Living under a rock in a tiny hamlet might sound isolating—and it is.
There’s little access to the outside world in the small village of Monsanto, situated on a craggy bluff in Portugal’s sparsely populated east, near the Spanish border. It’s quite literally in the middle of nowhere.
Found on a mountaintop 2.5 hours northeast of Lisbon, in this village, the houses are merged into the rocks: Some are squished in between stones; some excavated into solid granite; and others, yes, built under the many great boulders of that region. And for reasons natural and manmade the tiny town of Monsanto has long gone mostly unchanged.
These rocky heights, centuries ago, were coveted strategic positions for contesting armies. It’s said that the Templar Knights in the 12th century built the castle of Monsanto (or Holy Mountain) that now lies in ruins upon the summit, just a short hike from that hamlet. In even earlier times, the area was occupied by the Romans, conquered by the Visigoths, and invaded by the Arabs.
Today, the out-of-the-way outpost is mainly for tourists willing to make the long trek to spend a few hours exploring. Meanwhile, many of Monsanto’s former inhabitants have moved out, preferring the lower, less rocky foothills where more modern amenities are available. The town high upon the hill now only boasts about 800 locals.
Yet, Monsanto’s charm has long endured and garnered it the official title, the “most Portuguese town in Portugal,” in a 1938 contest. The former Estado Novo regime’s aim of promoting rural life to encourage farming led to the quaint, quintessential Portuguese town, and 11 others, being named Historical Villages.
Thus, laws forbid any major works or overhauls in Monsanto today; the undulating geography itself also discourages new urban works. Visitors have to park their automobiles below and hike up the steep cobblestone streets at a snail’s pace, often in the baking Portuguese sun, to reach the town proper.
Then again, those same nuisance boulders also engender Monsanto’s architectural wonders—its marvelous mergers between man and nature.
Traveling on foot through town, up and over, above and about the beaten terrain and stonework, one frequently spots abodes—some as old as 500 years—half-buried in the bedrock. Some structures appear as if squashed between two stones; others are dwarfed by enormous, 200-ton boulders that seem about to crush them.
In the case of Casa de Uma Só Telha—the House With Only One Tile—the idiom, living under a rock, is literal. A long granite slab serves as a roof over the cozy home.
The restaurant Petiscos e Granito, built on an outcrop with a magnificent vista, appears little more than a red door, squeezing out from under a behemoth round rock with a boulder on its flank.
A local saying goes: You never know in Monsanto, if the house is born of the rock, or if the rock is born from the house.
Sure, the quaint town is sparse, yet its inhabitants have festivals and folklore to liven things up. Visitors will spot elderly locals huddled in stone doorways looking to sell to tourists handmade musical instruments called adufe, a traditional square tambourine, or bright-colored hand-woven baskets.
They also sell small, faceless dolls called marafonas, constructed from wooden sticks formed into a cross and bound by cloth. These pagan-inspired dolls are crafted without facial features and are believed to possess protective powers and promote fertility. Traditionally, they were placed under the beds of newlyweds on the night of their wedding, to bless them with a baby.
Another tradition stems from a local legend: Long ago, the castle of Monsanto lay under siege by invaders for a year. The people of the village were down to their last cow and sack of grain and were nearly forced to surrender. But instead of rationing their supplies or giving up, the town’s leader tried another strategy; they fed the entire sack of grain to the cow and then, before the walls and the entire besieging army, threw the fattened bovine from the ramparts to the ground where it splattered open in a gruesome display.
As their enemies watched in awe, they were shocked that the villagers still appeared to have plenty of supplies to last them. Thus, the invading army withdrew their siege in frustration and retreated.
Today, the people of Monsanto hold an annual festival to celebrate this victory. On the first Sunday in May, a village woman scales the castle carrying a pot full of flowers—instead of a cow—and then, from on high, ceremoniously smashes open the pot and spills the flowers down upon the ground below.
Little ever changes in the tiny town of Monsanto, so far off the beaten path, so unwieldy its lithic landscape. The fear that the town might one day die out does exist.
Yet, some who continue living on the bluff have transformed their dwellings to attract tourists; once-medieval abodes have turned into bed and breakfasts, restaurants, and cafes.
Perhaps, with new lodgings and attractions coupled with old allure and mystery, the town with the houses built between and under stones, might continue to live on.
