15January1994

London to Lisbon, Mid-January 1994
My dear folks

Jones and I are seated in TAP's Airbus 310/300 and we are very comfortable, thank you. We are in Row 4. A curtain immediately in front of us, labelled Navigator Class, Top Executive, indicates that, on this flight, at least, the first three rows are Business Class - lest the proles behind should be ignorant. The effect is slightly spoiled by two bro¬ken plastic clips which give the curtain an inebriated air. Although we share the same wide seats as the Top Executives (a welcome bonus) the aura up front is different. The two souls inhabiting this little cocoon get a special lunch and an extra-warm smile from the hostess for their in¬vestment, an additional £200 a ticket. We wish them well. Hope this doesn't sound smug. But we might be forgiven if it does.

Because this is a very special holiday flight, we have brought with us some ice-cold Polish (from NBC's Warsaw person) vodka and coke to celebrate the trip. And after our lunch (excellent apart from the gristle pie masquerading as steak and kidney) we celebrated with a bar of Cathy's marzipan chocolate. Heavenly! Truly, the two souls in Business Class do not know what they are missing.

You may have gathered that old faithful Canon word-processor has given way to Com¬paq Contura lap¬top. Canon did a good job. It still does. But it does not travel well. Compaq, on the other hand, is in its element and allows me to pour out my heart to you in situ. This brings me great pleasure. The tube journey to Heathrow takes an agonising hour....or rather it did. It now flies past while I tap away. Ditto the flight! I suspect that even Jones would secretly acknowledge that Compaq is value for money. How¬ever, I shall not press her. Prudence is a gift and its visitations are rare enough.

Right now, she has threatened me with GBH if she hears me say ja-ja again. I picked up the silly habit in Ger-many over the New Year weekend when it served me well in my frequent exchanges with my nieces. Jones feels strongly that the expression should have been left behind at the border and I'm trying to respect her wishes. (I have not subjected the Jones half of the family to the German family-visit letter. Suffice it to say that the trip was entirely satisfactory and that if ever my nieces open a lawyer's practice, I shall make a point of taking shares in it.)

As I say, we are underway. TAP's Airbus is capable of carrying 200 passengers and has 50 at most on this trip. While that is not good for TAP (which is facing a huge deficit and threatened strikes from a workforce jibbing at cutbacks) it is rather nice for us. We are heading for Lisbon where we plan to take a bus into the city for dinner before catching the late-night connection to Faro. (The cheap tickets on the direct flight had been sold out.)

LISBON: (Waiting for the connection to Faro.) There was the mother and father of a wind blowing as we came in to land. The pilot had the wings dipping on final approach like a seagull in a gale. A nervous gentleman be-hind us confided to his companion that he had never experienced anything like it. We lurched down on to the runway in a series of thumps that had us holding our breath. Then as we disembarked, a squall blew in that soaked the descending travellers and all but carried away the steps themselves. We let it exhaust itself at the airport. Then we took a slow and crowded rush-hour bus with misted windows into the city centre where we enjoyed as excellent a pair of tuna steaks in the Beira Alta as any gourmet might wish for.

QUINTASSENTIAL: We got in to Faro at midnight, but the two deck-chairs accompanying us stayed in Lisbon. What a pain! Back into the arrivals hall we went to fill in the appropriate forms at ACHADOS E PERDIDOS. At last to our hire-car and through the wet night to Loule - where the Christmas decorations still blazed in all their glory - and up the hill to the Quinta whose garden lights twinkled from on high. Noite rushed to meet us and made a dive on to her favourite armchair the moment we opened the door. Maria had left the hot-blanket on. Into bed. Bliss!


FRIDAY MORNING dawned late. Loule is 1,000 miles south of London and somewhat to the west. At this time of year, it doesn't get light until nearly 0900. But then it stays light long after London has gone to bed. I crept out to make coffee and toast the bread-rolls we'd loaned from TAP. The sky was grey but not forbidding. The garden was green. Six inches of grass covered much of the newly gravelled Rua Stanislaus and all of the terraces. The almond trees shimmered blue-white in festive bloom. The sun was peering through the clouds. God was in his heaven.

