Tag Archives: Tavira

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