Hi Reader

Last Sunday, my friend Suzi and I found ourselves standing in a narrow cobbled street in the little Portuguese village of Alpedrinha, with sheep and goats streaming past us just inches from our legs. Some of them had VERY large horns.

This was Chocalhos, a festival celebrating the ancient tradition of 'transhumance' (totally new word to me) - which means the seasonal movement of livestock from one grazing area to another.

For generations, shepherds in this part of Portugal moved their flocks along established routes according to the seasons, and the village of Alpedrinha lay along one of those routes.

Once a year, that history comes alive again as the sheep and goats make their way through the village, bells clanging around their necks, accompanied by music, singing and chocalheiros - performers who wear numerous cowbells around their bodies and create the most extraordinary noise as they move. It's one of those things where a description really doesn't do it justice.

However, what struck me most wasn't the sheep and goats, it was what the people in the village did.

The route wound through narrow cobbled streets lined with old stone houses and, one after another, people had simply opened their front doors - to anyone and everyone.

Rooms that, for the rest of the year, are presumably someone's sitting room or front room had become makeshift bars, cafés, restaurants and handmade craft shops.

Suzi and I spotted a sign advertising chocolate crepes. (I had already discovered, somewhat disappointingly, that Chocalhos has absolutely nothing to do with chocolate.) So naturally - at the first sign of chocolate - we went in.

We walked through someone's front door, ordered two crepes from the husband and wife team and were ushered into the room behind, where bales of hay had been arranged as seats and tables had been set up for visitors.

While we were sitting there, their little boy, who was probably about seven, came in with three of his friends. They looked around the room with the sort of fascination children have when somewhere completely familiar has suddenly been transformed.

And I thought about the effort that had gone into all of this - for just three days.

People had made things. Cooked things. Decorated their homes. Rearranged their furniture. Opened their doors. Musicians had turned up. Families had joined in. All to keep alive a tradition that generations before them had known as part of everyday life.

And perhaps that's why it felt like so much more than watching some sheep and goats walk through a village.

It felt like community.

Actual people, physically coming together and creating something that none of them could have created in quite the same way alone. That's something I've come to value enormously.

​The Compass is about discovering our direction and taking the steps towards the life we want to create. But I'm increasingly convinced that very few of us are meant to make that journey entirely on our own.

Sometimes we need someone walking beside us. Sometimes we need encouragement. Sometimes we need somewhere we can turn up exactly as we are and feel that we belong.

And sometimes, perhaps, we need to be the person who opens the door.

So my gentle thought this week is:

Because perhaps community doesn't just happen. Perhaps it's something we create. One open door at a time.

Discover your direction ❤️

Kimberley & Phil​
​The Compass by Casabo​
​Helping you find direction, connection and your next step

PS. If you're curious about The Compass, we've put together a simple explanation of how it works here: [What is the Compass?] You're welcome to start using it yourself whenever you need to find your direction.

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