2014 Christmas & New Year

We thought we'd try an apartment (again) this time . . .  You'd have thought we'd have learned our lesson after March 2003!

When you live somewhere noises like a dog barking until 1:30am, or the bin men emptying the bins just down the road from where you're sleeping at 6:23am, are just a part of your every day (and night) pattern of sounds and as such your brain switches them off and no longer passes such sounds to your sleeping ears as Morpheus embraces you into a blissful sleep.

When you're on a two week holiday .....

...... then such sounds blare at you and either keep you awake until a) the dog stops barking or b) you finally fall asleep; then c) you're woken by the bin men hurling rubbish about ,,,,, which d) wakes up the dog and so it starts again.

I know I'm partly to blame, I'm a very light sleeper. Sharen tells me I can hear a mouse fart at the bottom of the garden; she is wrong, I can hear it change its mind! During this holiday I've not yet slept before 1:30 to 2:00am nor have I (and that bloody dog!) slept past 7:00am at the latest.

Now, before someone shouts out "ear plugs" let me tell you they don't work. If you tamp them in too lightly sounds creep around the edges of your earhole and seep directly into your brain - or - if you tamp them in too tightly the sound in your head is like being deep underwater during a tidal surge whilst breathing in an iron lung.

I am looking forward to going home to my own unregistered noises for a decent nights' sleep - and I am seriously considering taking one or two Portuguese bin men home with me for a fortnight's holiday.

March 2003: First Arrival

Take a left-hand drive Fiat Punto, add a good torrential downpour of warm rain, factor in a windscreen de-mister that can blow less than a sixty a day Capstan full strength smoker, stir in a set of windscreen wipers that are as effective as a butterfly in a wind tunnel, finish off with night as dark as Satan's soul and what do you get? Our departure from Faro airport enroute to Carvoeiro! If that lot isn't enough then throw in a new motorway system and that should do it! 

Please don't ask me how we did it but we blundered our way to Carvoeiro by sheer luck. As we entered Lagoa - from the east, after all that's where Faro is - Sharen said, "We haven't passed Shoe World yet; perhaps it's closed down. Anyway, look for the turning, we'll have to go round to the right to turn left over the main 125." Wrong :!: Don't ask me how we managed it but we turned right . . . directly on to the road to Carvoeiro. Somehow we had approached Lagoa from the west???

Did someone turn Lagoa around since our last visit? Had it been moved and not put back in the same place? No, it's just that the new motorway now sends you around Lagoa and into Carvoeiro via the 'back door'. At night, in the conditions described above, this is very spooky.

Last year we rented a villa (in Luz); this year, as part of an economy drive we rented an apartment. It was a revelation. Did you know that the Portuguese don't wear carpet slippers at home? It's true. Instead they wear - women, stiletto heels; men, hobnailed boots! At least this is the impression we got from our apartment. It appears the natives simply cannot move around their apartments quietly. To move around, at any hour, they stamp and bang and scrape and knock as loudly as is possible.

We just couldn't escape it. We were trapped within Oskar's drum of the Gunther Grass novel. Stilettos and hobnailed boots rapped out a tattoo in every plane - left, right, up, down, back, front. It was this constant drumming, coupled with the rain beating at the windows trying to gain access to further dampen our spirits that led to a few fretful, sleepless nights and the inability (or inclination) to rise at 6:30am to catch the train to Lisbon! This was one of the reasons - the others I have mentioned elsewhere.

Other observations:
The elder Portuguese woman save their carpet slippers to wear in their daytime forays to the shops - and for chatting in the streets to their peers. And the men all appear to wear hats that are apparently three sizes too small for them. Their hats are perched at a jaunty angle that seem to defy the normal laws of physics in that they never fall off but are always threatening to do so.

On another subject: This is a quaint custom. I can imagine it catching on in London. Once upon a time the City Fathers of Portugal gathered together, their hats at a dangerous angle - teasing gravity with their impertinence, and discussed shop closing times. "I know what would be a good idea," said one, his hat teetering but never falling, "Let's close the shops on a Saturday afternoon. After all, who in their right mind would want to go shopping on a Saturday afternoon?" The assembled Fathers nodded their hats in agreement - and not one of them even thought of raising a hand to steady them! Another reason why going to Lisbon on the Saturday wasn't so attractive.

