Creature Comforts

There's a large bird of some sort who has taken to sitting on the telegraph cable adjoining our house to the pole across the street. He sometimes sits there for quite some time, especially in the evenings, singing away to himself in a whooping shrill tone to anyone who'll listen. (I keep saying "he" but to be honest, I've not the faintest idea if it's a male or female.) He's not alone here either. The house across the street has a family of at least 3 housemartins living under their balcony. Again, I'm not entirely sure they are housemartins, but I Google'd it and they do look very much like the one pictured on the left here. They dart gracefully in and out of the of their garden, up and round the telegraph pole, swooping over and under the wires and back down into their little nest above the garage door. Sometimes they rest their wings and sit on the electricity cables and sing a while.  Anyway, the point is that I was, for some reason, very much aware the other day of birdsong. And since then, every time I go out I've been listening to the vibrant warblings of a great variety of birds. Sometimes tuneful. Sometimes just a repeated chirp. A trill here and there. The air is full of birdsong. And that, sadly, is something I never noticed in England. Well, that's not strictly true. When I was a young boy I was in the school's Young Ornithologist's Club, but at that age I'm sure we weren't very serious twitchers. What I'm really referring to is my house in Lincolnshire, which was a "New Build" on an unfinished estate with very few, if any, trees and far too much concrete and red brick. I'm sure if I'd have ventured out into the surrounding countryside, armed with a pair of binoculars and a quiet mind I would have seen and heard many birds, but on my housing estate it was a rarity. I do remember a time when flock after flock of Geese were (presumably) migrating overhead, and making a racket about it too, but to attract smaller suburban birds there really needed to be more trees. And that is the difference I think. Here most houses have hedges bordering their gardens, a lemon tree, or perhaps a taller pine. And consequently a veritable plethora of nesting spots for birds to set up home.

And there's a Gecko in my garden. It could be a Gecko. My wife calls it a Salamander. It's definitely a lizard though. Maybe we should give him (or her?) a name. He lives around the back, in among the rafters by the barbecue and wood storage area. I have seen him (or maybe his cousin) around the front of the house too though, skulking about in the shadows of the garden walls and balcony pillars. To be honest I first saw him last Autumn, sitting on the whitewashed garden wall, basking himself in the evening sun. Of course he probably went someplace safe over the winter to hibernate, but he's back now.

Of course there are some creatures I'd rather not have about the place. (Suddenly I sound like a Dr Seuss book!) With the onset of summer brings a plague of flies, constantly buzzing about inside the house. Annoyingly they don't land either, like English house flies do, so I can't splat them with my plastic swatter. Then, there are the ants. Long trailing lines of them marching around my garden and past my front door in an almost comical cartoon fashion. Don't forget the mosquitoes. Thankfully we haven't seen too many of them so far, but the vast array of products stocking the pest control section in the supermarkets are evidence enough that they must be out there somewhere. All these mini-beasts are of course very curious things to my children, especially my 5 year old girl, who has been studying mini-beasts as her topic work at school last month. But not me. I believe the correct internet vernacular to describe my feelings about these insects is "Ew!" Some insects I don't mind so much though. Today my children spotted this tiny green grasshopper on our small picnic table.

Every bar in the area right now is proudly displaying signs saying, "Há Caracóis!" meaning that they are selling snails; To eat of course! The landlord of my local bar even joked (I hope) that he'd harvested them himself, by hand, from his very own garden wall! Well he's not getting his hands on this one that I found hiding away from the sun under our balcony!

Leftover Photos

I've had these photographs sitting around in a folder on my desktop for a while now, waiting for me to find an excuse to upload them as part of a blog, but I've decided to just upload them all in one go as a kind of photographic "Bubble & Squeak". I know I could have described them as a veritable smörgåsbord of photography, but quite frankly, that's far too high brow for me. The first three are from the Park of Eduardo VII in Lisbon and the rest from various places in and around Estoril. Enjoy!!

School's Out!

