Furthermore, children were playing in the mud to dirt their faces with soot and ash, just as the sources describe. The adults dance and sing, jumping over the remains of the fire.
But what the research articles never mention is the crisp fall magic that blankets the chestnut grove, or the extreme kindness of all the galician people we found there: in fact, we even got a botany lesson on the uniqueness of Spanish cork trees and the crazy-looking berry called o madroño (picked right from a tree beside our heads) used to make home-brewed forms of liquor. The tourism articles never capture the smell of bonfire smoke that stays in your scarf and hair for days afterward; they don’t they fill their pages with the rich lyrics in galego of songs that were sung deep into the night; nor do they tell you the hidden coordinates of this secret chestnut party, tucked away in the woods.
We left the o magosto celebration, climbing back out of the woods, and the music gently faded away as we drew farther away. It was time to return to reality, to Lugo, to the new winter season ahead of us.
And yet—Every time I crack open a chestnut, I shall always hear the echo those gaita songs I heard deep in the forests above Ourense, and remember the magic of o magosto.
I'm looking forward to my next trip!