But . . . Despite the wind and the rain (which I most definitely did not order) we had a good holiday. We had some delicious suppers at A Galeria, enjoyed some mouth-watering ice creams from our sponsors, had a lovely fish supper with Dave & Hazel (who very bravely answered my plea for diners to share a meal with us), we supped our way through litres of good wine and beer, and drove the height, length and breadth of the Algarve.

We'll probably do the same next year :-)

2003: New Year's Eve

Did I end up at the Almansor? Well, we went there to ask about the cost for the gala dinner and party to be told it was 175 Euros each, which in real money was about one hundred and twenty quid each, a total of £480.

"How much?" I exploded. "Four hundred and eighty quid? I just want to party in the hotel, not buy it! Who do you think I am, eco/spider?"

Note: Eco/spider is a member on the forum- one with whom I have a 'contentious' relationship. I piss him off and he pisses me off! We both like it that way :-)

So, no we didn't end up at the Almansor! Instead we opted out for a nice dinner and then a bar or two.

The nice dinner was at the Galeria. A restaurant set in someone's living-room. It's a small (OK very small) restaurant, so small in fact that diners have to take it in turns to cut their food for fear of knocking elbows with those around them. At one point a German lady sat four tables from us (about four feet away!) went out of turn and knocked the elbow of a Frenchman at the adjoining table.

The Frenchman then collided with another diner, and before you could say "Elbow frenzy!" a Mexican Wave of elbows resounded through the restaurant. Food was shovelled across plates, onto the floor, into the air, into ears, up noses, in fact food went anywhere but into mouths! By the time the last elbow had finished reverberating the whole restaurant looked like a giant pizza.

We had booked our table two days earlier, and a good job too. While we were eating (in turn, of course) many potential diners popped in to be sent out backwards immediately, even those that protested they'd booked a table. Backwards? Yes, as I said above the restaurant is so small that unless you can actually gain entry to turn around you have to exit it backwards!

Our meal finished we then went onto The Jailhouse. We'd heard there was to be a 'masked party' there accompanied by a disco and live music.

We got into The Jailhouse without any trouble (it was about 22:50), purchased our drinks, took delivery of our masks and repaired upstairs to some vacant seats on the balcony overlooking the dance floor. I use the term 'dance floor' here in its relation to dancing when applied to standing still and oscillating slightly due to the restricted area set aside for such partying. The floor space was so small that when a balloon accidentally fell from a net above it half the dance floor was lost.

We'd just got sat down and was enjoying a Robbie Williams concert on the TV when the 'live' music kicked in. It was a singer/comedian on the guitar. When I tell you his singing and guitar playing was funnier than his jokes you'll have a good idea about how good he was. During one song it was almost over before I realised he was murdering a classic by Eric Clapton, Layla. Anyone who knows Layla will know it's a classic rock song impossible to sit still to, and just cries out for dancing and head-bashing. Well, this version was a little different. It had more in common with a funeral than a New Year's Eve party! It was dire, as in diarrhoea!

I've long subscribed to the belief that Clapton is God! But now I'm not too sure. After all, if Clapton was God, surely he'd have smote him where he sat for such a rendition?

It was after this abomination that the 'singer' asked, "Any requests?" to which my party replied in unison, "Yes, bring back Robbie!" It was this joint utterance that made us all realise the mistake we'd all made; and why it was called The Jailhouse. It's a jailhouse in which to hold people captive while assaulting them with acts that even Pop Idol would be ashamed to air! This realisation called for drastic measures. I formed an escape committee!

A couple sat next to us were to go first. We were to follow a few seconds later. Thankfully our escape went undetected as the 'entertainer' was struggling to remember a joke he was in the middle of telling. Mind you, it was touch and go for on the way down the stairs I almost lost the will to live and was jolted out of it by a prod in the back from Sharen's knees.

We ran as fast as we could, listening for the klaxons to announce our departure and the dogs to set off in pursuit, but they didn't happen and we then sauntered down to the Square. A rumour was going around about a firework display at midnight; that, and the webcam were our reason for staying in the area.

Note: There's a webcam in the window of the ice-cream parlour in the Square.

Pity the webcam was knackered. We did some crazy walks and silly things in front of it; none of which was captured for posterity. Shame!

