Tag Archives: Portugal

Last Gasp

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We’ve been to Portugal quite a few times, sometimes with tents and mostly by campervan and have eaten meals in all manner of restaurants in a lot of places. There are many memorable ones- our early stopping place at Vila Praia de Ancora in the north, where we first experienced the pre-dinner assorted breads and dips, the rough and ready port-side restaurant in Porto which we visited having missed our train and witnessed a recalcitrant patron being ejected through the double doors by his pants…The wonderful family-run restaurant with plastic tablecloths where we selected our fish…I could go on and on-

In Tavira centre we’re spoilt for choice of restaurants- except that they are all extremely busy in the evenings. There’s a narrow lane, just off our local square, where we’d had a beer, sitting outside and had noticed a menu advertising tuna steak and salad for 12 euros- so what’s not to like?

We’re halfway through our [delicious] meal when a character dressed in black robes and a jaunty hat- looking very ecclesiastical- appears near our table, holding a saucepan and a wooden spoon, which he bangs together while he squawks tunelessly, prompting us to wonder if he needs paying to go away. But he pauses, then switches on a speaker and launches into an operatic classic- and he sings wonderfully. We’re treated to two or three arias before he moves on up the street to the next restaurant.

Our last day dawns and we’ve planned a trip to Tavira Island, where a pleasant breeeze will take the edge of the stifling heat. We stop off at the bakery to pick up some lunch supplies en route, then through the square, over the bridge, through the bigger square, through the gardens, past the market hall and to the ferry- which is waiting.

We know our way now- up off the jetty, along the path and through the restaurant area to the sand- which still has convenient fabric pathways, making sand walking easier, In spite of the huge numbers of visitors and the explosion of sunbeds and restaurants, Tavira Island has been kept as pristine as possible, with plentiful recycling and refuse bins. There’s not a speck of rubbish on the expanse of white sand, anywhere.

We’re just about to veer off to find a place when we’re waylaid by a young man who seems to want to sell us something. We’re wary, cynical travellers in our dotage and tend to ignore touts, but he’s British and I wonder what he’s offering us, so I pay more attention. He explains: He and his partner have purchased sunbeds for an entire day but have a lunch engagement in the town and need to leave. Would we like to share the cost and use them for the afternoon? I’m still a little suspicious, although he leads us to their place- at the front, facing the sea, with a fancy button to call a waiter and draped for shade. We do the deal, of course!

It’s a great way to spend our last afternoon- lolling on the beach, reading or snoozing. Then it’s with a certain reluctance that we wend our way back to the ferry. Behind us, a long queue gathers, snaking away up the path.

We’ve booked a table at one of the busy restaurants in the square to have a ‘last supper’, then it’s back to the hotel, the rooftop bar and a last, lofty drink in the warm late evening air.

Novels by Jane Deans [Grace]: The Year of Familiar Strangers and The Conways at Earthsend. Visit my website: janedeans.com

Tavira Island Revisited

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We’ve had enough time to get familiar with our surroundings in Tavira and even to find a regular bar. Hoping for some late afternoon let-up in the heat we step out for a stroll, although exiting the hotel doors still feels like entering a boiler room. We walk down the steepish hill to the tiny triangle housing bars and restaurants, then on over the river to a larger square overlooked by an imposing civic building. Book stalls line the path along the river. A stage is being installed here with rows of seats lined up. Then it’s along through some gardens to the market hall. Just past here, the ferry to Tavira Island is moored. It would be fun [and cooler], wouldn’t it, to go and look, for old times sake?

We last came many years ago. It’s only 2.50 euros for the short trip and we’re just in time to bundle on, cramming inside and perching at the end of benches- the previous passengers being very reluctant ro budge up- or even to pull their beach bags on to laps! t’s all very familiar- chugging along the river towards the estuary, stopping at Quatro Aguas and out into open water, before arriving at the jetty and stepping off with everyone else. A tree-lined, paved path leads towards the beach, through a conglomeration of cafes, bars and restaurants- far more, surely than were here 20+ years ago?

We continue to the beach. All that time ago, there’d been nothing but a massive expanse of sand, as far as we could see, with nothing on it. We’d put towels down. I remember falling asleep, waking with that slight smear of dribble that emerges during daytime naps, and being told by Husband [pre-Husband in those days] that I’d been snoring.

