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 :-)
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