Portuguese schools finished on the 15th for the holidays and suddenly it seems that everyone has their summer mood on and dialled in to full blast. I can hear the neighbour's kids playing across the street. The two young boys laugh and chat as the football bounces to and fro off the sides of their enclosed garden. On the walk back from the shop this morning, with my bag of bread rolls under my arm, I witnessed a young man of perhaps 10 or 12 years being instructed by his father in the correct way to paint their garden fence. They seemed to be thoroughly enjoying the father-son time together as they stopped momentarily to wish me a hearty "Bom dia!" as I passed. A few days ago I was down by the beach and witnessed a large group of children, each sporting a lime green hat, escorted by their summer school teachers in their matching lime green polo shirts. As they descended the stone steps down onto the sand, with the plastic buckets and spades they held clattering against one another, there was an air of anticipation in readiness for the exciting day ahead building castles and paddling in the rock pools. So it does indeed seem that now that school is finished for the year and the summer holidays have started that people have a change of focus in their lives. Of course my own children's school hasn't finished yet and they still have a few days left until their holidays start, but they are looking forward enormously with an intense and building anticipation of this coming Friday.

The Euro 2012 Football Championship has of course been an influential factor in the lead up to summer. As many of you well know, last Thursday Portugal played against the Czech Republic, beat them, and went through to the final four. (No such luck for the English team on Sunday night though!) Since my wife was out working late that night I was relegated to a night indoors watching the match on our small television at home. This of course does have it's advantages, in that I can understand the commentary, but to be honest, I'd rather have enjoyed the atmosphere of watching the game on the huge screen in the bar with (ahem) a few beers. Nevertheless, at full time I did get to witness, at least in part, the atmosphere of the game, since as the referee's whistle blew, the neighbourhood went absolutely completely berserk. Screams of glee spilled out of open windows, the buzz of Vuvuzela's ricocheted through the streets and even the sound of air horns echoed across from the apartments on the other side of the valley. It was almost as if up until this point everyone was too scared to sound their horn, cheer out loud or clap their hands in case they jinxed it for the team. Of course tomorrow, Portugal play in the semi-final against Spain. Only time will tell if all these Vuvuzela's that had been stashed away in basements since the last World Cup will get to be blown again, reinstating that festival atmosphere.

Of course it wouldn't be summer without good weather, which over the last couple of weeks has been interesting to say the least. Last week it was very hot and very windy. Apparently Portugal, especially in the south, is prone to high winds during May. So the winds were just a little late in coming this year, but regardless, they are clearly another milestone pointing happily towards the onset of summer. Now the wind has calmed down and it's just hot. Really hot. According to the BBC Weather website it's been 41ºC (about 106ºF) here today, which has to be hot enough to get anyone in the mood for summer, hasn't it? I suppose that since the weather has cheered up from the overcast spell we were having a few weeks back I ought to make time to take my camera down to the promenade and acquire some better photos of the artworks down there!

Whatever the reason for this general good feeling and optimism, the fact is that summer is here. Personally that means that my family and I can become tourists once again and indulge ourselves in the beach life, meander slowly through museums, and generally do some exploring. It's coming up on a year now since we landed in Portugal, to be welcomed out of the airport terminal by torrential rain, and it does seem that we spent a lot of last summer getting settled. Now please, don't get me wrong, we did enjoy last summer and we did get to take in our fair share of tourist trap activities, but it was interwoven with waiting in council offices for our ticket number to come up and numerous trips to the bank because our card had been rejected yet again. This year we can really kick back and enjoy it.

Earlier today my wife and I were making the first plans for our summer holiday, namely, a camping trip. A colleague of my wife is moving away, and for a few Euros has sold us his family sized camping gear, complete with tent, airbeds and cooking stove. So we were talking about where to go first. My wife, a camping virgin, wanted to stick very sensibly to not travelling too far and only going for a weekend someplace to test out the gear and also how the children fit in to the idea of sleeping beneath the stars. Personally I was up for something a little more daring, but I can definitely see her point of view. We'll probably end up going to Guincho, which is about 5 kilometres up the coast, just for the weekend experimental test. We did fleeting discuss a second more lengthy trip down to the Algarve and along into Spain and Gibraltar. That will be lots and lots of fun. And so it seems that I too have great anticipation for spending the summer holidays doing fun things with my family.