Now, where to get a drink? Ah, Sully's. What a great little bar. Atmosphere, great music and people having a party - Jailhouse, eat your heart out! Soon we were merry with drink and drunk on the atmosphere (by comparison the atmosphere in The Jailhouse would have been suitable for The Salvation Army to see the New Year in).

Come midnight we were on the beach watching the waves sweep in from the ocean. Someone announced the time and we linked arms and sang Auld Lang Syne. I say 'sang' in its loosest form. It was more of a drunken cacophony that relied more on Robbie Willaims than Robbie Burns. And, like all renditions of this famous song (the words of which no-one knows) it went on without end. In fact it must be the only song in the world without an end. It finally finished when we could no longer sing in tune or coherently.

It was at this time that I decided to take a photo of my daughter and her husband. I lined them up and just as I was taking the snap the firework display started . . . and it was finished before the flash had reddened their eyes. It was simply a firework. Singular. On its own. By itself, struggling to banish the old year and welcome in the new. I don't like to admit it but there was more life in The Jailhouse than in the pyrotechnics!

Ah, well. We had a good night. We continued drinking (does Sully's ever close?) and finally, after texting all our friends (boasting that we were on the beach) and saying our goodbye's to new ones, we set off up the hill to home and bed.

During our walk home, (about 20 minutes) were we lucid enough to make comparisons with seeing in past New Years back in Lincoln, and we all agreed that Carvoeiro was better. No gangs of drunken, sicking youths to bypass; no police on alert decked out with riot shields and helmets; no hint of menace as we passed other revellers. What a joy it was to see 2004 in in The Algarve.

Happy New Year. :)

December 2003: You know you're getting old when . . . .

Note: This is to be read with the New Year blog. It's just a bit I added because it actually happened and I think it is funny.

You know you're getting old when . . . . your eyesight starts to go!

It was just after my 50th birthday, very nearly five years ago when I noticed I had difficulty reading small print. Gradually over the last five years it's gotten worse and now I need spectacles to read with. Which brings me to this - slightly linked to CVO - story.

Over Christmas Sharen and I shared a villa with my daughter, Claire and her husband, Adam. One night I decided to take a bath being tired of showers. I repaired to the bathroom and began to draw a nice bath of hot water. Of course, when I say 'hot' I am referring to solar-power hot water. Perhaps it's more accurate to say I began to draw a bath of lukewarm water . . . . and I needed some bubbles to froth it up a bit. I called out to Sharen (my wife), "Where's the bubble bath?"

She shouted back, over an episode of East Enders where a mini-bus full of happy, young people were about to plummet down a hillside in the Scottish highlands, miles from anywhere - the usual, happy Christmas fare! - "There's some foaming bath on my bedside cabinet."

I went into the bedroom and looked on the cabinet, and, seeing a bottle bearing the letters F and B (ergo, foaming bath) I picked it out of the assembled women's bits and pieces that cluttered the cabinet and returned to the bathroom.

I squeezed the tube - a pump-action one - over the bath and awaited the bubbles before climbing in. After three or four squirts the bubbles failed to materialise so I did a few more . . . then a few more, . . . and then a few more! After squeezing out half a container of foaming bath and in the absence of a singular bubble I tired of squeezing and stepped in and began my bubbleless soak.

When I later returned to the living room (the minibus was now upside down and one poor kid was in danger of being burned alive, trapped in the back - ah, what a joy these Christmas soaps are!) I remarked how ineffective the foaming bath was and my inability to coax even one bubble from it.

This prompted Sharen to investigate. She went into the bathroom and returned in fits of laughter, the foaming bath in her hand. "No wonder you couldn't get any bubbles, you silly bugger," she cried, "you've been using my Flattening Balm instead!"

For those of you not familiar with Flattening Balm, it's what the ladies use to flatten their hair.

This revelation elicited peals of laughter from everyone but me. When the tears had cleared from her eyes my daughter opined, "I'll bet you've got the straightest pubes in Portugal!"

And do you know what? I had!

2004: New Year's Eve

Calamity! The Sky box went all wobbly on Christmas Eve and we had to do without 'proper' television. Instead of a healthy diet of Coro, Eastenders, Vicar of Dibley etc., we had to endure Portuguese television!!!

