On the Wednesday, we decided to drive east. It was a fine day, although rain had been forecast, so we wanted to make the most of it. We drove to the imposingly-named Vila Real de Santo Antonio and went to have coffee while waiting for the ferry. Boating is, not surprisingly, a popular pastime.

Afterwards, we went to buy our tickets and found that Bod had misread the sign and we had missed the ferry so we had a while still to wait. He and Wink went for a walk while I rested and watched the fish by the river bank and the *fish-eating bird* (meant to check what it was, I’m a bit ignorant) that was diving out in the open water. I chatted with a pleasant couple from Nottingham.


The weather was still fine and we sat on the upper deck for the 20-minute trip across the river to Ayamonte. The modern road bridge was slightly upriver, but who’d drive when you could float?

The dock wasn’t all that interesting. The Bod was amused to notice that the information sign was blank on the side you could safely see it and all the writing was on the side facing the road, where a car couldn’t stop and it would be dangerous to stand.

We walked past one square

to the main square

where we had lunch.
I had paella. The sun was almost, but not quite, too hot for me. I usually choose to sit in the shade, but I was enjoying the heat.

We didn’t stay long after lunch as it was clouding over, but walked to look at the little marina.

On the way back, the upper decks were closed because of the increasing wind, though the waves weren’t enough to disturb.
We got back in the car and within five minutes it started to rain. This was only the second rainfall that had been seen in the Algarve for months, the first having been the week before we arrived.

Dilly and Squiffany took me to the theatre in Yagnub this afternoon (I whimsically reverse the town’s name). It was “Annie” done by the youngest members of their youth theatre group. They were very good and some were exceptionally good singers- they are very young, most of them, and I was impressed.

During the interval, we heard that one of the Thai restaurants in town was on fire. Desperately sorry for them, we were also anxious for the safety of surrounding buildings, which are old and timber-framed. However, when we came out, although the road was closed off there was no sign of fire so the fire brigade had stopped it spreading.

The Sage looked after Pugsley. All was tranquil on our return.

This post was brought to you by Z’s iPhone. The Sage is using my computer. It’s slightly slower because of the small keypad, but otherwise very do-able. Photos of Portugal later.

I’ve been out all day and busy all evening – I can’t quite face sorting out photos at present. I think I’ve got as far as the Wednesday, when we went to Spain for lunch and I’ll tell you about it tomorrow. All these photos are a bit of a cop-out, I know – saves me writing much!

This is the time of year when I spend every spare evening making holly wreaths. Those of you who’ve known me at least a year will be aware that I really dislike the job, but some poor fool has to do it. If I valued my time, it wouldn’t be worthwhile. I have done 6 or 7 to add to the 3 Al already has in the shop, and he’ll probably sell them all tomorrow. He has sold a lot of trees which isn’t surprising – he charges less than other places for exactly the same Nordmann trees. They are literally the same, bought from the same grower. He charges his normal mark-up, which is much less than a garden centre’s would be, but he doesn’t have the overheads.

The Sage’s laptop has arrived and I’ve taken it over to Ro to set up. I offered to pick him up from work so he took the opportunity, as he needed to go food shopping anyway, to buy more than usual. He has nearly a two mile walk to and from work, which is a long way to carry more than a bagful. There is a little corner shop at the end of his road, but it’s a long road and he lives at number 120 or so. He only bought £20-worth even so – he hasn’t got a lot of spare space; there’s a decent-sized kitchen but he shares it with two others.

I’ve been writing my speech for Monday evening. Sigh. Fortunately, it doesn’t have to be long or clever. Like me. That is, I’m not either.

It is one minute to midnight. I’m off to bed.

On the way back to the car, we passed several cats. They ignored us politely. When we were walking back to the car, the Bod noticed the baby stork in the river. Its mother was flying overhead. I might not have noticed the stork, but I stopped to admire the flower beds. Rosemary and lavender were in flower and so was honeysuckle, rambling across the bed.





As we drove back to the hotel we stopped by a headland where there’s a little fishermen’s chapel (chapel is small, can’t speak for the fishermen). Seagulls were sunbathing to the left but the bay on the right was rather more exposed.




This evening, I went to the annual concert at the high school. As ever, it was superb. Really, there are some fine musicians at the school and they put such energy and enjoyment into their work. New this term is a male choir – there were 16 on stage but there are 22 altogether who meet on a Friday lunchtime.
There’s a wide variety of music – jazz band, wind band, orchestra, rock band, instrumental soloists and we also had the great treat of solos by two of the teachers, the violinist and the guitar teacher, which were truly impressive – and the concert went on, including an interval, for three hours. I’d left a fish pie for the Sage but he politely waited for me – it was 10.30 by the time we had dinner.