Car Trouble

Last time I posted I hinted at our recent catastrophic automotive failure. RIP, our little red Clio. Consequently for the last week or so my family and I have lived a life very similar to when we first moved out here and have been without a car. I remember back then that it was expensive and inconvenient using taxis, buses and trains to get around. The afternoon school run was for me an absolute pain in the backside, although the kids seemed to find the bus trips through the narrow twisty streets of Amoreira most amusing. So anyway, we had to get a car. Luckily a colleague of my wife was selling what was to become our beloved Renault Clio. It was an old banger, but it was cheap. And let me tell you that cars out here are very expensive. Very very expensive. So we thought ourselves quite fortunate to have landed our little red car for what in retrospect was only a handful of notes. But there were problems. It overheated. The fan didn't seem to work and it just got far too hot, even on short journeys. One of the first tourist places we visited in our little car was Sintra. And of course the little light on the dashboard came on, luckily just as we were driving into the outskirts of town. We were forced to park up and walk the rest of the way into Sintra to try to enjoy our day out in the hope that when we returned to the Clio that it would have cooled down sufficiently to get us home safely. And so that was the start of a boisterous relationship with the Clio. It had it's niggles and we learnt to live with them. We coped, keeping a very close eye on the water level on almost a daily basis. And in return for this extra love and attention it made sure to get us to the supermarket and back and do the school runs. When the radio mysteriously stopped working we didn't get disheartened. And when the back lights failed we didn't panic. We took it in our stride and sought a reputable mechanic. And all was well until last week...

My wife had spent the weekend in England and I was on the way to the airport to pick her up. The first sign of trouble happened when I had to stop at the toll booth in San Domingos de Rana and upon pulling away I stalled the car. I though nothing of it at the time. Then 15 minutes later as I was pulling up to the ticket machine at the airport car park I realised that the car was juddering somewhat. Never-the-less, I had a job to do and so I parked the car and went into the airport arrivals lounge. The children and I waited, played "Simon Says" and watched the updates on the arrivals board. A little later than expected my wife appeared through the large glass doors with a relieved smile upon her face, clearly glad that the flight was over and she'd landed on friendly soil. That smile wasn't destined to last long however as on returning to the car it failed to start. I was more than a little worried that I'd need to have the thing towed out of the carpark and pay some kind of enormous fee to get it home, when thankfully, on the fifth or sixth attempt, it started. As if to add insult to injury, we were half way home when a very familiar little light on the dashboard lit up indicating that the engine was overheating and so I pulled into the services near Carcavelos and raised the lid to let it cool down. Most Portuguese motorway services seem to have a small children's play area and so there we sat, my wife and I, watching our children playing on the slide and the swings, both of us wondering once more if the poorly beast would start again once it had cooled. Thankfully, it did and got us home. In fact, the following day it started twice more allowing us to get to the supermarket and back again, but alas, that was the end. The little darling Clio had drawn her final fatal and most terminal breath.

The little red car still sits outside our house, waiting to be scrapped. Unfortunately scrapping a car here isn't easy. Or at least not as easy as you'd think. You have to get it scrapped at a proper licenced scrap yard and have it formally de-registered, and apparently, failing to follow the proper procedure here could result in us having to pay a substantial fine. And so it sits there, waiting. We've been too busy looking for a replacement car to do anything about it. More importantly, I've currently no idea where to go to get it de-registered properly and I've no idea where a suitably licensed scrapyard is either. Jobs for next week I think. The good news I suppose is that we are due to make the transaction on a shiny new (well, okay, second-hand) motor this coming weekend, and so with luck, the dead Clio can finally go to the great scrapyard in the sky. But only after I've syphoned the tank of every last drop of fuel.

Strange Brew

Another glorious afternoon and I've settled into my shady spot in the garden, underneath the balcony with a lovely cup of tea. Those of you that know me well, will most likely be saying, "Tea?" right about now. Yes, tea. Back in England I'd quite happily quaff mug after mug of instant coffee throughout the day, but here, somehow "instant" doesn't taste the same as it did in England. More significantly though, having spent most of my life drinking large mug sized drinks, sometimes a teeny tiny cup of "café" or even a "café duplo" just doesn't hit the spot, at which point I've found that a nice large mug of tea is exactly what is required.