Today, when we get to the end of the paved path, wooden duck boarding leads off in all directions- to row upon row of sunbeds- stretching away into the distance and to various structures. It’s busy, although not full. Some of the sunbeds, the posher ones, are those with drapes over the top= others are bog-standard with sunshades. The best thing is that the island is blessed with a gentle breeze-.We wander through the restaurants, most of which have displays of hapless sea creatures. Presumable they’re mainly catering for lunchtimes, since the last ferry is 8pm ish, although there is a camspsite [a new addition since our previous visit].

We’re not prepared with beach paraphernalia this afternoon- but we’re not up for any more roasting in the enclosed brazier of the hotel pool complex- so we’ll definitely be returning tomorrow. For now, we get an ice cream then make our way back to the jetty, returning to town, where we stop off at our ‘local’ for a beer, of course.

Then it’s a slog back up the hill. En route we hit on the idea of picking up a couple of things from the bakery to take with us next day, on our way to the ferry.

Novels by Jane Deans [Grace]: The Year of Familiar Strangers and The Conways at Earthsend. Visit my website: janedeans.com

A Taste of Tavira

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The neurotic ex-pat woman I’m squeezed in next to on this budget flight to Faro leans forward and closes her eyes in an ecclesiastical manner as we touch down on the runway. While the plane rolls towards the terminal she tells me it’s 35 degrees outside. 35 degrees? When we’d looked at the forecast for Portugal, pre- booking, we’d been informed that the temperature would be a very pleasant 25ish! And it’s gone 8pm, too!

Still- we’re here and stumbling off towards arrivals, hot or not. And it is very warm standing in the queue to have passports scrutinised- warm enough to induce a nasty fit in one of the waiting visitors, who falls to the floor, convulsing. The Portuguese airport staff spring into action, running in with first aid packs and all is restored.

We’re transported to our hotel by a rotund taxi driver. It’s a 40 minute journey, though not unpleasant- even though the driver’s musical tastes do not exactly match our own.

I don’t recognise or recall the outskirts of Tavira, which we visited over 20 years ago. Our hotel is in a commanding, elevated position on top of a hill and quite central, but we are to discover that the steep climb back to it is taxing in high temperatures.

We stumble into the cool of the air-conditioned reception area and are offfered a welcome drink of…wine. ‘White or Red?’ I make a tentative request for a beer, which is turned down. So much for that then-

Having checked in, we go up to find our room, which is at the end of a long, long corridor- it’s a little unnerving due to the decor, fake panelling concealing all the rooms’ doors and illuminated by floor lights- all very strange. But the room is fine, has a balcony and overlooks the hotel pool.

We’ve arrived late, having not eaten but the hotel’s restaurant is still open, although we are in almost solitary splendour, with only one other couple dining there. An enormous array of starters is arranged around an oval buffet – just about anything and everything, and it’s tempting to try a bit of everything- except that we’ve a main course to get through, too. I’ve found, these days that multiple courses are way too much. I could happily have done with starter only.

We discover that the top floor of the hotel houses an open air bar and it’s marginally cooler up there, with views over the top of tavira, a pleasant enough way to end our first evening.

Next morning the dining room is vastly changed and is teeming with diners. A pianist at a grand piano accompanies the activity with a selection of easy-listening musak. I’m not a breakfaster at home, but here where it’s included I’m happy with some fruit, eggs and toast.

We decide, on this first day, to chillax, preparing, then making our way down to the pool. There’s a hiatus when we are baffled as to the route but it’s via a large balcony on the ground floor then down some steps. Again, the weather is extremely hot and not condusive to sitting in the sun, though by the looks of the sunbeds this opinion is not shared by everyone, as most residents are roasting themselves to a scarlet crisp in the sweltering rays.

In the hotel lifts, stern instructions about not bagging sunbeds in advance are posted up. Even so, we must hunt for them and when we do locate two, we haul them across to the shade, where we stay, reading and dozing.

