29October1996

My dear folks, 29 October 1996

Lisbon Airport: there is only one bit of advice to offer anyone trying to reach Lisbon airport by road. That is to let someone else find the way. It’s a pain in the Ronald Sole. I was very grateful to have Jones sitting beside me with a map. Even then, I had to leap out of the car twice to ask taxi-drivers the way. They obliged. I think they’re secretly pleased to find foreigners who can speak sufficient Portuguese to ask directions & to understand the reply. We’d left ourselves masses of time, knowing that Lisbon is a bastard to navigate. So there was the opportunity for a last cup of coffee & custard cake at the airport before I saw Jones off on the commuter bus which would take her to the bus station for her journey back to the Quinta.

Lisbon, by the way, is undergoing a radical overhaul in preparation for the hordes expected to pour into the city for Expo 98. So the normal traffic chaos descends into total maul around the inevitable deviations. I do hope they put up a few signs as well as constructing new roads. We found only 1 AIRPORT sign en route to the airport, & while it was reassuring, it didn’t help us when we reached the next junction. However, this letter is not about Lisbon. If it’s about anywhere, it’s about the fishing town of Sesimbra. On a reasonable map of Portugal, you’ll find it slightly west of Setubal which is itself close to Lisbon. The best place to find Sesimbra is in Portugal itself -- but let me come to that in a moment.

Jones & I had 3 excellent days at the Quinta, one of them with BBC friends who have a house 30 mins away. A 2nd one was devoted largely to packing things away for the winter & a third mainly & vainly to a search for Jones’s front door keys which have failed to reappear. We just about took the place apart in the hunt for them. Every now & then, we’d think of a nook we hadn’t checked & fall upon it in the certainty that they must be there. One feels compelled to go back for a 2nd & even a 3rd time to places one has already searched. I thought of our friend, Pam Elliot, whose husband dropped dead earlier in the month, & knew she must still be expecting to see him emerge from the lounge or the bedroom in the same way we expected the keys to emerge from their hiding place at any moment.

Rather than motor directly to Lisbon, we’d decided to spend the night on the outskirts, preferably somewhere attractive. The journey takes about 4 hours, largely along a wide, single-lane road populated by insane Portuguese drivers. About an hour south of the city, we turned off through a sandy peninsula covered with fir trees. At the tip is the tiny resort of Troia, already turned into a straggle of skyscraper accommodation. From there, one takes a car ferry on a 15 min ride across the bay to the (best avoided) port of Setubal. But just beyond it is a peninsula that’s just as stunning as the Cape. Eventually, as darkness was falling, via a long deviation (to allow for new storm drains) we drove down into Sesimbra where we planned to spend the night & where I had promised Jones a bath. MCP lacks a bath & any part of real break for Jones means finding somewhere with a bath to luxuriate in.

According to the guide book, there are two 2-star hotels in Sesimbra as well as a 4-star. Jones’s natural inclination in such circumstances is always to head for the former while mine is to head for the latter. We made a cautious circuit of the town - full of narrow streets made semi-impassable by parked cars. Some roads had been commandeered by fishermen who were untangling huge trails of nets. They directed us to a small hotel which I ruled out after a brief inspection. The 2nd, in the centre, we found with the help of small boys who broke off their mock battle to direct us.

It looked okay, typical of small, family-run “residencials” but had no rooms en suite & no baths so I crossed that out too. It would have to be the classy joint. But this turned out to be such a soulless place that I marched out again - a pity as Sesimbra itself looked like an interesting stop & I had no inclination to drive on to Lisbon.

In brief, after further exploration, we decided on the hotel in the town centre. We were the only guests on the 2nd floor which meant that we had the bathroom there to ourselves & there was masses of hot water. After showers, we went out to inspect the dozen nearby fish restaurants, most with an exotic display of fish laid out on ice for the inspection of customers. These, sadly for the restaurateurs, were few & far between. Clearly, the season was over. Few lights were showing in the apartment complexes higher up the hillside. And as delectable as the fish displays looked, they had “tourist” written all over them & prices to match. It was a little further into town that we found a place where the locals ate & its “seafood rice” dish was excellent.

After supper, we tramped along the beach, listening to the long roar of the sea while a slightly worn full moon did its best to cast a romantic glow over the sea front. Young people whispered & clutched each other to the screeching serenades of passing mopeds. The scene the following morning took us by surprise. Scores of fishermen were gathered on the beach sorting out hundreds of metres of lines, each with dozens of hooks attached. To these, other fishermen, each with a cigarette dangling from his lips, were attaching bait with expert fingers, small fish some 6 ins long. Each fish-bait was laid neatly in rows around the circumference of a half barrel, round the tangled mass of line inside. Overhead, & on the beach below, hundreds of gulls flew & squawked & squabbled & made dashes for the rejected fish.

It was a fascinating scene, stretching for a hundred metres along the beachfront. We abandoned it reluctantly for a bite of breakfast, speculating that the barrels of baited line must be taken out to sea on small boats. By the time we got back, most of the fishermen & barrels had disappeared, which was rather disappointing. We made a quick tour of the old town, most of whose streets were linked by flights of stairs. Pavements were narrow, just sufficient to allow a single pedestrian to pass. The houses all had washing lines attached to the front walls & from these the daily wash fluttered. Outside one fishmonger, we peered into the baskets of newly caught fish, noting 3 scrawny cats peeking out from beneath a car, pending a quick raid.

London: Back again, with the washing tumbling around in the washing machine, the mail checked & a goodly dram of Mr Glenfiddich’s best whisky warming my tummy. I had a good seat on the plane home & an excellent trip, finding a bus at Heathrow as I emerged from the terminal & using the tail ends of the journey to get most of this letter writ. Freglet, who’d stayed in the flat during my absence, had left some bread & ham in the fridge which I had for supper. I begin work again tomorrow night on a series of night & day shifts which will take me up to my SA trip in less than 3 weeks. Meanwhile my thoughts go especially tonight to my good wife back in her little MCP, to Cathy celebrating her I’m not sure which birthday, and to Dad, RIP. Many thanks Mum for your recent fax, and Cathy for yours. Let me get this off to you.

Much love,
T