I sent off an email agreeing to join another committee in April. I also sent an email to someone who is interested in being a governor and will write to someone else on the same lines tomorrow. I should have written another email but it’s late and I’m going to bed. Tomorrow will do.

I suppose it makes sense to put the castle or fort at the highest point, but walking uphill isn’t really what I like to do, as a Norfolk girl. However, it’s generally worth it when you get to the top and see the view.

I’ve forgotten the name of the town. You may recognise it and tell me, otherwise I’m going to have to resort to looking at a map. We parked by the river and walked up to the castle. I hadn’t realised how far the earthquake of 1755 had reached- it’s always called the Lisbon earthquake, and that’s where the majority of lives were lost, but the Algarve was very badly affected too. Many castles only have their perimeter walls left.

We strolled around, enjoying the views. I discovered that I seem to have lost the mild vertigo that has affected me for the past few decades, which is a pleasant surprise.

The entrance

Random mixture of old and new. Very odd. At least it was all made of the same red sandstone

Orange grove in the distance

Are those banana trees?

From below

Looking down

An ant carrying something far too big for it.

I particularly like roofs

Especially when a house is being renovated and you can see right in

In other news … I’ve indulged myself and bought an iPhone. I am having a very enjoyable time. I particularly like the double tap to enlarge a web page. I’ve been playing most of the evening. I still have my old mobile, by the way, in case any of you have the number and feel the urge to ring me (thanks for your text, Dandelion) but I’ve got a new number too. A strange sort of parsimony, but I had over £12 credit on the old one and I didn’t really see why I should lose it. I can lend my old phone to the Sage and he can use the credit up.

I think I’ll wait for a bit before moving onto another alphabet. I’ve enjoyed it, but sometimes the posts are written around the titles. For the moment, I’ll show you a few more photos. They are all fairly random snaps and, as you can see, I’m no photographer.

We hired a car for three days. Wink and the Bod had seen a fair bit of the Algarve last year, but they wanted to fill in the gaps and also show me some of the scenery. So, on the Tuesday, we took a taxi up the hill to the car hire place (they considered walking it, but when they realised how far and how uphill it was, they were glad they hadn’t. I wouldn’t have tried in any case; they’d have returned to the hotel for me) and fetched it. I read while they filled in forms and sorted everything out. I had not taken on any responsibilities for any organisation of this holiday and was enjoying complete relaxation.

Bod drove, which he found a bit difficult. Actually, I’ve only ever driven my own car on the Continent – I’d have thought it would be easier to drive a left-hand drive car on the right, but I hadn’t considered changing gear with my right hand which I think would be very awkward. Bod certainly found it so, especially as we headed for the mountains and he had to negotiate hill starts at junctions as well. I quietly decided, if I hire a car abroad, to choose an automatic – but then I’ve often driven one, which the Bod never has. Anyway, we climbed to the highest part of the Algarve, which turned out to be a bit disappointing. There were masts and industrial buildings and nothing else and it was jolly windy, so we drove back down the hill a bit and stopped for a picnic.

The view was lovely. There were a few small farms but few other buildings in sight.
We heard bells before we saw the cows wander over the road.

Afterwards, we headed over a mountain pass.

I didn’t have a chance to take photos because the roads wound so and we couldn’t stop, but there were a lot of cork oak trees and olive trees. I find the plants, and especially the crops, extremely interesting when I visit a place. I like to know what local people live on and what makes a place tick.

The area close to the coast is very built-up, and I didn’t take photos of the numerous apartment blocks and ex-pats’ villas, but once you’re slightly inland, it completely changes and there’s little sign of tourist activity.

Later, I relaxed again.

I’ve just realised the time – a bit late to start writing much. So here are a few photos of the Algarve.

A view from Wink’s balcony

A dog

Another dog

A fishing boat being pulled onto the beach

Z relaxes

A cat in a tree

Another view from Wink’s balcony, showing the terrace where we had breakfast

I have more photos. Or maybe you prefer me to talk more. Your call.

Sorry. You try finding something that starts p-si. It made me psi heavily. Psi what I mean?

Right, that’s all the possible pronunciations I was given by google.

I wanted to tell you about Cobie and Joepie. They were – well, still are I suppose – sisters. They, with their younger brother and parents, lived in The Hague and a friend of my parents taught them English. Cobie, the older, passed her *GCSE equivalent* exams in English, German and French with the highest marks of anyone in Holland. The French and German governments sent congratulations, maybe an award. Britain did nothing. So the friend asked my parents if they would invite her to stay and show her something of English life in the summer holidays.

Johann speaks perfect English, but with a Dutch accent. Remarkably, Cobie, a girl who had never visited Britain, had virtually no accent at all. On the first day with us, someone knocked a glass over and it broke. “Whoops,” she remarked, “that’s gone for a Burton.” This was the late 1950s, it was a current slang expression then and typical of her, that she knew the language through and through.

