, the caress of a caress and the science of an ointment to relieve pain and heal wounds. Little by little, all the inhabitants of the castro began to see in him an ardent spirit of faith and charity. During the calm nights, when the night was gathered around a bonfire, for a lively conviviality, where he discussed family life, fieldwork, hunting episodes, evoking, also, loops of old guerrillas, between victories and defeats, the strange man stood up from his darkest place and spoke. What was he talking about?

But Décio Júnio Bruto had a happy decision. Getting down from his horse, he crossed the sorcerer waters slowly, his shield protecting his head, the short sword drawn in the firmness of his hand. And as soon as he reached the right bank of the river, he heard the rumbling of the grove, the maelstrom of the nightingales, and began to cry out for his men, stiff, outlined in front of him like static statues, uttering the exact name of each, without revealing memory effort. Only in this way did he convince his soldiers that, after all, the river that flowed at their feet was not the Lethes of forgetfulness, despite its beauty, despite its fascination.

Of wonders and mysteries. From a single, universal and merciful God whose son, Jesus Christ, had sent to earth for the salvation of souls. He failed them of his miracles and his holy parables that were the Way to Truth and Life. They listened to him in silence, with esteem and respect. No one had spoken to them of so much good and evil, with such conviction, with such fervor. And they began to see in the holiness of this man, who awakened his soul with such sublime doctrine, likewise the profile of a chief who guided them in their daily lives, who guided them in peace and war. And they soon invited him to such a high office that he would honor them, but the holy man refused to accept him, telling them that his mission there was over. And that he was glad to leave, in that hilltop estate on Monte de Roques, more a Christian community, aware of its creed and willing to defend and publicize it.

Legend of the river Neiva

Once upon a time there was a river. He was born on a Galician mountain range, and unhurriedly he descended a mild valley full of willows, sighted by the distance from the high hills clad with pinewoods, and where, on the summits, sheltered the refuge and the aggressiveness of old castros. It was blue and smooth. It had no name, yet. By the calm of dusk, to dye the skies of the near sea with red, the shepherd, covered with beastskins, led the flocks to the fine sands of the banks, to drink freshness in the limpidity of the river, long, long ... But this peace of Paradise was soon disturbed by the strident, cadenced stride of the strange soldier.

Imperial Rome had sent its legions to the savage composers of the Iberian Peninsula, winning battles, building paved roads, bridges, aqueducts, warring walls, temples to the gods, amphitheaters to arenas for the pleasures of art and sport. They invaded, implacable, the bucolicness of the sweet landscape, wielding the keenness of the spear and the shield of a hewn carriage, between the ruin of the heavy wagons and the feverish trope of horses, and one day, behold, the grin of these legions comes near the bank south of the river of which I speak, with their red banners, studded with eagles, shaken by a gentle breeze. And stake, surrendered, dazzled!

Now there lived in the Atrium, a beautiful girl named Ana, the daughter of a fisherman, who was always ready to sell the fish, always with a song on her lips, listening to some gambling from nearby Galicia, and the terraces of the pilgrimages. He was delighted to hear these songs of love and friend, a young boatman who carried the river and the Atrium, farmers and merchants to the purchase of fresh and tasty fish. From listening to Ana's harmonious voice and admiring her grace, the boy began to feel for the girl a love that grew day by day. He had already told his friends and fellow readers how pleased he was with this nascent love. And these, contented with their contentment, smiled when the boatman, coming back from the Atrium, gave them a happy cry:

A bright spring day was born, with the sun illuminating, the man climbed up to a huge rock, which was a marvelous viewpoint of all around him, and, before the folding of all, he lifted up his wooden staff, far away, towards the neighboring hill, where another castro was lurking, dark and hostile. Then, without hesitation, he descended to the valley and disappeared, in a gleam of sunshine, to the bands of the sea. On the rock he had laid, on that day of farewell, the marks of his sandals were engraved with sharpness. They are the "footprints of the saint", as the devout tradition calls them.