Blimey! I know I don't speaka the lingo, but it was incomprehensible - we watched a couple of quiz shows hosted by the cheesiest of hosts I've ever seen. He was like the Benny Hill character who's always saluting . . . but this guy was for real!

After two days of TV torture we had the 'Sky Expert' in to see us, sent by the villa's maintenance company. Expert? A mere slip of a girl she came in and spent one hour turning it on - unplugging it - turning it on - unplugging it (you get the picture? She didn't!). I'd spent the last two days doing this . . . and I'm not even a Sky expert. After the one hour of getting nowhere she proclaimed the box was no good and would have to be replaced; and then she left.

Galvanised by the fact that I couldn't face another night of 'Benny' I went onto the roof, twiddled a few bits and pieces on the dish and, hey presto! a strong signal and picture appeared. I am now an official, Sky Expert'.

New year's eve was the 'high' point of my holiday, inasmuch as I got totally drunk (according to Sharen) and can't remember much about it. However, I do remember some of it . . .

It started in the afternoon with a few beers around the pool followed by a couple of glasses of Casal Mendes as chasers. We then went out for a steak supper during which I polished off a bottle of red and finished off with a liquor.

Then it was off to Sully's for another glass or two or red (which I didn't enjoy but still managed to drink!) and then onto the beach for midnight - and champagne.

Drunk or not, I do remember that there was a vast improvement on last year's firework; this time there were loads of them . . . or was it just me? Perhaps it was a singular firework and it was I that saw double/triple/quadruple!

After the display we repaired to Sully's where my friend Tim purchased a couple of double whiskies for us. Doubles? They looked like goldfish bowls - they were the biggest doubles I've ever seen.

Now, if I was as drunk as Sharen says I was at this time could I do this? Top up my pay-as-you-talk phone? Yep. I managed to top up my phone sat in Sully's whilst speaking to complete strangers and drinking a goldfish bowl of whiskey. I ask you, could you do that if you were drunk?

Now, here's the bits I don't remember (but I have to believe it for I have seen the photos).

After we consumed the goldfish bowl (and quite probably, a goldfish or two) Tim purchased another double which we shared . . . using a straw each! We made a lovely couple, sat there, our heads touching, our lips pouting around our straws.

Damn those photos!

Finally, we headed for home; the long way round - three steps forward, two to the right (or left) and two steps back. According to Sharen, when we arrived at the villa driveway I called out, "I can't drive up here, it's too dangerous coming out. I'll have to reverse." So saying, I turned around and walked up the driveway backwards!

It's at this point that I know I was drunk for the driveway is as pitted as a pitted thing from Pitland; and it is impossible to walk up it backwards without falling arse over tit - - unless of course, you are drunk!

Lastly, according to Sharen (she makes me sick, staying sober and recording my plight. Has she nothing better to do?) I then fell asleep on the toilet where she found me, totally naked with my bum frozen to the pan in the morning!

What a night!

Oh, and just for good measure; when we took off from Faro later that day, we circled around and landed back there one and a half hours later due to a 'technical' problem!

Looking forward to doing the same again this year . . . apart from the being drunk and the re-landing at Faro bits

2005: April Showers (pronounced show ers)

So, whom did I meet?

Well I met Roy 4 Eyes. He was an interesting chap. Did you know he's an optimist and a pilot? Mind you, with glasses that thick he'd have to be optimistic about flying! He very kindly offered to fly me over the coast "within a few feet of the cliff tops" according to him. Blimey! I thought, with glasses thicker than the glass from which I drank my beer, we'd be a lot closer than he realised. I declined his offer!

Kteee was there, perched on her bar stool like one of her beloved cats. She purred away at me and it was obvious she had the hots for me . . . but who can blame her; after all I am a handsome devil! She almost gave the game away to Roy when she leapt off her barstool and into my arms when she left. Luckily Roy was sat just next to her so we were out of his field of vision.

Gary/Gaynor was there. Well he was, she wasn't. It set me wondering, is there two of them or is Gary in two minds about his sexuality? After all, he/she/they are living in Holland, and his/her/their occupation is listed as Beach Bums! Perhaps he's more topical than I think - perhaps he's got two heads like Zaphod Beeblebrox!