10 individually wrapped bags? Seriously?

Becoming a tea drinker isn't exactly easy in Portugal though. It's the teabags you see. They do sell them in the supermarkets but the whole ethos isn't quite the same. For some bazaar reason they seem to sell them in boxes of 10, and that's simply ridiculous. If you hunt around on the shelves you can maybe see boxes of 20 too. And inside these tiny boxes? Individually wrapped bags of tea with a string and a little tag to dangle over the side of your cup. Which in all fairness you kind of have to do, because if you tried to make tea like I used to in England, that is, a quick stir and remove the bag, the tea would be so weak it would have hardly been worth making it in the first place. And, it's not that the Portuguese don't like tea. On the contrary. After all, it is rumoured that one Catherine of Braganza, spouse of Charles II of England and daughter of King João IV of Portugal, introduced tea to the English in the first place. The reality is that the shelves are usually packed with small brightly coloured packets of green tea and fruit teas of all sorts and then, especially for those hardcore tea addicts, a couple of highly expensive packets of "Chá Preta" or in other words, common garden English style "black tea". Anyway, last night I managed to pick up a large box of 80 bags of Pyramid shaped tea bags, and not an envelope or string-tag in sight. They cost me over 7 Euros, but worth every cent in my opinion, and at least I was fortunate enough to find a box of 80, which will hopefully last me at least a couple of weeks.

The switch to being a drinker of leaf based drinks rather than bean based drinks is, I'm sure you'll understand, not the only lifestyle adjustment I've made. There are many others. I've been a vegetarian for years now but the chances of me coming home from the supermercado with a packet of Quorn sausages is unequivocally zero. I've heard rumours of the Iceland supermarket on the Algarve selling them, but quite frankly I don't believe it, and even if they do, it's a bit of a drive to say the least. Thankfully, bags of soya chunks and soya mince are freely available in the local supermarkets, so at least when the hankering for "fake meat" strikes I can get my fix. Recently though I've expanded my culinary skills somewhat and experimented (quite successfully judging by my children's empty plates) with making veggie burgers from scratch. And when I say, "from scratch" I mean from soaking the beans overnight upwards. This is another lifestyle adjustment I've made. I now routinely have a cling filmed bowl of beans or chick peas soaking overnight on the kitchen window sill.

Watch out! It's Seriously Mild.

I suppose that the next thing on my list of English foods that I miss is Cheese. Portuguese cheese is fine in it's own way, and granted, there are many different types ranging from the Edam-esque "Queijo Flamengo" to the stronger more mature flavours of "Queijo da Ilha" or a "São Jorge". Then there is "Queijo Fresco", which is basically like cottage cheese and of course the multitudinous varieties of cured and dried goats milk cheeses with their colourful paprika coatings. The problem is that there does not seem to be a Portuguese equivalent to a nutty Red Leicester or creamy Double Gloucester, let alone anything remotely resembling a crumbly Cheshire or Wensleydale, although I remain forever hopeful that one day I will discover such a tangy delight. But I do very much miss those cheeses. Truth be told, if I go to the supermarket I might just be able to pick up a small packet of "Seriously Mild" or "Seriously Strong" brand Cheddar, but it will be very highly priced and I'm far more inclined to spend my hard earned cash* on a chunk of flavoursome Emmental instead.

When I first started drafting this edition I planned to have a paragraph about how I missed not only good honest English cheese but also the other essential ingredient that one needs to make one of life's staples, the humble cheese and pickle sandwich, namely Branston Pickle. Since then, however, I've petitioned relatives from England who stashed a couple of jars in the next children's book parcel. And since the parcel arrived, I've discovered that you can actually buy Branston Pickle in the "strange foods from around the world" isle at the supermarket. Again, it's very expensive due to the import costs associated with traditional English goods.

