When I first came to Portugal, many years ago, I was used to fireworks being a modest once-a-year event and the first time I heard the sound of exploding ordinance and saw the Portuguese night sky lit up with flashes and smoke, I assumed that a military coup was taking place. I was surprised the next morning when life seemed to be going on as normal and no one at work mentioned the insurrection, so I didn't either. I soon became accustomed to the sound, but never used to it, if I may parse the difference in meaning. Fireworks are a cultural cornerstone in the country and you'd best get used to it, or else consider leaving. It's also big business. A cousin of the missus is a pyro-technician and he owns quite a large firework factory hidden away on the other side of the valley to us (a wide valley, thankfully). He always looks content and prosperous.

What are the reasons behind the fireworks?

There are lots of reasons why people might let off fireworks and a modest few explosions rending the air might simply be to mark someone's birthday, or homecoming, or departure. Mostly, however, the major affairs mark the celebration of the local saint's day – or days, to be fair, as most village festivities to mark the festival of S Wottsisname last a long weekend, or more. Portuguese fireworks put a lot more emphasis on the noise element than the visual and the finale of any firework display, no matter how tame the main event, can be quite astonishing in its frenetic savagery.

Praising the gods of noise

This praise to the gods of noise can also be found in other festive activities, not least the bombos that any village worth its spirit can summon up for the least of its celebrations. I have to admit to being quite a fan of grupos de bombos, in spite of once being trapped between two competing drum bands and an ancient city wall. The two bands had been tramping around town for some time and I had been enjoying hearing the sounds coming variously from this rua or that beco or yonder praça and it was only slowly that I realised that the two bands were converging – and I was standing at the precise point of convergence. Suddenly, I was trapped with my back pinned against the thirteenth-century city wall and a bevvy of big bass drums only inches from my nose. It was my teeth that were most alarmed, however, and I suddenly became acutely aware of every single filling that I had, old and new. As the percussive waves rolled through my jaw, I relived the memory of every dentist's drill over the course of a lifetime. At the same time as being almost terrifying, it was perfectly exhilarating and although I would never wish to repeat the experience, I recall it with bittersweet fondness.

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They use smaller bands of bombos in our village, especially when it is time to collect money from residents for the various festivities. They will drum outside your door and make the hinges rattle until you give them money to stop. In fact, noise for its own sake seems to be the thing for summer festas, the louder the better. Friends of mine report from villages which abut other villages with different traditions and they talk of unofficial competitions going on between the communities to outdo the other in terms of sheer volume. Sheesh, so much for the quiet country life.

Low level noise events

Our concelho recently celebrated their patron saint, S Tiago. There were lots of relatively low-level noise events planned, including grupos folclóricos and a performance by an extremely good local banda filarmonica. It's quite something when a wind band of around fifty players can be classed as 'low noise'. Scaling up the noise barometer, there was also the traditional Clash of the Drum Bands (Despique de Bombos) which, if nothing else, can leave spectators exhausted simply by watching the amount of energy being expended on beating tightened skins. There was the obligatory firework display – not just a display but a Monumental Sessão de Fogo de Artifício – and the three-day event ended with various musical items from groups whose main aim in life seemed to be to exceed 100dB. This, incidentally, is alright with us because we could always go and stand in the park over half a kilometre away from the praça where the buildings and trees in between would reduce the noise level to something almost bearable. On the other hand, we could just stay at home in the village and hear nothing at all.

Well, not nothing at all. There's never no noise. Even when we are safely tucked up in bed, we will be waiting for the final blasts of some festivity somewhere. I always think of them as punctuation marks to end the show: an exploding rocket, followed by a pause of a few seconds; then a second rocket, another pause; then another rocket. The only question at that point will be – are they doing three or five tonight?

Author

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. Also on Substack.

Fitch O'Connell