I enjoyed my time in the Antique Bar but felt something was lacking. Perhaps it needed the star of New Year's Eve at Jailbreak to make us laugh as he did that memorable evening :-)

April 2006: Easter Car Treasure Hunt

Blimey! What a day! I had been looking forward to it for yonks and finally, there I was. At the start and chomping on the bit, ready to repeat our 'win' at the Christmas event. However, mistakes in the kilometre marking system on our sheet and clues that made those in The Da Vinci Code seem as simple as a Sun crossword, Sharen and I struggled to reach double figures!

Talk about stressful! At one time in our car I reached across to turn down the air-con because it was so cold my teeth were chattering only to realise the car didn't have air-con! It was icy cold from one of those cold silences that follow an argument between spouses. I mean, there I am, driving along on what are reputed to be the most dangerous roads in Europe being expected by my lovely wife to not only drive on the wrong side of the road, change gear with the wrong hand, keep an eye open for cars coming towards me from all known compass points; and at the same time look out for, "Where might you meet friends?"

Friends? I don't care about meeting bloody friends! I'm more concerned about the guy up my backside - tailgating so close I could feel his hot, sardine, breath on my neck! And this was the first clue! Only another two or three hundred to go!

We made it to Foia after backtracking a few times, convinced we'd missed a turning or clue, and racked our brains over the clues. G.E? Horny? No idea! A phone call from Roy4eyes came - telling us that the distance markers were wrong on our leg of the hunt. Yeah, Roy, we gathered that ourselves after reading that the first instruction was at 85.6k from the start! Roy's amendments, though welcome, proved ineffectual since we strayed off the route so many times our reading and therefore our locations never actually coincided with many of the clues. It was like driving with Mark Thathcher!

Less than half way around I was losing the will to live . . . and a wife! She snapped at me . . I snapped at her . . . We snapped together. But, we plodded on and, although we missed a few (a BIG few) out we did get back to Fatacil in time for dinner. And what a dinner it was! Great portions, great food and plenty to drink. During the meal we had the 'prizegivings'. As I mentioned above, we didn't come first but we didn't come last either. Even so, (and this next bit will upset F.O.) we managed to win two prizes! One for being the first to enter and the other for Sharen's creative answers to the clues we were clueless about - which was many!

So, was it all a success? Well, apart from one driver having to take handfuls of paracetamol to combat the headaches caused by his crew - one driver being seen going in the wrong direction . . . twice! - one driver giving up totally having been sent out with three beautiful young ladies (sensible man!) - one driver going off on her own route and having to return to the start to restart on the official route - one driver ending up in Portimao, well off target! - some drivers being to told to 'turn left' when it should have been 'turn right' - it was a resounding success! We raised €500 for the orphans; and that's all the success we needed.

Roy, Thunderbolt and Gambo worked their socks off to make it work . . . and for the most part, it did. However, one lesson they have learned should they decide to repeat the format is this: Never, ever use as clues animals or people that are prone to wander and not be where you expect them to be

April 2006: Flying Tonight - A cowardy-custard takes to the air

My stomach was in knots! I could feel my heart pounding in my ears, so loud I thought it'd burst out and dribble down my shoulders. Loop-the-loop, 90 degree turns, rocket-powered ascents, Stukka descents, flying upside-down, stall dives . . . . I went through all this while still in the airdrome carpark! I was a bag of nerves! What had I let myself in for? I had agreed to go up in the air in a tiny tiny plane with a man that was only two days away from his medical . . . to see if he was fit enough to fly! What had I let myself in for?

Roy wheeled the plane out onto the hot tarmac. Plane? I'd built bigger Airfix models when I was a lad. Bigger ones flew around my bedroom suspended from the ceiling on cotton thread, casting shadows on the walls from the light bulb. Roy looked towards me, grinned and said, "Yeah, it is a hot day." This was with reference to my profuse sweating. Hot? No Roy, I'm not hot - this is a cold sweat brought on by fear . . . . cold, primal fear! He opened the (only) door to reveal the cockpit. I was so in-two-minds when he told me that I was to be sitting next to it. One part of me thought, Great, I'll be able to get out quickly when we crash. The other part thought, I'm going to fall out of the door! I asked him how often planes like these crashed; "Only the once." he replied!

