Out into the wilderness to a mystical and mysterious land

TRAS-OS-MONTES is not for everyone. Its name, ''beyond-the-mountains'', refers to more than the geographical shield of the Marao and Geres ranges. In this far northeast province of Portugal a sense of mystery lingers. There are pagan cults and weird mask dances, balancing boulders and prehistoric stones. Urban Portuguese are quick to warn you away from the area: ''It's very backward,'' they explain. ''Roads are poor, accommodation bad. It's a hundred - 300 - years behind.'' Eight kilometres from the Spanish border I stopped at Chaves, the cutting edge of Tras-os-Montes, the last outpost before the wilds proper.

I languished in the town's seedy old Hotel Chaves, perused Roman milestones on the bridge and phallic menhirs in the town museum and joined geriatric nuns by the riverside spa hospital for a daily dose of warm, alkaline spa water (good for metabolic disorders, diabetes, gout and obesity).

At nearby Boticas I discovered the ultimate liquid cure: a vinho dos morots - ''wine of the dead''. It was first produced by the villagers in 1809 when they buried their wine to conceal it from the invading French and discovered afterwards the taste had improved.

But Tras-os-Montes is not famous for its wine. It is famous for sturdy pottery looking like pewter, spindles and woollens and walking sticks, baskets, knives and clogs. Life here has few luxuries. Nowhere is this more apparent than in the villages of theBarroso district, west of Chaves. Here in the rugged grooves of the Barroso and Larouca mountains is Tras-os-Montes lifestyle at its toughest and truest.

Vilarino Seco, at the lonely end of the road from Alturas do Barroso, is typical of many villages: cobbled streets caked with dung, houses made of huge granite blocks, pigs grunting from behind wood doors. A few children flicked sticks, and looked bored.Cock crows and cowbells alternated with the dripping water of the village font to fill the silence.

For centuries, the villagers of north Portugal have emigrated to earn a better living. Montalegre, the largest town in the area, is flush with emigrant money. Its ruined 14th century castle may look incongruous, but to undefended nearby frontier villagesthere is something strangely reassuring still about the castle's four-towered outline.