Flower power overwhelms town

The British dispute this, insisting they were first cultivated in eighteenth-century England. Not so, say the Portuguese, pointing to sixteenth-century azulejos showing aforementioned blooms as proof. Will there be a fight?

No surprise, then, that the three-day Festa Internacional das Camélias in Celorico de Basto ends in a fight, a batalha das camélias, where hundreds of people throw camellia petals at each other. Ouch! That hurt.

Celorico is the self-proclaimed Capital das Camélias, and during the month of March, the town is richly decorated by the townsfolk with thousands of handmade camellia flowers – paper, cloth, wood – and the cafes will even sell you camellia cakes washed down with camellia liquor. During the middle weekend, it all comes to a climax with live music, Ciência Viva events, street parades and exhibitions and competitions for avid collectors from across Portugal plus neighbouring Galicia. Celorico, small as it is with less than 2500 residents, is the largest town in our concelho. Some of the neighbours in our village had spent the previous few weeks helping their children make costumes and, inevitably, camellias so that they could take part in the grand desfile temático on Sunday afternoon. We really had to go along and cheer on the wee souls as they traipsed down the main street of the town.

By some extraordinary chance, the weekend of the parade was blessed with sun rather than the processions of storms which we seem to have been gifted recently. Just as well - the costumes being worn by our little vizinhos were neither warm nor waterproof. Steered by earlier experiences, we parked the car far out of town and walked in by following a ribeirinha. The streets were already packed with people and though we wanted to be on this side of town to see the end of the procession, we first walked up to the centro de saúde where the participants were gathering to begin the parade. This gave us a chance to admire the efforts of the individual shop owners in decorating their premises in appropriate styles and to stop and chat with some of the many life sized mannikins dressed in traditional costume (plus ubiquitous camellias) who had been left hanging around on street corners, guarding multibanco machines or just generally being in the way of things.

Excitement

We found our neighbours and their children up past the bombeiros and they, like the hundreds of other children from all over the concelho, were bubbling with excitement. I hope it starts on time, I said, for I remember how quickly children's enthusiasm turns to crankiness when there are inexplicable delays. Walking up through the lines of waiting paraders was quite a tonic. The differing costumes were vibrant (varied colours for each freguesia), the children chirruped and the adults were in garrulous good humour. We wouldn't have been able to take in the details of what they were wearing and carrying as they promenaded past on the street, let alone stop for a chat, so we were glad we walked up to the top of the town. We watched for a few minutes as the police detained a man on his motorcycle. He had clearly made the bike himself, for it was constructed of wood, with an old engine fitted under the bench-like seat. We couldn't hear what was being said, but in my head, I gave the silver-haired copper a kind of Dixon of Dock Green accent along with the statutory “'ello, 'ello, 'ello, and what do we 'ave we 'ere, then?”. That, later, the wooden motorbike didn't make it to the end of the procession with the contingent of historic bicycles was either down to mechanical malfunction or the wagging finger of the law preventing it from proceeding down the highway.

We walked back the kilometre or so to where the parade would end, admiring the camellia-inspired art installations in the main square on the way. The town was now crammed with good-natured people lining the streets. Soon, the long camellia-themed caravan processed through the town at a stately pace. There were children, from screaming babies to sulky adolescents, and regal ladies under parasols, fin-du-siécle styled gentlemen pushing their velocipedes and residents of lares being wheeled or otherwise assisted, folcloric musicians strumming and tooting and there were our young neighbours in all their finery. They all traipsed past and, bit by bit, assembled in a great crowd outside the câmara so that they could throw petals at each other.

What a grand event it was, we thought. A demonstration of local civic pride, where everyone who took part gave so much of their time, effort and treasure and where the only reward they received was the satisfaction of taking part in a community event. It's a fine lesson for children to learn, especially in this age of hyper-individualisation and insularity. My main regret, though, was not having talked to the man on the wooden motorbike. I mean, I want to build one myself now and he might have had some useful tips. I wonder if he is still helping the police with their enquiries?

Fitch is a retired teacher trainer and academic writer who has lived in northern Portugal for over 30 years. Author of 'Rice & Chips', irreverent glimpses into Portugal, and other books.

Fitch O'Connell