14September1997

14 September 1997
My dear folks,

Lisbon: Sunday: Jones has found us a darling little back-street hotel where we are ensconced for the weekend. She travelled up to Lisbon on the bus on Sat p.m. I flew down on Sat. evening. We met at the airport & took a taxi whose driver was not familiar with our modest accommodation & had to stop twice to consult the map I had fortunately brought with me. (I thought of the television programme I’d watched recently showing the agonising series of oral examinations that aspirant London cabbies have to go through before they eventually win their badges & are entitled to drive “black cabs”. No such process here! )

Jones & I celebrated our reunion with a generous portion of the Glenfiddich whisky I acquired on the plane. We are here in order to meet Valerie, her sister in law from Cape Town, on Monday a.m. & take her with us to the Quinta. Meanwhile we are staying in a “residencial”, a minor grade of hotel but superior nevertheless to your “pensao” at the bottom of the pile. It is a little bit like the caste system in India, with accommodation in each grade awarded stars according to the level of luxury & service provided. As we have a large & comfortable room & en-suite bathroom, TV, air-conditioning & couch & all for the price of a dinner tip at the Ritz just up the road, we feel justifiably pleased with ourselves.

The plane down was full but of real people, quite different from the Faro flights packed with superior British holiday makers en route to superior resorts. Half the passengers on this one were Portuguese. They had no airs at all. They smoked their horrible cigarettes & read their Portuguese papers, just as they do in the local cafes. I felt much more at home as much as I wish they would stop smoking.

The Quinta: Monday:
I brought my brolly with me to Lisbon because it was supposed to rain on Sunday. It rained on Saturday instead, soaking the Quinta & Jones’s road north as well as the capital itself. Sunday dawned bright & humid. Jones had marked some gardens for a visit. They’re known as the “cold greenhouse” & they’re tucked away in a series of huge pavilions built into a gorge in a large park. (Lisbon has lots of big parks.) The roof is constructed of wooden slats that allow the air to circulate; hence the cold greenhouse. Inside, paths wind along terraces lined with a tropical jungle overlooking ponds filled with fat carp. The cold greenhouse gives way to a steamy hot greenhouse, equally huge, with its own jungle. Next comes a dry greenhouse stuffed with huge cacti & succulents. Amazing place!

After lunch we set out for the Monastery of Jeronimus at Belem, down the river, picking our way past endless construction sites & along crumbling pavements. Lisbon is a faded lady. She must have been utterly gorgeous in her heyday. She’s still shapely but badly in need of wholesale love & attention. The advent of Expo 98 has inspired the Portuguese authorities to do something about her decaying buildings & chaotic road network. But the mess in the interim is bad news.

At Cais de Sodre station on the banks of the Tagus we bought tickets to Belem 3 stops down the line. “Platform 3” the ticket salesman told me. But he didn’t tell me that the train waiting there was the express. We roared past Belem just as the conductor appeared looking for tickets. He shrugged; we shrugged. It didn’t matter. The line winds down the coast & it was a lovely day for a train ride. When the train stopped we got off & took another train back. The monastery, an elaborate stone mountain redolent with Portuguese history, was closed when we arrived. We wandered over the road to the Navigators’ Memorial & watched the seagulls fishing for eels & the yachts coming home on the evening breeze.

For supper, the hotel proprietor directed us to a great bustling restaurant, with queues of people waiting upstairs & down for a free table. We joined them, eyeing huge shellfish crawling – pincers tied – along the sandy bottoms of deep tanks as they awaited their fate. The uproar was constant – like a busy road. Although it was late, there were lots of little kids dashing about but not doing any harm & not worrying the adults. The Portuguese believe in taking the kids to supper & don’t seem fussed about early nights.

Monday: We found Valerie at the airport & our hire car waiting for us. As the approach road is also being overhauled for Expo 98, there’s traffic chaos & a single exit lane that you have to muscle your way into. We found our way on to the freeway & directly to the bridge across the Tagus for an otherwise uneventful trip home. (During the next few days on the Loule freeway we were to see an overturned car [woman driver lying in the road] & then a car perched precariously on the railings of a bridge [facing the traffic]; both accidents had just happened & were attracting the usual crowds of onlookers. The Portuguese kill themselves in large numbers on the road but they love their accidents & are very inventive about them.)

The Quinta: The rest of the week: This was as far as I got when the days began to blur. They all began the same, with an hour’s watering of the garden. It normally takes Jones two hours, so she was pleased to have me. And they all finished the same, in a local restaurant over an excellent meal, lots of wine & occasionally too many bagaceiras (aguadente) or macieras (brandy). I shall not weigh you down with details, other than to mention Ti Cashinha, our extra special country restaurant to which we took Valerie & Andre on Thursday evening. Jones had phoned Mario, “our” taxi driver, to ask him to deliver us & fetch us again. Unfortunately, she told him the wrong night & he turned up on Wednesday – only to be sent away with apologies & a request to come back 24 hours later.

This he did quite happily. We had a marvellous meal after which the restaurateur dumped full bottles of maciera & “leite de medronheira” (the milk of medronho”) on the table for us to help ourselves. It’s an excellent ploy. Judging by his smile & subsequently Mario’s, I must have given them ridiculous tips. And judging by dawn on Friday, I must also have done justice to the “milk of medronho”. Wicked stuff. (I’m back on the straight & narrow!)

On Tuesday I found a new hardware shop, deserted other than for the young female assistant who was only too pleased to help me find some brass couplings. And she was happy subsequently to change those that didn’t fit. This was a place to remember. On Wednesday we drove down the freeway to Makro where we met two BBC folk (who also have a house in the area) for tea. Much gossip about the goings on at the Beeb. This was as the BBC top management announced a total overhaul of the top news structure & got howled down in public by the corporation’s best known journalists. The plan was withdrawn for further consideration to my great satisfaction. On Thursday I walked over to the house of a neighbour based in Jersey who had been doing some interesting things at his own Portuguese home. He has a strong interest in computers & an equally strong interest in an early retirement from his business. So we had much to discuss.

But Friday was definitely the highlight of the trip. We drove first with Valerie to Silves, the ancient Moorish capital, whose cathedral & castle are well worth a visit. Thence to a nearby beach where Valerie wished to swim. It was a tiny little beach at the foot of high cliffs, heavily populated by holidaymakers in various scantily clad shapes & sizes. The opinion was expressed that the tide was going out & Valerie, having donned her costume, proceeded delicately towards the sea where a dozen swimmers were bobbing around. As she entered the water, a wave came from nowhere & bowled her over. A second wave dunked her again & she staggered back up the beach just as I prepared to rescue her.

At the same moment, the water rushed at us from another angle & swept under Jones who was sitting in the sand with her back against the cliff. She had the presence to clutch at our belongings while I rushed for safety. We retreated with what dignity we could muster as the tide, not to be frustrated, rushed at us again, this time soaking my shoes. The opinion was expressed that maybe the tide had been coming in after all. We had a long hot walk back to the car, which helped to dry us. To heal our emotional wounds, we drove up the coast to Cacela Velha, one of the loveliest little resorts you will ever chance upon. And there over appropriate refreshments we discussed our adventure with some mirth & at some length.

Saturday I flew home. Sunday I worked. Monday I begin a pattern of night shifts. Think of you all lots and lots.

Blessings
T