At ten, the builder and his assistant arrived to complete the new roof they were put¬ting on Principio's patio, a mere two months after the work was due. It had been very wet, the builder explained - before telling me about his new craze for high-powered miniature racing cars and the shop he'd opened to sell them. It wasn't the weather that had been holding him up. That much was clear. But there wasn't any profit in pointing it out and I didn't. I do believe I must be acquiring discretion.

We fetched our lost luggage from the airport, raided the bank to provide Maria with a Christmas bonus, swooped on the hypermarket for essential supplies and then dived into the garden while the sun lasted. Jones had brought the usual nursery down from London and we dug the plants in as hard as we could go. Several hours and aching backs later, we staggered inside and collapsed into a steaming bath clutching vodkas and cokes. Finally, we cruised down the hill to Paixanito where the English expats gather at Maria's Restaurant for a boisterous dinner on a Friday night. "Are all the mad English here?" I enquired of Victor (the restaurateur) who was grilling outside. "They're all in there," he rejoined, nod¬ding towards the interior where the hubbub might well have answered for him. Tom and Joyce, George and Peggy, Harry and May, and Chris and Wendy - not a soul of them under fifty and most well past it. Ah! there's hope yet.

Saturday: Sunshine! How nice! Into the garden without further ado. Fernando (the builder) and Goncalves were putting the finishing touches to the patio roof. I had a long confab with Fernando regarding future projects. We opted for some patching of the driveway and a new wall and fence behind the pool. Jones longs to turn her out-house into a studio flat. But with an eye on the Benson budget we decided to put that one on the back-burner. We braaied for lunch, a triplet of long-frozen espetadas dis¬covered in the freezer - and toast. With a bottle of Mr Borlido's rose wine, it was utterly delicious. Then the weather closed in. We minded not, for the fire in the hearth blazed hot enough to warm body and soul. For supper, we went down to the rival restaurant at Paixanito's. The place was full of Ingleses. Cheese and smoked-ham starters were followed by tender slices of lamb. We are agreed that this is the life.

After dinner, as usual, I sat down at the dining room table and glued myself to my computer books. I think I'm making progress. Jones is happy that I'm happy but doesn't need any more computers in her life. Fair enough! We're all different. Noite sighs with pleasure from her armchair. No-one appreciates a good fire like Noite.

Mertola: If on a map of Portugal you trace your way east along the south coast, and then wind north along the Guadiana River that forms the southern border with Spain, you will come to the ancient town of Mertola. And that is where we are. Its proudest boasts are the fortress that still squats massively on its heights, protected on two sides by the river, and the mosque that was converted some 800 years ago into a church, but whose worshippers still face Mecca rather than Jerusalem.

By Mertola's standards, even the mosque was a relatively recent arrival. The town marks the highest navigable point on the river. The Phoenicians and the Carthaginians sailed up here to trade their wares. The Romans named it Myrtilis and built it into a thriving centre. The skeleton of the Roman quay can still be seen and, below the town hall, the remains of the Roman foundations. The town clings to the hillside below the for¬tress like a snakes-and-ladder board of stairs and slippery lanes. The main streets are barely wide enough to allow a small car to squeeze through, wing-mirrors scraping the walls. The pavements, where there are pavements, are too narrow for two people to pass. The roads are constructed of cobbles which dip in the middle into a shallow gutter. For three thousand years, such roads have served the needs of the people of Mertola and they're set to last another millennium at least.

Guided by two of Mertola's elderly residents, we found a guesthouse in the old town which makes up in romance what it lacks in facilities. It is called The House of the Green Windows. Our hostess con¬fesses she has no idea how old it is. But it is old. It was obviously built many years before electricity reached Mertola. The wiring supplying the ceiling light and bedside lamps snakes back up the wall and van¬ishes, together with bell-pulls and other mysteries, in a tracery through the wall. The furniture is old and solid. One has the sense that Romans slept here too.