While it’s still hot, in the evening we brave the oven-like temperature and stroll down to the little town square, which has plenty of bars and cafes. It’s pretty and characterful- just the place for an evening beer and a meal al fresco…

For fiction by me, Jane Deans, search for novels: The Conways at Earthsend [an eco-thriller] and The Year of Familiar Strangers [mystery drama]. Visit my website: janedeans.com

Budget Flights- a Stress Test

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We don’t have enough time for a van trip [and the van is still in need of repair] but we can squidge in a short trip somewhere if we fly. Short-haul flight is not something we’ve been in the habit of doing. Under normal circumstances we’d use our home-on-wheels for forays into Europe, but needs must, since we both have health appointments to fit in.

But we’ve a few days spare, and having looked at what’s available we see that there’s a short trip to Portugal – and the weather forecast tells us that the temperature is not too hot- high 20s but not 30s. We can do it!

We’ll be going to Tavira, which we visited many, many years ago – so many, in fact that we think it may have been during our tent-camping years. We’d come across Tavira while wandering along the southern Spanish coast and over the border into Portugal. We’d thought it a refreshingly unspoilt place for the Algarve, undeveloped and free of high-rise hotels. But for the life of us- we’re unable to recall where the campsite could have been!

Anyway- back to the flying part. We’re booked on to a budget airline- which shall remain nameless- but has a reputation for charging for every little thing- checked baggage, cabin luggage, meals, snacks, seat selection, Seat selection! If you should desire to sit with your travel companion, you must pay extra for the luxury. We determine that although we must check in one case [between us, due to medication], we can manage the two hour flight without sitting together.

We’re flying from our local airport, which most friends and family seem to consider an advantage. The local airport also charges for everything, so the taxi cost is significantly increased by the ‘drop-off’ charge. Drop-off charge!

Inside Arrivals, the situation is mayhem, with long strings of queues stretching in every direction. There is no indication as to which queue is waiting for which desk, since nothing is labelled. The system appears to consist of one large woman walking around and shouting intermittently at us, the would-be passengers. We join a queue, with no clue as to whether it’s for us. Nothing is happening and nothing moves. The large woman walks past, shouting destinations. I leave the queue to question her, returning with the news that we are in the wrong queue, a fact that Husband does not wish to acknowledge. I join the correct queue, taking the suitcase with me.

After aeons, we get to the bag drop desk, where the conveyor belt isn’t working and everyone must trek round to the ‘outsize luggage’ place. Then it’s the joys of security- which we do actually have the hang of these days! Husband must avoid the gate scanner at all costs and I’m sent back to be scanned by hand.

We repack and go to departures, expecting a relaxing wait with a drink and a snack. We’re met with a seething mass of humanity, crammed into the one bar/cafe. Husband queues for drinks while I peruse the aisles in the one or two shops, which yield very little in the way of lunch or a snack at all.

There’s nowhere to sit- until a kindly couple invite us to share their table. They’ve waited all day for their delayed flight and still have a few hours to go…

Later, we’re invited to go to the gate. Once again, it’s guesswork which queue to join. But we do get on to a plane. I’m sandwiched between a very large Portuguese lady and a neurotic ex-pat lady who speaks Portuguese, then treated to their conversation, which is conducted across me. For the remainder of the flight, the neurotic ex-pat harangues me about her ailing business in Portugal [quad bikes] and the difficulties of her family.

When I go to use the WC I pass Husband, who is merrily chomping on Pringles and swigging red wine. Ho hum…

For fiction by me, Jane Deans, search for novels: The Conways at Earthsend [an eco-thriller] and The Year of Familiar Strangers [mystery drama]. Visit my website: janedeans.com

Tented Travels. Portuguese Tours and Tribulations.

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After having explored the area around Ancora and its beaches and experienced an eventful time in Porto [as described in last week’s post] we determined it was time to up tent poles and meander southwards down the coast.

There is as much of an art to dissassembling tents as there is to erecting them-more so sometimes. The borrowed pyramid tent was large and we were only beginning to get a technique for using it, especially folding it small enough to cram into the bag. When we came to collapse the tent ready for folding we discovered, to our horror that the beautiful conifer that had provided our shade in this corner of the site had also dripped unsightly resin all over the pale beige canvas, leaving it stained and blotchy. We were horrified. This tent had been kindly loaned by one of Husband’s colleagues. Whatever would they think of us returning it in such a terrible condition?

Perhaps the elderly Portuguese neighbours who’d been so ready with the advice we didn’t understand had been trying to tell us this all along?