We all got on so well that she was invited to come for a year as an au pair. I was 5 when she spent her year with us. She was tall and blonde. She adjusted effortlessly to life with us and really did become part of the family. My mother used to speak of her as “my Dutch daughter”. There were other Dutch girls working as au pairs and they all got to know each other – they went to evening classes at the local college. One of them, Petronella, eventually married a local farmer – Weeza and Al went to school with her children, although they were older.

It must have been a rather different life from hers at home. The atmosphere was very relaxed. Cobie’s father and mother had not had an easy life when she was a child during the war. It was very tough in Holland and people were sometimes close to starvation. Her father was, with Johann, an active member of the Resistance. If caught, they would have been executed. He was a man with high and exacting standards for himself and his children. We had a lavish (seen in retrospect) lifestyle, with a gardener, three cars and regular visits to London for the shops and theatre.

At the end of the next summer, her sister Joepie came in her place. She was not so tall, with brown hair and a pretty face with a pointed chin; Cobie had a rounded chin. Her English was also fluent but more accented. She was delightful too and, shy as I was, I was as relaxed with them both as with any member of my own family. My parents went on holiday without me and Wink and we went to stay with Cobie and Joepie’s family – I remember their shower, which was downstairs and a small concrete room. Although the water was not cold, I stood and shivered while I was soaped. I also remember being dressed up as a pirate and having my picture taken swigging from an empty rum bottle, walking along the pavements skipping over the lines, going to the zoo once, and falling against the french window, which broke. Scared, I ran from the room and into Cobie’s arms to be comforted. I wasn’t scolded by her parents though, it was an accident. Oh, and I remember coming into the room and finding Cobie wearing a white dress decorated with strawberries, a new one. “I like that,” I said. “Do you? I don’t, I think I’ll send it back,” she remarked. I was embarrassed, I so rarely expressed any opinion and it seemed I had the wrong one!

That’s the extent of my memories of three weeks’ stay.

Every year, we used to receive St Nicholas Day presents from them, in a big box. It was terribly exciting. I particularly loved the chocolate, in the shape of letters of the alphabet or wrapped to look like miniature Delft tiles. Then there was the gingerbread in the shape of Santa Claus (you see, I’ll say it in context). It was spicy and delicious and my benchmark of the tastiest gingerbread.

Afterwards, we had a third au pair girl. My mother told me she was a Finnish girl. I took this to mean that she was the last, as we were getting too old for them, and asked what country she was from. Her name was Malle. She used to bring gifts of smoked reindeer meat, which was delicious. She gave me a pair of reindeer fur slippers with pointed toes for Christmas. I had to be careful running across our polished floors.

She was a finish girl in fact, as we didn’t have another au pair. I suppose I was eight or so and my sister was entering her teens and we didn’t need one any more.

By the way – it seems to be the thing at present for bloggers to look up their address on Google Images. I was quite surprised, since we’re 100 yards or more from the road and there are two hedges in the way, one by the roadside, to find it. I was amused and more surprised to find it described as an “old manor house.” It isn’t.

They must have come on to our front field (not the cows’ field, this is the one that Dave is eyeing up for a cricket pitch) as there’s no possibility of getting this clear a shot through the hedge.

I wish I hadn’t. I found myself observing an entertaining discussion forum on the subject of “fee” versus “fie” The English tend to say fie, whilst it’s fee in Greece. But then someone mentioned that it depends on the next letter. I looked further. As soon as one person assured me that chi was pronounced “see”, another said it was “kee” or, ideally, “khee”, with the kh pronounced as a Scottish loch.

I give up. I’ll do what I want and I’d already, many years ago when Al was 15, discovered it was too late for me to learn ancient Greek as I’d spent a geeky childhood wanting.

So, today I looked after Squiffany and Pugsley again, as their mother was doing tattooing at the village school Christmas fair. Tattoo transfers, obv. It was very busy and everyone was having fun. For the first time in my life, I entered Father Christmas’s grotto (I don’t say Santa Claus because I’m English. I don’t shorten it to Santa because once in a while I prove to be a crashing snob). We think it might have been the real Father Christmas, which was quite unexpected, because he had a real weather-beaten red nose and chin that were, undoubtedly, natural and not painted on. Squiffany had told me that he has stand-ins at this time of the year, which seems entirely reasonable.

For the last ten years, at least, there have been silent auctions at school fairs. One year, someone did sterling work in getting gifts and vouchers from local businesses, and it seemed a pity to put them all into the raffle, which had lots of prizes anyway. The Sage suggested a table-top auction, with written bids and a time limit and the then Head was doubtful that it would work, but it brought in a lot of money and they’ve done it ever since. I spent £50 on my three winning bids (a day for two at a Norwich hotel’s swimming pool, sauna and jacuzzi, a pair of children’s shoes of your choice from excellent Norwich manufacturer and a £20 voucher from the clothes shop in town that I often shop at anyway). I gave Dilly the spa voucher and she plans to invite Weeza I think. She also wants me to give the shoes voucher to Weeza as Zerlina grows out of her shoes so quickly.