It was at this juncture that Roy amazed me. He got into the cockpit! Why did this amaze me? Well, the cockpit is the size of Barbie's plane's cockpit and Roy is a BIG bloke and is easily six foot plenty. Like a piece of human origami he folded himself into a tiny tiny ball and poured himself into the pilot's seat wherein he slowly unfolded his long arms and legs and then watched as I began to enter. Reluctantly.

Eventually I'm in and there's a bank of dials and doodahs in front of me - loads of knobs and levers and foot-pedals - loads of things to go wrong! Roy set about telling me all about what each does and I attentively ignored everything he said except the emergency evacuation drill - I know it off by heart. "To open the door," he said, "Just pull this lever down, and this lever up, and push the door open." This became my mantra as we were hurtling down the runway. Down-Up-Out. Down-Up-Out. Down-Up-Out. The faster the plane skittered down the runway the faster my mantra came out, DownUpOutDownUpOutDownUpOut. The wheels lifted, DownUpOutDownUpOutDownUpOut . . . and then without me even realising it it changed to "Oooh, look at that". Oooh, look at that. Oooh, look at that.

I was flying! I hadn't been sick (yet!) and I was (almost) enjoying it. Roy, ever thoughtful told me he was going to fly out over the sea to practice a few turns. Practice? For God's sake, Roy, you're supposed to know how to do all this malarkey - why do you need to practice???? Of course, it was for my benefit. He was to do a few gentle 10 degree turns to show me the plane can actually bank over without dropping like a stone into the sea. The practice turns were gentle(ish) and thus emboldened we headed over the land. I felt really safe flying over the sea; I mean, it's really soft and crash-landing into water is OK with me - but that land below looked HARD!

We went all over the place (pictures will follow) and I had a great time; most of which I 'relaxed' for. We went over Portimao, we went over Silves castle, we even flew over Sir Cliff Richard's humble villa and tennis courts. We flew over Zoo Marine so that I could "see the dolphins." I had hoped they'd also be at 200 feet but, as Roy went into a steep turn (it felt like 90 degrees but was probably only 88 or so) I had the gut-wrenching sensation of looking directly into the dolphins pool. Did I see them? I don't know, my eyes were closed at the time and I was fighting to keep last night's wine and beer under control! The pictures I took might reveal them.

We then went along the coast again (yippee, nice soft water) and we flew towards Cavoeiro. We buzzed Algar Seco, again banking like mad, a manoeuvre during which (I later learned) Roy was trying to 'suspend' the plane in mid-air by a method of breaking and accelerating at the same time, so that I could take a nice piccy. Again the eyes refused to focus as I was turned to face Algar Seco from an impossible angle.

It was now that I realised that Roy wasn't flying the plane - Roy himself was flying, and he was using the plane to do so. He is so much a part of the plane that a state of symbiosis existed between them. Roy was the plane! He was not only in total control, he was in his element. He is a superb pilot and a companionable guide and raconteur. If he can make someone as yellow-bellied and apprehensive as I was about flying feel relaxed then nobody has a reason not to fly with him.

We then started flying back to Alvor, en route looking for Sharen and Carol (Mrs 4) who were to wave to us from the sea-front. I didn't spot them . . . and still can't on the pictures, which is a pity. I wasn't looking forward to the landing (hard ground coming towards us at great speed) because it was quite a windy day and I had seen Roy's earlier landing prior to this one come in like a butterfly in a hurricane. Down-Up-Out. Down-Up-Out. I needn't have bothered; he landed it as smoothly as a butterfly alights on a flower. What a pilot!

We are continually told by cynics that nothing is free and that everything has to be paid for. Well, they aren't always correct. Roy doesn't take a cent for his flying me or anyone else around the Algarve. All I paid for was the fuel we used and the fees incurred on take-off and landing. Roy does these flights for the sheer pleasure he gets from flying and the pleasure he imparts to his passengers in doing so. His enthusiasm is infectious and impossible to ignore. It's a win-win situation.

What did I let myself in for? A bloody good hour's entertainment, that's what. I fully intend to go again . . . . and I never thought I'd be saying that!

Thank you, Roy.

Extra: With any luck http://s35.photobucket.com/albums/d194/MichaelCrane/Flying%20Tonight/ will take you to all of the pictures.

Let me know of any problems.

June 2006: The village in the season

Those of you that have read my usual reports of my time in Carvoeiro will know that I have only visited Christmas/New Year and March/April . . . never in the 'season'. This year Sharen and I made the effort to see what it's like in June.

