Not sure about travelling

The villa was very good: spacious and well equipped, with a big, reasonably private terrace with a barbecue, a dining table and chairs and a couple of loungers.  And a sea view.  The walls were a little on the thin side, so we were keenly aware of tantrums from the child next door.  But as ours was the last villa in a row of twenty, we only had one party wall.  We were some distance from the pool and the noise that comes with it, so the most noticeable sounds were the sea breaking on the rocks and beach a few hundred meters away, and bird calls: mostly sparrows and azure winged magpies.  The place felt rather damp, though, but probably because of the high humidity of the air.  All in all, a good experience: we got a bit of exercise and saw some interesting places on the fine days, and it’s always a pleasure just to sit and read when outdoor activities aren’t possible.

We ambled along to Faro on Monday at a pretty decent hour, and turned the car in without (so far) any nasty surprises.  We’d checked in on line, and saved our boarding cards as photos on our iPhones (perhaps we should get an ungifted child to show us how it should be done properly).  Long queue for passport stamping as on arrival, and it was a sweaty experience again.  I hate to think what Faro airport is like in high summer.  BA Club Europe tickets got us into the CIP lounge at Faro, which takes a lot of finding.  And when you find it, it’s marginally better than the general waiting area if a bit quieter.  Small, and with a miserable catering offering, sweaty plastic chairs, and no information on flight departures.  

The flight back was in an ancient A320 that started its life decades ago in Brazil.  The service on board was adequate at best, and the food in Club Europe was unimpressive.  There was a time when British Airways could be relied on to provide good service: not this time.  Back at Gatwick, the airport experience was not too bad: long, long walks as usual (all told, we walked over 3 km on Monday in airports alone), but a fairly brisk passport clearance process.

It’s hard to know what our travel policy should be.  We no longer do long trips by road, and our recent experience of international rail and air travel is not encouraging.  Maybe it’s back to the floating care home, and to hang with the expense.  

Trip coming to an end

Lazy day on Saturday, when the weather was again mixed.  Sunday we took a ride up to Silves, the ancient capital of the Moorish Algarve.  The town is dominated by a red sandstone castle of ancient origins, but what we see today dates largely from the 1940s, when it was rebuilt following damage from numerous earthquakes.  

We stopped at the viewpoint in the outskirts (v. supra) where Martyn noticed some large black and white birds.  Storks: they used to migrate to Africa in winter, but with plentiful food to be had hereabouts, they are tending to stay here year round.  (One commentator suggests adding McDonalds to their usual diet of small vertebrates, fish and large insects.). Looking down from the castle, many chimneys have nests on them, and the clacking of the storks’ bills was clearly to be heard.  At one point, several dozen took to the air and gave us a nice little display.  In the castle (where lethal drops from barrier-free parapets abound) an archery competition was in progress with scant attention to ‘elf’n syfety.  The archers - long- and crossbows - were done up in period costumes, so we were well entertained.

Anyway, Silves joins the long list of Portuguese towns we’ve got lost in: Faro, Albufeira, Lagos, Pêra and all the rest.  The map we got at the motorway rest stop challenges the chocolate teapot for the uselessness championship title.  Memo to self: take Dotty next time.  But Silves is modestly attractive for being authentic, and not devoted to the tourism industry.  There is a lot of modern development in the outskirts, but the centre is cobbled and labyrinthine.

After getting lost (yet again) down by the coast, we elected to return to familiar ground, and had lunch at the Pedras Amarelas at the Praia de Galé Leste, where we’d gone on Martyn’s birthday.  Excellent lunch, and the somewhat more lively sea provided good views as we dined.  The surfers appreciated it too, and some experts were out there showing off to the entertainment of all.

We have the joys of Faro and Gatwick airports tomorrow, plus a ride in another 21-year-old A320.  I’ll reflect on the overall experience once we’re safely installed at Forges-l’Evêque.

Rain

It poured down all day yesterday, so we did a lot of sitting around reading and doing puzzles on the iPads.  Thank goodness we have decent wifi at the villa.  We made it no further than to the nearby supermarket.

We were consequently determined to get out and about today, since there was some blue sky to be seen first thing.  We picked up a map at the Silves motorway services: not in the filling station shop, but in the restaurant.  Someone’s missing a trick there, eh?  The map was helpful in some degree, but we still got lost on the way back to base.

We had a pleasant stroll round the old town of Lagos, where I spent a short holiday back in 1986.  36 years later, the centre is recognisable from the narrow streets, the castle and the coastal fortress.  I don’t remember the square with the jacaranda trees, though.  The development has continued, however, to a grotesque extent.  We continued to Praia da Luz, where we had a decent lunch.  The restaurant overlooked the beach, where the surfers were putting on quite a good show.  

