I remember a place from my childhood summers.

Rugged landscape. Sun-scorched hills. Narrow winding roads. Fresh spring water. Clear rivers. The food tasted very different.

This was Trás-os-Montes, in northern Portugal, where my family had owned olive groves and vineyards since the early 1900s.

My grandfather used to drive here regularly from Porto to tend the land and make olive oil and wine. I never really cared.

Decades later, the place had completely disappeared from my life.

After my grandfather died, I came back to survey the property and prepare it for sale.

One evening, I walked through the olive groves. Probably for the last time.

I thought about all the years my family had spent here. The world had changed completely. Yet, the groves had barely changed at all.

For my family, this place had been a source of pleasure. And here I was, ready to let it go.

Selling the groves made sense. I lived abroad, had no knowledge of farming and two hectares is almost nothing.

But sitting among the trees, it suddenly felt impossible.

The next day, I thought: fuck it. I decided to keep the groves.

Lento came naturally from that decision. Not an opportunity, a plan or an idea.

Just a simple desire: quiet continuity.

— Miguel