We came home with a basketful of other goodies, including whole lots of homemade cakes. I’m afraid that the Sage and I, and Dilly when she arrived back, overindulged rather. I could hardly walk by then and was glad of comfort food. I’d been on my feet for several hours, without a stick, and although it doesn’t hurt now, and I may well walk fine tomorrow, I’m glad I phoned for that appointment on Monday. I’m going to get operated on as soon as I can.

My mind is, of course, already toying with what music to listen to, if I do have an epidural. I shall be asking for suggestions. I’m quite sure that Dinu Lipatti will be included but I haven’t thought further yet.

It’s not always easy when grandchildren come for a meal. To start with it’s fine – Zerlina, at 15 months, tucks into whatever she’s given. But Pugsley has reached the cautious age when he’s reluctant to put anything in his mouth unless he already knows he’ll like it. Squiffany is willing to try anything, but still tends not to like it if it tastes slightly different from what her parents cook for her. This can be frustrating.

I don’t remember ever being fussy over food when I was a child. I ate very little, but that was a matter of appetite. My mother was tolerant about it, knowing that I couldn’t help it and would eat until I was full, then stop. When food was being served, I might be carved a single slice of chicken, for instance, a small roast potato was added to the plate by the carver (my father) and then my mother asked what vegetables I’d like. I distinctly remember asking for “five peas and half a sprout, please” and being given them without comment. When I was out and given more food than I could manage, my mother advised me to try to eat the meat “it’s protein and good for you, and it’s expensive so it’s a waste to leave it” and I dutifully did my best. I observe, at this distance, that she didn’t need to persuade me to eat vegetables, I liked them, including sprouts, spinach, turnips and other things thought of as difficult foods for children.

I liked almost everything in fact, and if I didn’t, I assumed it was my childishness – after all, if I saw grown-ups eating something with enjoyment, it must be good and I just couldn’t appreciate it yet. My parents were very interested in food and very good cooks, though my mother did nearly all the cooking. She preferred it that way as my father used dozens of different utensils and never washed anything up.

I think of myself as having a very small appetite, and yet I must have packed away a reasonable amount of food, because so much was provided. When I was a small child, we always had a cooked breakfast, then we’d have a meal, not a snack, for lunch, and a cooked dinner in the evening. No afternoon tea, usually, as I mentioned the other day. Tea was usually tea. There was always fruit, however, and a biscuit, cheese or whatever if it was wanted. Sweets were rarely seen and snacks such as crisps (potato chips) were even rarer. I remember when I was about 11 and very ill with flu – my mother brought me a tray with little dishes containing treats, including a few crisps. I looked at it, dismayed, unable to touch a mouthful. When I was getting better it didn’t occur to her to give me the treats again (some of you have read this snippet before, it’s hard not to repeat oneself occasionally after a few years when readers have come and gone, so my apologies). We never had puddings, as my parents didn’t eat them. We had ice cream sometimes, I suspect my mother reckoned that was reasonably nutritious, so okay. There was often cheese as well as a well-stocked fruit bowl instead of puddings.

Apart from ice cream and bread, and the occasional tinned soup, everything possible was made from scratch. I was 16 when I first had fish and chips from a chippie. The rare occasion when it occurred on the Z family menu, it started with whole fish, which were filleted, battered and fried, and with whole potatoes to be washed, peeled, cut up, washed and dried, fried until pale and cooked and then fried again until browned. We might have had frozen peas with it though. And I seem to remember ketchup. That was a meal my father would have cooked, my mother would have thought it a waste of time, chips being fattening anyway. She’d have been landed with a devastated kitchen to clear up though.

Today, Pugsley had been invited to a lunchtime party, so I picked up Squiffany from school. I’d been out at meetings all morning so hadn’t bought anything for lunch, and she’s very hungry when she comes out at noon (she will go to school all day after Christmas, but she’s still nowhere near 5 years old). Knowing what little I had, I asked her what she would like for lunch. I was very relieved when she asked for boiled eggs and toast soldiers. No problem in it tasting different from Mummy’s cooking. I checked how she’d like them done (firm white, runny yolk) and she managed to pack away most of three good-sized bantam eggs (that is, good size for a bantam egg is still small, so they equalled two large eggs) and three slices of toast from a small loaf.

We were playing when Dilly and Pugsley arrived back, so we had a cup of tea and then Dilly went home, leaving the children here. I took them back at half past four. It’s very quiet here now and the Sage and I are a bit lonely.