Diz o ditado que no dia de São Martinho vai-se à adega e prova-se o vinho....
“(…) E ela, Madalena, não passava
de uma pobre mulher, que ia ali naquele ermo excomungado, trespassadinha, já
sem forças para mais, com o maldito do filho dentro da barriga aos coices. E
tudo por causa das falinhas doces do Armindo, daquelas falinhas mansas,
repenicadas, que a levaram à desgraça! Ah, magusto, magusto do S. Martinho!
Caras lhe estavam as quatro castanhas assadas que aceitara na cardenha da
Tapada. O malandro até jeropiga tinha ali à mão! E ela, a tola, comera bebera
e, por fim, rolara na palha aos berros. Mas de nada lhe valera. (…)” [1]
As the saying goes, on Saint Martin's Day you go to the cellar and taste the wine....
"(...) And she, Madalena, was nothing more than a poor woman, walking along in that excommunicated wasteland, thoroughly chilled to the bone, with no strength left for anything else, carrying that damned child inside her belly kicking away. And all because of Armindo's sweet talk, that gentle, coaxing talk that led her to ruin! Ah, the magusto, that Saint Martin's magusto! Dearly had she paid for those four roasted chestnuts she had accepted in the hut at Tapada. The rascal even had jeropiga right at hand! And she, the fool, had eaten, drunk, and, in the end, rolled around in the straw screaming. But it had done her no good. (...)" [1]
[1] Miguel Torga. Bichos. Coimbra, 1987