We trod the ramparts of the fortress and then toured the old town, imagining the endless generations of peoples who had used the same streets, belching, farting, ogling the girls, making rude jokes. The dogs curled themselves into circles in the sun, noses on tails. Overhead, eight storks rode the thermals effortlessly. The Moorish influence still showed in keyhole-shaped doorways. In the bar where we stopped to drink Macieras and cokes and soak up the local atmosphere, piped pop-music clashed with a television broadcast in a discordant soup. The locals chatted and smoked - they all smoke - unper¬turbed and sipped glasses of beer. We proceeded down flights of steps to the river bank where a powerful pong and a trail of trash reminded us that Mertola is part of the real world. More's the pity.

We supped at a tiny local restaurant, the only patrons. The owner's daughter served us. She was a confident young lady who couldn't have been more than 10. I saw several such girls in Mertola, all looking as though they had the world at their feet. The boys lacked this quality. There must be some¬thing in the air.

MONDAY: Our landlady gave us a sumptuous breakfast of home-made breads, cheeses and jams. After visiting the Roman museum, we hit the road. First to Serpa, another Alentejo town dominated by its for¬tress. One can still just about circumnavi¬gate the old town on the surviving wall ramparts. And then - through gently undu-lating plains, splashed with patches of white daisies, to Beja, a market town. Here we lunched and then wandered and finally got hopelessly lost trying to exit the town. A helpful police¬man came to our rescue. Following his directions, we took the main road south, then the mountain road to Loule, a drunken snake of a road that gave hair¬pins their name. Random signposts warn drivers of bends ahead but the warnings bear no relation to the severity of the bends. Jones hangs on. She trusts me and leaves any squealing to the surprised tyres. That's my girl.

TUESDAY: It's still overcast and gentle showers drift up the valley. Jones, clad in her plastic mac, be¬holds her garden with the sense of bewilderment observed in those who know not where to start a project of overwhelming proportions. Then she plunges in. I scrape off the frothy paint surfaces that have bubbled up from a recently-painted wall - caused by salts in the cement. Special muti is needed to contain the salts. I shall get some tomorrow. Being a land-owner is not easy.

WEDNESDAY: Grey and drizzly again. We drove down early to Loule and breakfast at The Gates of Heaven. The place is aptly named. If you haven't had an almond croissant, you haven't lived. Jones went off to the hair-dresser to get a pixie haircut. I went to the friendly drogaria to find fungicide for the wall-paint, caustic soda for a blocked drain and candles for emergencies. We also exchanged empty gas bottles for full ones. At the market, I stocked up on bread and resisted the blandishments of a pushy stall-owner trying to flog leather goods in which I foolishly showed an interest.

After lunch, Jones returned to her war against the weeds and I mounted attack on the fungi-stricken walls. Noite inspected my work and left a trail of white footprints across the patio. Supper was with Harry and May, down the track. Their garden is classical, a tableau of patio, pool, spouting fountain and backlit plants. They feasted us. We staggered home and fell into bed. I shall go on diet when we get back to London. My tummy is becoming an embarrassment. I've got to show it who's boss.


THURSDAY: This was our first beautiful day. For the first time, the sun stayed up all day and had us stripping our jerseys off. Our heads were a bit thick from the previous night's merry-making. Ten miles away, clear white beaches lined the coastline. What a view! I drove down to town with Madame Maria to stock up on cleaning products and procure some of the tiny fish the local authorities sup¬ply. These help people keep their cisternas clean. (They eat the bugs.) When we got back, Jones was cutting back her flower beds with a zest that lined her trail with plant corpses. She'd clearly found the inspiration she'd been missing. I spent an hour digging a hole through wicked shale to take the orange tree that had long since outgrown its (large) pot. Persuading it to leave the pot and take up its new quarters took another hour and some help. For supper, we braaied kebabs and sausages on the patio, under a huge moon, and then retired inside to enjoy them in front of the fire. You come to understand here in winter why fires have been all the rage among humans for the past x-thousand years.