For now though, there was nothing to be done so we packed up and departed to have a look at some more of Portugal, winding up at the whimsically named Figueira da Foz, which was then a modest seaside town with an attractive sea front and of course, beautiful, surfable waves. I believe that, like most places Figueira has undergone significant development in subsequent years but then it all seemed quite basic and unspoilt.

After we’d settled we wandered along for an evening drink at what appeared to be the only seafront bar. The night was breezy and the prom almost deserted, but there were lights on and as we pushed the door and entered there was only one group of revellers inside-a family enjoying a birthday celebration. We sat down to enjoy a glass of wine, making for a table a little apart but soon we were sucked into the revelries just as if we were distant relations, and plied with slices of birthday cake.

At the time, there were few sites near enough to Lisbon to make it easily accessible, but we could drop into the beautiful old city for a day en route south towards Portugal’s corner, which we did, strolling the lanes and gazing at the iconic funiculars and elevators. This first visit to Lisbon was quiet and untroubled by traffic whereas a subsequent trip saw us mired in gridlocked jams and breathing in noxious fumes during an open-top bus tour. How times change!

On we went to Sagres, in the south west corner before the coast turns into the popular Algarve. Here it was wild and breezy. We camped in a small, wooded site and were delighted to help out our young, Portuguese neighbours with the loan of a tin opener! At sundown people congregate to watch the sun set on this furthest west point of mainland Europe, perching on the rocky clifftops above frothing waves. It is a lovely place.

We bimbled [Husband’s word] along the Algarve, avoiding the high-rise hotel developments where possible and eventually on back up through Spain and France. At some point we had to pack the ill-fated pyramid tent wet and discovered it had torn in a couple of places. Horrors! Now it was stained, wet, torn and sporting gaffer tape. Stopping at a motorway service station we removed it and attempted to dry it out, with limited success. There was no way we’d be able to return it in this parlous condition. We’d simply have to buy the kind lenders a new one-and keep this one….which we did!

Tented Travels: Porto-a Divine Debacle

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Now where were we? Ah yes-Portugal, the west coast, staying at Praia di Ancora, having pitched our borrowed, pyramid tent [disregarding advice from our elderly Portuguese neighbours, whose comments we could safely disregard by claiming ignorance of their language]. A few kilometers down the road lay the attactive town of Viana do Costello where we could get a train to Porto, thus avoiding the need to find a parking place in a city where streets are narrow enough to string laundry across between the homes.

We parked the trusty Peugeot in the station car park and went to buy tickets. But what a spectacle the interior of the station was! Every wall boasted stunning tiled murals in customary blue and white. Here was a beautiful art gallery before we’d even left! In our innocence we bought return rail tickets and established the latest return time. Then we boarded and sat back as the wheezing, rumbling train took us down the coast.

Porto [or Oporto to the Portuguese] is a stunner of a city, tall umber houses squeezed together on the slopes down to the Douro river and dotted with old churches, frescoes, balconies-all with that beautiful decadence that only grand old cities display. My favourite streets are the narrowest, cobbled and where the balconies almost meet in the middle, as I said-strings of laundry across them.

On the River Douro there are traditional Rabelo boats that were once used for transporting wine barrels but can now be used for tourist trips. As we sat down by the riverside we peered into the waters where the river was boiling with thousands of fish, so that you might be tempted to reach in with a net and scoop some out-until you notice that what is attracting them is a sewage outlet…

No visit to Porto is complete without looking at a Port lodge, of which there are many; cool, cavernous warehouses accommodating rows and rows of barrels full of delicious port in various stages of maturity; Heaven for Husband, who has a penchant for port.

At last we felt we’d done Porto justice and began to consider our return to Viana do costelo. We wouldn’t want to miss the last train back. We returned, footsore by now to the station and presented our tickets. And this is where the vagaries of timetables, coupled with breakdowns in communication failed us. ‘Ah no’, declared the gentleman in the ticket booth. ‘The return train does not leave from here.’ Who knew? How foolish of us to imagine for one moment that our train would be returning from the point where we’d left it? And of course, the station from which it would leave was now too far to get to. We had missed it. But he offfered us one glimmer of hope. A late, late ‘milk’ train would be trundling up the coast in the small hours and we could get back on that.