Legend of Giela's haunted Moorish

On one of those nights, she felt that someone was at&nbsp;the sacristy door. It was Álvaro Peres who was approaching her with open arms. Shocked, she tried to escape, but with an inadvertent gesture, D. Mécia knocked over the crucifix that had shattered on the floor of the church. Meanwhile, the young man embraced her, and Dona Mécia felt her spirit die, thought she was lost, and gave herself to the sweet bond of Alvaro Peres. And with Alvaro she left the Convent, in a litter that the Jew had brought to kidnap her. Knowing, by the prelate his sister, of the escape of the two boyfriends, D. Rui de Sousa sent, in pursuit of them a group of hard-horsemen, from the garrison of the Vianese castle.

Once upon a time there was a Moorish king, who lived in a splendid palace, surrounded by comfort and wealth, with its lacy courtyards and fountains spouting freshness, with its aromatic gardens of flowers, in a place called Giela, sighting the peace of a valley , where the River Vez glides. The monarch had a very beautiful daughter, who kept her locked in the rooms and chambers of her palace, away from the sight of her viziers and knights, reserving her to a marriage with a neighboring Caliph to increase her fortune and territory. One day the princess succeeded in getting the obedience and sympathy of her servants to procure her one of her father's horses, and on the blaze of a quiet summer day she rode alone to the banks of the River. It is difficult to imagine his contentment and his enchantment!

Dismounting from the swift horse and taking off his gold embroidered slippers, he plunged the perfection of his brown feet into the brightness of the chain. Suddenly, as she lifted her eyes to the bank, she saw a young knight in silver armor riding a superb white horse with long, flowing mane swaying in the morning breeze. He was certainly a Christian warrior, lost from his army. He carried in his hand, covered by an iron glove, an haughty banner, unrolling the heraldry of a coat of arms, where a golden castle stood on a red background. Then the blue eyes of the knight, like a very pure sky, plunged into the eyes of the princess, black as the darkness of night. And it would seem that an arrow of love crossed, hissing, both hearts.

Then the whole army crossed, without hesitation, the clear and mild waters, and followed to new landscapes, new hills and valleys, new rivers, though none of them so dazzling. And that river which, for a moment of passion and trembling, had been called Lethes, continued to run, without haste, until the end of the mouth. The river has today the name of Lima. And, as before, he who fascinates, by his beauty, the one who is drawn from him, hears the slight flow, now flanked by the richness and nobility of miraculous churches and sanctuaries; by the dark armored solar and the cheerful whiteness of the docks; by the hustle and bustle of ancient settlements with their elegant arched bridges over fishing boats; and, for all the horizon, the lands, the pillory, the crosses ...

- I saw Ana! I saw Ana This was soon adopted by the fishermen of the Atrium who began to repeat it when they returned from the hard work of the work, they found the warm form of the mountain, the golden beaches, the slow waters of the river and the peace of the their homes: - I saw Ana! I saw Ana In granting the charter to the village of the mouth of Lima in 1258, King Afonso III, who had visited it &nbsp;before, was so ecstatic with so much beauty and prosperity, he replaced the name of the atrium with that of Viana. Surely someone had told him that cry of love. And only love deserves such blessed land.

And that the motives of their grievances were true. El-Rei listened, thoughtfully, to the arguments of the people of Cardielos. And he said unto them, "Go in peace to your lands." King's word does not go back. Happy with the finish, the people tried to destroy the tower and the building of D. Florentim Barreto, so that no memory remained, neither of the nobleman, nor of his condemnable acts. &nbsp;

On one occasion a young servant of his, seeing the marriage close and unable to endure his mistress being subjected to the master's violence, gathered his companions and persuaded them, especially the respectable elders to sue the court, denouncing to the king the villainy of the gentleman and asking, for him, a severe punishment. They knew that D. Florentim had great influential friends at court who were able to defend the life and habits of his sovereign by swearing him innocent. So they used cleverness. At the king's feet, they begged him to free himself by death of a frog who robbed the girls pureness and tyrannized all the people of the region. The king was amazed with such a singular request, and, smiling with the ingenuity of the people of Cardielos, agreed to kill a frog so bad.