FRIDAY: The carpenter's van was parked in the driveway when we arose, eyeing the day, at nine. He was back, for the third time in a year, to trim shutters and doors swollen by humidity to the point where some refused to close. We spent two hours at it, removing doors, unscrewing hinges and planing back the wood. Hardly a cup-board or door escaped. The patio gradually submerged itself in shavings. When he had done, I varnished the shaven surfaces and those most exposed to the elements. Then, having negotiated a raise with Maria, I rushed to the bank - as it was closing - to make the necessary arrangements and replenish cash. We sure manage to go through it. I showed Maria my monthly spread¬sheet of Quintassential running costs for 1993, something over 1,000,000 escudos. She was impressed, as much by my careful tally as the monstrous electricity and other bills. I'm always asking her to check that lights and heaters are off. I think she understands why.

Jones continued all the while to hack the rampant Quintassential vegetation back to the roots. I joined her to lay a path of square cement blocks through the clearings she had made. The Duck and Weave Path, I suggested we call it. She preferred The Unexpected Path. We shall see which name sticks. It joins The Gorgeous Path of Righteousness, The Africa Path, the Rua Stanislaus and The Baboon Park among Quintassential landmarks, to say nothing of The Gates to Nowhere, just down the road. The late afternoon sun, as always, lit up the white buildings of Loule like the new Jerusalem. The whole town shimmers in a state of extraordinary solar grace. We supped at Casa Paixanito with neighbours, Alan (who cleans the pool) and his wife, Wendy. Excellent stuff!

SATURDAY: The sun was high in the heavens, a day to walk down to the Loule market. It's 30 minutes down through the fields and past the quietly disintegrating cottages of yesteryear. The tourist buses were carting the holiday crowd in from the coast for the occasion. Loule is famed for its Saturday morning markets. We picked up a few odds and sods, including a pomegranate tree and a quince tree, both bare-rooted for immediate planting. Leaving Loule, we inspected the new indoor pool which comes with sauna, masseur (blind), cafe-bar and other with-it features. Very smart indeed, from the marble steps leading to the viewing gallery above to the wall-chart indicating in which areas shoes are required and in which not. I made a 5.30 appointment for a mas-sage, something my neighbour had highly recommended. We panted up the hill back home in the sun and dug the two trees in immediately. Our or¬chard is growing, although the fruits thereof (excepting perennial lemons and dodgy figs) lie some way down the road.

The massage was all that had been promised. I spoke a little Portuguese and the masseur spoke a little English. His blindness was not the least drawback. You don't have to see a lot to be a masseur. He had all the requisite qualities. I was impressed. He was worth every one of the thousand escudos he charged. Jones was still warring with her undisciplined flower beds when I got back. The place looks as though an agricultural vacuum cleaner has been through it. I opened some Portuguese champers to go with a bath and supper. We'll dine in front of the fire on the leftovers from our braai, transformed by Jones into a delicacy. It's our last night. It weighs heavily upon us. We're not in any hurry to return to London.


SUNDAY: Back in Mr TAP's Airbus, the smaller model this time, with Heathrow two hours away. On this occasion, I'm in the narrow seats and having to type all scrunched up. The sacrifices I make! We agreed this morning to do only the clear-up things that always cap our visits and to leave ourselves time for a walk. The clear-up things extended into several hours and encompassed a bit of path-laying, rose-planting, notice-writing and cat-placating. Noite knew we were going and kept on making dives for her favourite chair in spite of our filling her bowl to the brim.

Noite is a cat who takes her meals very seriously. A couple of days ago, I'd noticed a house going up barely fifty yards down the hill from us. We nosed around and found the builder to be none other than the good Luiz who had restored the Seventh Heaven and constructed our pool. Fortunately, the fall of the ground is such that the house will scarcely be visi¬ble from the Quinta. After an exchange of compliments and a tour of the works, we continued on our way. We were staggered to see how much building was going on in the area - on every side - in spite of the law restricting further development in the Algarve. Once we knew we lived in the countryside. Now we sus¬pect that we are joining the outer suburbs, very much against our will.