While it was a relief to learn we weren’t entirely stranded we were left with the conundrum of what to do with our evening and opted for a long, leisurely meal. We found ourselves drifting along to the port area, where a swathe of restaurants fringed the dockside, then selected one. It was quiet, early and there were pleanty of empty tables in the long, thin dining area past the bar. We soon had the feeling that tourists were not regular visitors and this was reinforced by the way the waiter ran to get me clean cutlery when I knocked a knife on to the floor! Though I’m sure the meal was delicious and would have been fish-biased my memory of it is eclipsed by the thrilling sight of a regular who’d been drinking at the bar being roundly ejected by the seat of his pants-an entertaining event.

We spent as long as we were able with our meal, then with drinks, until we could reasonably toddle off to get our train, by which time we were full of food and wine and very sleepy. The train’s old-style compartments seemed inviting and I felt anxious that we’d travel past our destination if we slept too soundly, but we managed to exit the train at Viana and arrived, very late to our site. We’ve been caught out by timetables on plenty more occasions since then!

Tented Travels-Portugal

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Back in the 70s and 8os I seem to remember Portugal having a reputation for being expensive, but one of our early tenting expeditions in the 90s was to this small, sunny, friendly country tacked on to the side of Spain.

By the time we got round to our Portugal trip we’d upgraded from my ancient Volvo hatchback to ‘Mick’, Husband’s beloved Peugeot Estate, a heroic vehicle that took us thousands of miles and accommodated tons of equipment. We’d also swapped the aged, leaking frame tent inherited from my parents for a [admittedly borrowed] ‘pyramid’ tent, which was beautiful and roomy, but involved someone [ie me] crawling underneath the skirt of the tent to hold the central pole up while Husband secured the guy ropes. In hot weather this could be a sweaty task.

We still needed to make overnight stops in hotels and since a road trip to Portugal involves passing through Spain we had no option of a ‘Formule 1’ as we did in France, so we had to find somewhere en route, which we did, and perfectly acceptable I believe it was.

We cut off the corner of Spain and entered into the north of Portugal and to the coast. The west coast is green and less built up than the popular Algarve, which accommodates large numbers of package tourists every year. Husband was into body-boarding and was keen to try the waves in this area, which are great for surfing. We stopped at the small seaside town of Vila Praia de Ancora, where a large, wooded site gave access to the beach across a railway line and found a corner to begin setting up the pyramid tent.

It is customary on a site for those already installed to show an interest in new arrivals. On this occasion we were ‘helped’ by a Portuguese gentleman nearby, who was keen to advise where our entrance should face etc., whereupon we determined the entrance should face away from our neighbours.

The little town was [and still is-we’ve been back since] delightful, boasting beautiful sandy beaches and characterful streets with restaurants and bars [then, at any rate]. We got our first experience of Portuguese hospitality and cuisine, eating in a modest town restaurant, characteristic of so many in the area, with simple but delicious food and wine sourced from the local district. And as tradition dictates, our menus were accompanied by tasty nibbles-a lovely touch.

Our site was a short walk from the town and also close to a handy Intermarche supermarket. We also discovered that the railway behind our site could give us easy access to Porto, further south down the coast, which meant we would not have to up poles and move from this perfect spot. We’d need to drive to Viano do Costelo, a short way south, and park there to get a train. Wonderful! What could possibly go wrong? …

Tented Travels Portugal continues in the New Year 2021. Anecdotage’s next post will be my travel review of the year-a little different this year. In the meantime, I’d like to wish all regular readers, followers and visitors a safe, healthy and happy Christmas, wherever you are. And thank you for visiting!

2019-The Year in Travel

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One way or another, this year we’ve indulged in seven trips, which seems, on first reading to be self-indulgent [a view that is certainly hinted at by some]. I don’t like to call our pieces of travel ‘holidays’, because holiday is an ambiguous term that means different things to different people. A holiday to many [myself included when I was a proper working person] is simply a break from work, lolling on a sofa in pyjamas watching movies. To others it is somewhere hot, lolling by a pool in swimwear. For us it is a foray into learning about places-their history and geography, the art and the culture.