We flew with EasyJet out of Stansted during a slight lull in a massive thunderstorm. When at the Gate looking through the windows we could see forked lightening streaking up into the sky as planes osscilated their way to precarious landings on an ocean of water that covered the runway. The spray chucked up by the wheels made the planes disappear from view as they floated to a halt - it was like attending a David Copperfield show without the annoying Mr Copperfield. We were sat on the tarmac for an hour, waiting for the storm to abate before we took off . . . a flight already one hour later than first booked.

We weren't stopping in the village this time - our usual villa was occupied by its owner who vacated it on the Wednesday as we arrived on the Tuesday and he handed the keys over to someone else! Instead we got a great deal from an EasyHotel @ 17 euros per night for a one-bedroomed self-catering apartment at Salgados Bayview. According to info gleaned off t'internet the apartments had been fully refurbished so we weren't that bothered about not having the villa this once. At Easter we had driven around to find the location of Bayview, and after a bit of tooing and froing we found it - and marked it in our memories for our return eight weeks later.

Unfortunately, due to the storm and the late take-off we arrived at Faro in the dark . . . and as you all know, everything looks different late at night . . . as indeed did the route we'd carefully filed away. I drove a lot more too and fro this time seeking out landmarks in the dark - a journey reminiscent of the Easter car treasure hunt (and that set me in a bad mood as those of you that read my report might imagine). Mrs C and I were not having a lovely time; driving around in the dark like a bat with a blindfold careening about the Algarve in search of our apartment. Eventually, more by luck than judgment or navigational skills, we stumbled upon it.

Access, that late at night (0030) ,was via the Reception and then through the bar. It was this walk through the bar that didn't auger well for us - it was karaoke night and our fellow residents were belting out unfathomable lyrics gulping in lungfuls of cigarette smoke in a bar that appeared to be for smokers only! It was only a short distance but when we exited into the clear fresh air our clothes and hair stank and I was coughing up a lung like a forty-a-day Capstan smoker.

Mind you, the smell of smoke soon went as we entered our apartment . . . . to be replaced by the welcoming aroma of wee. The beds were damp and the place smelled of wee - I just hoped the two were unconnected for we were both too weary to go elsewhere as we climbed into bed. (I later learned from roy4eyes that wet cement smells of wee and I have kept that thought ever since - the alternative being too dire to live with).

As we lay in our cement-scented bed we decided that one night was more than enough to spend at Bayview and the following morning we drove to Carvoeiro and booked ourselves into the Mirachoro - the 4* hotel on Estrado de Farol. For 87 euros per night we got the best room in the hotel, overlooking the pool, the village and out to sea, including an all-you-can-eat-for-the-rest-of-the-day breakfast. Bliss.

We had planned to get out and about a bit more in the car this holiday (we were just using Bayview as a base) but, two factors kept us from this admirable plan. 1. the room and balcony was so inviting; 2. a tyre on the hire car blew and it couldn't be replaced until after the weekend and I didn't fancy driving around without a spare. We had also planned to self-cater but, now we didn't have a cooker we ate out every night.

We went to A Rede a lot (very near to the hotel) and enjoyed most meals, with the exception of their chicken cataplana. So far as I am aware (and I base this on other cataplanas we'd enjoyed elsewhere in the past) the dish is a whole chicken casseroled in a pan with loads of local vegetables. If this is true of A Rede's chicken cataplana then they are serving six-legged chickens for we were served a dish containing six lumpy, bony chicken thighs and several wings. Six legs might account for the time it took to arrive on our table - the little sods must be buggers to catch! Sadly it appears that the nicer bits of the chickens (lovely succulent breast) is reserved for 'proper' chicken dishes and the bits that no one else wants is shoved into a pan with an onion and a pepper and is reincarnated as a cataplana. It was a disappointing meal and one which we left mostly untouched as our vain quest for a slice of chicken breast proved impossible.

However, this was the only 'bad' meal there and I don't want to put anyone off from eating there. We did enjoy the Algar Seco fish 'special' on two occasions and would recommend it, especially on a meet-up Thursday night.

We have come to the conclusion that we prefer our usual holiday periods and won't be returning during the 'season'. Too many people about for our liking.