Thence to Cape St Vincent, which has become rather more of a tourist trap than I remember from last time.  But that means that there were were more viewpoints towards the cliffs of the south-westernmost point of continental Europe.  No sign of the fish and chips van, but Die letzte Bratwurst vor Amerika was doing a respectable trade.  The rain began just before we left Cape St Vincent, and we were quite wet before we got back to the car.  On the way home, it rained pretty well all the way, including one episode when I had to lift off the throttle and put on the hazard flashers.  

The car worked well.  Given that the engine is 2 cc bigger than that of a 105E Anglia, and has one fewer cylinder, its progress to a quiet 120 km/h motorway cruise was impressive.  A seven-speed automatic box helps, as does a hefty turbo-charger.

Memo to Monarchs and Politicians

It was while we were in the Ticino that we learned of the death of her late Majesty.  Skulking indoors in the wet, windy Algarve, we’ve been watching the resignation speech of our latest Rt Hon First Lord of the Treasury.  Perhaps we should notify our future travel plans to the Palace and N°10.

Yesterday being Martyn’s birthday, we went out to lunch at a nearby hostelry overlooking the beach and some dramatic sandstone rocks.  A good skewer of big prawns and dollops of monkfish, served with fries and some sautéed vegetables.  As we dined, we watched the local surfing school practising with varying degrees of success.  We had an enjoyable stroll earlier round the boardwalk at the nearby bird sanctuary in warm but overcast weather.  By the time we were at lunch, the rain had begun, and has continued on and off ever since.  The weather forecast threatens showers (at best) for the rest of the holiday.  

Our shopping yesterday included a vitally necessary bath mat: the bath is extremely slippery, and showering scared us both.  I don’t want a repeat of a trip to Barcelona a few years ago, when I slipped and fell in the bath.  Luckily, my arm made contact with the marble edge of the wash basin: had it been my head, I don’t think I’d have been reporting the episode now!  That too was a trip to celebrate Martyn’s birthday, so a repeat performance would be highly unfortunate.

The garden here is beautiful: lots of bougainvillea, strelitzia, oleander and other subjects that enjoy the sub-tropical climate.  The geraniums hereabouts have obviously overwintered many times, judging by the thick woody stems.  As for the fauna, a couple of sparrows come and make off with whatever we leave for them, and I’d a good view from the roof terrace this morning of azure-winged magpies.  Unmistakeably magpies in flight, they lack the awful machine-gun call of their northern relatives that disturbs our peace at home.

I did a spot of research earlier into our rental car.  It spins along happily enough, but lacks a lot of the refinements of less pretentious VWs.  Mechanical refinement is there in spades, however: I had wondered about the sound when I put my foot down: it turns out to be a turbocharged 3-pot of just 999 cc.  I’ve yet to try it on the motorway, and have no great expectations.

Another day, another country

We had to present ourselves at the departure gate by 07:00 so that meant leaving home before 05:00, which in turn meant that I couldn’t get back to sleep after the 01:00 bladder summons.  Martyn kindly drove to Gatwick, and we spent a pretty bearable hour or so in the lounge, enjoying bacon rolls etc.  I was surprised how noisy the aeroplane was.  I suppose it’s a long time since I’ve flown, and in the meantime, BA has been buying up old hacks from the third world: this one spent its first eighteen years in Brazil, and although the cabin has obviously been refreshed, the chiottes showed their age: really grimy, and with a basin that was very slow to drain.  There was even an ashtray on the back of the lavatory door, and a sign saying not to put cigarette ends in the towel disposal chute.  But the cabin crew showed some of the old BA values, even if they didn’t volunteer to bring us tea.  I went up to the galley and asked for a couple of cups, which they were happy to provide (having asked me ‘have you been good?’)  

Well, the old bus got us here, unprepared for the 25-minute wait for passport clearance in under-performing air conditioning.  Thank you, Brexit.  I had not rehearsed routes as thoroughly as usual, so we got thoroughly lost in the outskirts of Faro.  The car, for all its Audi pretentiousness, lacks satnav, reversing camera, and other toys to which we have become used, but spins along nicely enough, and eventually Via Michelin helped us home on the iPad, hooked up to my phone.

We had lunch at a chicken piri-piri joint near the villa, and spent rather a lot of time navigating round the lethal little bones.  But they supplied a decent glass of white wine, and the service was pleasant and obliging.