The first 2019 trip was in January-to Scotland in our camper van, which may appear a strange choice to some, but the weather, though cold [-6 at Loch Ness] was mainly crisp and sunny, ideal for seeing the dramatic scenery of The Cairngorms or the grandiose architecture of Glasgow.

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Next, in February, we made a self-indulgent winter sun visit to Barbados, a tiny, laid-back, friendly island, where we self-catered in a modest ‘apart-hotel’ and enjoyed the company of our fellow guests, jovial Canadians, most of them.

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In the spring we trundled off along the [extremely wet] north coast of Spain, a spectacular journey following the pilgrims route to Santiago de Compostela. This rugged coast includes many cliffside towns that would rival the Amalfi Coast, if only there was sunshine and dry weather. We continued on around the corner to Portugal, which defied our experience of always being warm and sunny to be cloudy and windy. There is not much left of Portugal we haven’t seen but it remains a favourite destination.

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We undertook an early summer jaunt to Brittany, to cycle some of the Nantes-Brest canal. This was a spectacularly successful trip, the well-appointed, municipal sites along the canal cheap and conveniently placed by the towpath. But the temperature soared into the 40s, making cycling tricky even in the evenings. It was, however scenic, memorable and pleasant and we are likely to cycle some more French canal paths.

Brittany cycling

Later in the summer we stayed locally in a New Forest site by a small, handy railway station and a large pub, hosting a small granddaughter who had requested to come camping with us and fell in love with it all immediately, especially riding around on her bike, being surrounded by wild ponies and cows and eating outside in the fresh air.

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This was followed in the autumn by a visit to the outrageously gorgeous Italian lakes, starting with Lugano and continuing on to Como, Iseo, Garda and Maggiore-all very different but all breathtakingly beautiful-and new to us as a destination. The return drive over The Alps via the Simplon Pass was spectacular and I’ve no doubt we’ll return to the lakes at some point.

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Our last outing, in October,  was to visit Norwegian friends where they live overlooking a fjord near Aalesund. We were gifted with cool, clear sunshine and our hosts’ hospitality was lavish.

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So a brilliant year of travel; but where to in 2020? Well-weather permitting we’ll be sampling the delights of the Lake District, UK in January, then heading for long-haul sun in February. After that, who knows? Will European travel even be feasible? We can only wait to find out…

The Rain Across the Spanish Plain

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Sometimes exploring an area in depth can make you realise how woefully ignorant you are, that there are so many world heritage status places you’ve never heard of-or at least-that I’ve never heard of.

Portugal’s Evora is one of these.

We took a couple of days’ beach break, just down the coast from Lisbon, at Caparica, where Lisbon-dwellers come at weekends for sea and sand but precious little else, Caparica being Lisbon’s equivalent of Southend on Sea. On the camp site you could have been fooled into thinking it was snowing, if the temperature hadn’t been 28 degrees, so much fluffy seed was blowing, blizzard-like across the site and settling, ankle deep on the ground or in heaps of white fluff inside the van.

Next, Evora.

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This walled medieval town is a pristine vision in white and ochre, packed full of whitewashed churches, monasteries, ancient university buildings and a wonderful, 15th century aqueduct which begins low, at the top of the town and lengthens as it descends. Homes have been made between the arches:

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The town is quiet, the gift shops awash with knick-knacks, but few buyers. I take pity and buy a small, red, cockerel embellished wine cork for a gift. There are a few other tourists. Did they, like us, stumble upon Evora? Or did they research it at home and make a special pilgrimage here?

For reasons that can best be described here

we need to turn towards the north and make our journey home. As yet it isn’t urgent but I’m aware that it may become so. We set off towards the Spanish border and Badajoz, which we’ve passed by on occasions but have been told is worth a visit.

The weather, never reliably sunny this trip turns overcast once more, but the journey is beautiful-rolling hills and vast cattle ranches, the road quiet and peaceful and we arrive at lunchtime.

The aire at Badajoz is brilliant; easy to locate, a convenient situation just across the River Douro from the town and services all provided free. Little wonder it fills with vans by the evening. We wander across the attractive footbridge, through the gate of the city wall and across towards the ‘Alcabaz’, the citadel which dominates the town from a high vantage point above the town. By this time it is raining and with an afternoon to spend we fritter some of it in a cavernous bodega.

