Chapter 5 - Dinner From the Garden

And The Belgians Who Stole a Piece of Our Hearts

Driving north from Fundão, we crossed back through Serra da Estrela — over the mountain range and down the other side — and found ourselves pulling into the most unexpectedly perfect place we had encountered so far.

Four camping spots. That's all. Just four.

Benny and Terese's little private campsite, tucked between the hills near the small village of Póvoa de Santo Amaro in the Viseu District, was the kind of place that rarely comes up in search results. You find it through word of mouth, or luck, or — in our case — both.

What this Belgian couple had built on what was once a patch of rough land covered in wild spiky raspberry shrubs was, by any measure, extraordinary. Green grass, carefully paved docking spaces for caravans, fruit trees and flowers everywhere you looked. And in the center of it all, a salt pool — cold, clean and irresistible on a hot summer afternoon, surrounded by pool toys left out for guests to use. We spent days in that pool.

Benny and Terese were warm, calm and generous in the way that people are when they've built something with their own hands and are genuinely happy with where they ended up.

The Garden That Changed Something in Us

Beyond the pool and the immaculate grounds, Benny and Terese had something we hadn't encountered up close before — a fully self-sustaining vegetable garden. Raised beds bursting with fresh vegetables and strawberries, fruit trees heavy with produce, and a large chicken coop where happy, well-fed hens roamed freely across it, pecking at seeds and living their best lives.

Hagi had always talked about growing his own vegetables one day — dreamed about it, the way you dream about things you don't quite believe will happen. Standing in Benny's garden, asking questions, watching how it all worked — something shifted in him. I could see it.

Benny answered every question patiently and generously. He told us to help ourselves to the ripe strawberries — which the kids did, immediately and enthusiastically. Then he introduced us to something none of us had ever seen in person: Rhubarb.

It doesn't grow in Israel. I had heard of it, seen it in recipes, never held a stalk of it in my hand. Benny explained how to cook it, cut us a large bunch to take with us, and sent us off to the caravan kitchen to figure it out.

It was a delight. Tart and complex and completely unlike anything else. I cooked it that evening and made a mental note that has stayed with me ever since: one day, when I have a proper kitchen and a garden of my own, I am making a Rhubarb pie.

Dinner From the Garden

That evening's dinner was one of my favorite meals of the entire year.

Nothing complicated — a simple cooked dish from the caravan kitchen, served alongside a crisp fresh salad made from lettuce and tomatoes we'd picked from Benny's garden ourselves, maybe twenty minutes before we ate them. There is a particular sweetness to a tomato that came off the vine the same day. Supermarket tomatoes are a different species entirely.

We ate outside as the sun went down over Benny's little paradise, five of us around our small camping table, and it was one of those meals where nobody rushed away from the table when they finished. We just sat there a while longer.

The Road Calls Again

We could have stayed longer — honestly we could have stayed a week. It got dangerously comfortable in the best possible way. But comfort is the enemy of adventure, and there was still a lot of Portugal ahead of us.

We said goodbye to Benny and Terese, promised to come back — and meant it — and packed up the caravan for the road north.

Before we left, Benny mentioned a friend of his, another Belgian, who owned a campsite further up north. He insisted we look him up.

We did. And that's where Chapter 6 begins.