Fresh milk would have to be the next thing on my list. You can get it quite easily, but it's about twice the price of UHT. For the first 4 months of living here I'd take a walk out in the morning, past the eco-point, to the corner shop to buy a carton of fresh milk and some bread. Then one day I was a bit late getting to the shop and he'd only got UHT milk left. I remember thinking at the time how horrid UHT milk was, but I needed some milk for my expensive cup of tea, and so I bought a carton. Turns out that either my tastes have changed or UHT milk has, because quite honestly I can't tell the difference.

As far as other changes that are inevitable upon emigrating to foreign parts, there are plenty of other things that I miss from England. And not all of them food and drink related, but that will have to wait until another post. Suffice to say that if any of my esteemed readers are contemplating the move out here, please bear in mind that you also may have to make a few initially perhaps uncomfortable lifestyle adjustments, but you'll get over it! And in the end? The pro's definitely outweigh the cons.

*Sarcasm. It is actually my wife that works hard. Bless her. And I never have any cash.

Purple Blossom and Modern Art

Apologies. It's been some time since my last blog. If I'd have written this a few weeks back I could have sited among my many excuses such trivialities as "People visiting from England", "Children's Birthdays" and of course the most serious "Automotive Fatality", however, that all happened at least a week ago now and to be perfectly honest, the sun has been shining and my Clive Barker book, "Galilee", is just starting to get to the good part. I'm not a particularly fast reader, so it's nice to have had time for such leisurely pursuits. Anyway, the weather today has taken a slight dip (he said hopefully) and the morning was awash with mist and light rain. (Not drizzle. We don't get that here.) Ah well, at least I won't have to water the garden this evening. So anyway, it's afternoon now and the rain has gone and what we are left with is a warm but overcast day. Maybe as the afternoon wears on the light cool breeze will shift the blanket of white cloud and the sun will shine through, but alas, that is not what the BBC weather forecast is suggesting. So anyway, despite the weather, I am feeling inspired to write today.

It's pleasant enough out here in my garden. I can hear the gentleman from across the road chatting away to his wife as he "snip snip snips" at his hedges with a pair of well worn shears. He always has beautifully trimmed hedges which, like our own at this time of year are resplendent with delicate tiny purple flowers. Please don't ask me what kind of plants they are, because I don't know. My knowledge of horticulture stops dead at the names of the vegetables I cook and one very old joke that would be better suited to a beer fueled night out than to grace these humble pages. There aren't many plants in my small garden of mainly mature shrubs and a miniature pink rose of some description, but they are all out in full bloom right now. And so, it remains my last excuse for not blogging that it is simply too deliciously tempting to sit out in warm sun and relax. I am very much looking forward to my wife and children finishing work and school for the summer holidays, so that they too can begin to enjoy the glorious weather.

Talking of gardens, I noticed a while back, while on my way down to the promenade that the trees that line the road into Monte Estoril are currently in flower with an abundance of purple blossom. The avenue of trees stretches on for at least a few hundred yards, with the trees on both sides overhanging the road and pavements forming an enchanting cover under which to walk. And "enchanting" is I feel, exactly the right word. A few minutes later and I had reached the promenade and discovered that the entire length from Cascais to Estoril has been transformed into the Arte do Mar gallery, a multitude of modern sculptures and large monochrome photographs, each piece with it's own plaque (handily in both Portuguese and English) detailing the artist's name, the piece's title and a short explanation of it's (possible) meaning. Of course my young son's favourite piece is the giant "Perna de Pau" ice-lolly, which constructed from rusty iron (for the chocolate part) and red and white painted polystyrene (for the ice-cream part) sticks out of the prom at an angle, as if dropped by a giant's offspring on their day trip to the beach. My favourite is, I think, the giant fishing net hung along the prom wall, constructed entirely from used plastic shopping bags. The meaning here is, I think, twofold, hinting at both the environmental damage that shopping bags cause, but also the consumerism associated with the fishing industry. Next time I am walking along the seafront I will stop and read it. I did take photographs of many of the artworks, but alas, half way through my walk the sun had disappeared behind some imposing clouds and so many of them didn't turn out too well. Next time I go down I will endeavour to take some more photographs, but for the time being, this little taster will have to suffice.