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A return to Spain means a return to tapas, a variety of tasty snacks offered with every drink. Though we’ve lunched it seems rude not to stay and enjoy the fare-and it is raining outside the bar. Badajoz’s cloistered square is beautiful.

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Zipped into raincoats we brave the rain to stroll around the domineering Alcabaz, then it’s back to the aire, where some local residents whose house adjoins it have decided to share their music with us. Freddie Mercury’s vocals are blasted for an hour or two, but since I’m not averse to a bit of Queen myself I think it could be a lot worse…

Next day it’s on to Valladolid, where we make several circuits of the one way system before locating the motorhome parking bays. It’s a quick stopover and our sincere apologies to the parking authority for our inability to pay the 9.50 euros fee, but having managed to retrieve my bank card from the machine when it was stuck I didn’t feel up to giving it a second go!

Onwards and upwards…

 

 

 

 

Turning Portuguese

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The first time we visited Portugal was with a tent, a giant, swish ‘pyramid’ tent that we’d borrowed from Husband’s colleague. I had to crawl in and hold the central pole, getting hot and sweaty while Husband hammered the pegs in outside. On a site at Ancora [north Portugal] where an interested neighbour ‘advised’ us on where to have our doorway, we pitched under some sap-dropping trees that stained said tent for ever, resulting in our having to buy the colleague a brand new pyramid tent when we returned. [We’d also torn the fabric attempting to dry it out in a French motorway services car park].

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This was also the trip when we visited Porto by train from Viano do Costelo, buying return tickets and discovered on our return to the station to get back, that the train ‘does not return from here’. We had a wonderful, dockside meal and returned on a ‘milk’ train, from a different station at about 2am.

During this and subsequent visits, with various vans we’ve done the major must-sees of Portugal: Porto, Lisbon, Guimares, Coimbra, Sagres, Faro-

Mostly we’ve found the west coast to be more pleasant and less developed than the Algarve, but there are exceptions.

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Portugal, like Greece is one of those countries that never fails, with luscious countryside, beautiful historic cities, reliable, warm weather, delicious food [including the famous ‘pastel de nata’ custard pies], a gorgeous coast line and friendly people.

We find Lisbon much changed, with the addition of hideous cruise ships blocking views and throngs of tourists everywhere. Our previous visit was quiet and we were able to stroll the narrow lanes without stepping around selfie-takers. To anyone intending to visit Lisbon and considering an open top bus tour I’d say, ‘Don’t!’ You pay 11 euros to inch along for hours in stifling traffic, a woman wailing Fado songs in your ears. You get to see very little and anything of interest is zipped past or around before you’ve got your finger on your camera shutter.

I can get no purchase on the Portuguese language whatsoever. Spoken, it sounds eastern European with lots of sch, z and cz. Written, it looks remarkably like Spanish and meaning can often be deduced. We know we must take care not to speak Spanish to the Portuguese in spite of so many words being similar, nevertheless Husband is inclined to say ‘gracias’ instead of ‘obrigado/a’ for the first few days. My own knowledge of Portuguese is restricted to ‘obrigado/a’, ‘Bom dia’ and ‘ola’ so it is fortunate that almost everyone here speaks English very well indeed.

The Portuguese are fond of tiling the outside of their homes, which can look beautiful or tawdry; railway stations, hotels, churches-no building is safe from this treatment.

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And neither are the bone-shaking, tooth-grating streets, which are tiled in cobbles.

The Portuguese countryside is strewn with cork oak trees, the cork continues to be harvested and goods such as cork handbags can be seen in the shops. Perhaps the backlash against plastic will see a resurgence of the cork industry? It does seem to be a versatile material with useful properties: lightweight, water repellent, attractive.

In recent years, wildfires have decimated much of Portugal’s forests and evidence of this is everywhere.

Orange and lemon trees abound, in gardens, parks and along the streets. They are all hung with tons of fruit which nobody seems bothered to pick, the ground around the trees littered with fruit just as the plums lie fallow in Gloucestershire.

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Before using the [very quiet] motorways you must register your bank card and attempt to forecast how much toll you will be using, which is tricky. Otherwise you can register at the first ‘portagem’ [toll booths] but then you’ll have no clue as to what is being deducted.

We’ll soon be leaving Portugal and crossing back to Spain-but I’ve no doubt at all that we’ll be back!