The litter was fast and bumpy along the Ponte de Lima road, trying to reach land in Spain for safe haven. But when they arrived at Fontão, the soldiers spotted her, but they could not catch her, because a terrible crash astonished them all. And, as if by charm, the floor opened into a wide hole, swallowing the litter and, with it, Don Mécia and Álvaro Peres, amid flashes of high infernal flames. Recalling the fantastic case, there is today in a lonely place Fontão, a dark well and so deep that no one knows the end. The Well of the Litter says it. At his side stands a stone cross that seems to cast the pity of a pardon to that impossible love, in times intolerant and cruel.

Well of the Liteira

Once upon a time there was a gentleman, D Rui de Sousa, a resident of Viana, in the company of his children, among whom was D. Mécia, who was requested by all the young people in the neighborhood who were fascinated by her beauty and her abundant possessions. One day, a wealthy young man named Álvaro Peres emerged in that riverside land, soon conquering the sympathy of all, with the amusements he promoted, the superb banquets, wines. The hearts of the Viana maidens began to throb faster, seeing in that young man, even ignoring her ancestry, a future husband for a lively and happy life.

Legend of the Rio Lima

River of forgetfulness? Do not. Remembrance River. Live memory of these amorous lands, where it glides and seems to kiss.

That's how it's been centuries. But even today, in the sleeping landscape, one can guess at the placidity of the river a vague figure of woman with a light veil hiding the beauty of her face, staring at the dark grove of the bank. It is the moira of Giela, waiting for a white horse to appear, mounted by the young blue-eyed knight, clad in silver and carrying in his hand the heraldry of a tassel, where, in a red background, a golden castle shines.

The envoys who were very glad returned with the royal decision, and soon summoned the valid arms of the parish, armed with bolts, assaulting the site and giving quick death to D. Sapo. D. Florentim was caught by surprise in his favorite pleasures and, with a cry, fell, inert on the floor of the room where he had committed so much horrendous crime. The friends of D. Florentim Barreto, when knew the audacity of popular justice, soon ran to the Court, to claim, from El-Rei, the condemnation of the transgressors. The ruler was greatly distressed by this bloody rebellion, and commanded that responsibles should come to his presence who had committed such a grievous crime. Then those found guilty replied to him that they had received, from the mouth of the king himself, the order of death of D. Sapo, for only by this name did they know D. Florentim.

Once there was a gentleman named D. Florentim Barreto, whom the people had named D. Sapo (Frog), a lord of a towered house and vast farmland, located in the parish of Cardielos, near Viana and the waters of Lima. All his servants hated him, for he exercised upon them an unjust and cruel power. But, above all, what most fueled their hatred was the right to which D. Sapo pretended to pass the first wedding night with the brides of his servants. Thanks to such an infamous custom, any new constituted couple was nevertheless silent in the lust of Don Florentim Barreto, without the courage to revolt against her, fearful of misery and even of death.

Neiva also said goodbye to his parents, but in a hurry as a young man eager to discover new places, dreaming adventures on the way to the sea, where he would dive and confuse himself. Then he was descending vertically in small waterfalls, and when he was astonished by its beauty, the fountains rushed from nearby foothills like those of Fojo Lobal, where the wolfish wandering wandered, and from other places, like Arêfe, Carvoeiro and Fragoso, to greet him, to join him, to increase his flow. And there he went on his way in the milder valley, more grown and torrential, his voice only a bird's song, thickening, infusing respect to those who, men and animals, saw him from the banks, heavy with rain. And it was with respect, indeed, that the animals and men were leaning on their bed, the green, flowering branches of the willows, the oak trees flanked him, bowing over him, in a grateful greeting that the wind helped to give him, Finally, Neiva reached the mouth of the mouth, flooding cliffs clothed with limes and sandy beaches.

Name

Safari may block some audio or video from playing automatically and ‘read to me’ will skip these. You can configure this in Safari’s preferences.