“Only two kilometers north,” the old woman chuckled, adjusting her basket. “Seems like a different world though, doesn’t it?” She was right. Here, in the outskirts, the air felt different as we approached Lama. This wasn’t just a village swallowed by the sprawl of Santo Tirso. Lama held onto its own rhythm. A quiet hum of life, a stark contrast to the bustling energy we left behind in the city. Lama, a name that felt as sturdy and unyielding as the stone houses surrounding us. In 2013, the powers that be redrew some lines on a map, merging Lama into a new parish. But here, amidst the quiet lanes and the scent of baking bread, Lama remained Lama. A place where time moved a little slower, content to let the world rush by while it held onto its own stories.
Центральный дом работников искусств
Step through the grand wooden doors of the Central House of the Workers of Art, and you’ll be transported to