José Maria Guiomar lived near Castro Cola, in Ourique, in a small house by the Mira River, which flows just a few hundred meters away into the Santa Clara Dam.
During the floods of November 1997, the small hill where he lived was not high enough to protect him from the deluge. The dam overflowed like never before in living memory. It was a close call. He survived, but the waters took everything he had.
Life had to go on, and so it did the following year—first with the rebuilding of his house, and then, in the spring, returning to work in the fields.
May 1st is a day of celebration in Castro da Cola. Around this time, he would prepare the land for sowing. The mule pulled the plough with such force that he could barely control it. The animal was young, and he was no longer as strong—age had caught up with him.
As he moved forward in jerks, he repeated the same gestures with each effort—first abrupt, then more gentle—accompanied by prolonged cries, like someone in despair, unable to control the animal’s path. The frustration of, even momentarily, feeling incapable of taming the beast’s stubbornness and keeping the furrow straight.
Tirelessly, he insisted, determined that the furrows carved by the plough be straight and end where they should, without the wild animal veering off across the field.
Now, when I pass by, I no longer find José Maria Guiomar. He was a fighter. One of those who fight their whole life. He knew, better than anyone, that a man’s worth is not measured in inches.