Our little house seems really nice (even if the electric kettle supplied tripped the power: the replacement works fine).  It is spacious, quite well equipped and has both a large barbecue terrace and a balcony off the front bedroom.  The shower (for I stood in great need thereof when we arrived) was oddly adjusted, and flooded the bathroom floor.  Now readjusted.  The bath is lethally slippery, so we’ll need to find a non-slip mat tomorrow.  But we had a picnic supper out on the terrace this evening: bread, cheese, ham, pâté and modest amounts of Portuguese rosé, watching the sun melt into the Atlantic.  The weather may take a dip later in the week, but so far, we’re pretty happy.  

Where do I begin?

Inflation is  running in double figures, food banks are running out of supplies, more and more people are facing the heat/eat dilemma as we move into winter.  Posties, nurses railwaymen and many others are striking or planning to.  The Truss/Kwarteng budget proposed a tax cut for the wealthiest, a deferral of the planned increases in corporation tax, the abolition of a cap on bankers’ bonuses.  Brilliant timing, guys!  The money markets have reacted as would have been predicted if T&K had troubled to do their homework and take the necessary independent advice.  On the contrary, the calculations seem to have been done on the back of a fag packet, and the dynamic duo have been forced into what the media describe as ‘screeching U-turns’.  Well, to stick with the tarmac theme, Kwarteng has been thrown under a bus, and the normally ruthless Tories are plotting to do the same with Truss, whom a majority of Tory MPs didn’t want in the first place. 

It took the Tories far too long to get rid of what some have described as the immoral, dishonest, narcissistic oaf.  I wonder if they’ll take as long to get rid of what some might now describe as the dim, lightweight, dogmatic idiot foisted on them by the party membership.  

As for events at and around Forges-l’Evêque, the local tin bashers finished the job on the car in two days rather than three, and red BMW man paid up promptly.  We had our flu jabs and Covid boosters on Wednesday, so far with no worse side effects than slightly sore arms.  Today’s entertainment was a ride to the tip with the contents of the dustbin: it was due for emptying after we leave tomorrow for the airport.  On checking the toon cooncil web site, I discovered that we’re now allowed to dispose of part-heard cans of paint in the household waste skip, so we have dumped three large bags of the same, much to the relief of the sagging shelves in the garage.  I was a little anxious as we drove there: a rear-end impact could have had pretty spectacular consequences! 

As for the coming week, we’re not looking forward to the airport and aeroplane experiences, but it surely can’t be as bad as our railway travails last month.  (Famous last words.)  

Rites of Autumn

The leaves are falling, the nights are lengthening and we are starting to ache for sunshine and warmer weather.  That said, today has (latterly) been pleasant enough for a spot of gardening: dead-heading the roses and rudbeckias and suchlike fiddling.  

First thing it was a different matter: when we took the car down to the tin bashers this morning the rain had just begun, and I was glad of my waterproof.  (Ruined my hairdo, however).  Anyway, the car is hors de combat for three days, but since we have a spare, I won’t be stinging red BMW man for a rental.  I’m tempted to suggest that a case of Picpoul de Pinet would be suitable compensation for the inconvenience.  Said car romped through its MoT last Friday, having done scarcely over 1000 miles since the last one.  I managed to persuade the garage to do a minor service rather than the major one indicated by its age.  

Another rite of autumn, of course, is Martyn’s birthday next week.  Since our German/Swiss jaunt was not an unalloyed triumph, we’ve booked a week’s rental in the Algarve, staying in a villa a safe distance from the rather unattractive centre of Albufeira.  I doubt if we’ll be troubling the swimming pool that serves the complex: rather, we’ll be loading up the kindles and relaxing, and taking the odd trip into the hills and along to places I haven’t seen since 1986, such as Cape St Vincent and Lagos.  (I remember being amused and faintly cross at being asked at the hotel I used in Lagos whether I was signed up for the Saga excursion.  I was 35 at the time.)

Thinking back à propos swimming, the year before my last Algarve trip I had only recently learned to swim, so used the hotel pool in Sousse in Tunisia to build up some stamina.  Until a bunch of Bulgarian water polo players thought it was fun to bounce the ball off my head when I came up for air.  Some years later, the hotel complex I’d stayed at was victim of a dreadful terrorist attack.  

In Lagos, the hotel pool had a springboard from which I taught myself to dive.  Alas, all now in the past.  I did swim briefly in Jan and Mark’s pool a few years ago, but apart from a quick dip in the Queen Victoria pool during our Medi cruise, have not swum at all.  (I’ll pack my cossie, but suspect it’ll home unused.)