Last week’s Portuguese vacation with my partner Sarah has meant it has been a barren time literary wise of late.
Sure, I could have still waxed lyric on the Iberian Peninsula. However, instead I chose to indulge on a relaxing seven-day smorgasbord of sun, sand, sangria, silliness, and Sarah. An alliteration brew warming both my body and soul.
Footnote – Incidentally, the lyric of which I mention waxing (above) isn’t the name I give to my John Thomas… Thinking about it, John Thomas isn’t the name I give to my manhood either!
Upon boarding our transportation vehicle from Faro airport to our Albufeira hotel I was ushered to the back of the bus by my rebellious beau. Her broad West Yorkshire dialect proffering a mission statement of “Let’s go to back of t’bus, Gaz!”
The Ossett lass seemingly determined to re-enact her schooldays when she and cohorts terrorised less cool kids while venturing to and from their alma mater. As we took the long walk passed 30+ empty seats towards the bus stern I had visions we’d shortly be throwing paper airplanes at fellow Albufeira bound tourists.
Thankfully the maverick Morley lass resisted indulging in such tomfoolery. Instead, we chatted randomly about the oppressive heat, along with her pointing out sights she found fascinating. Scenes such as passing a vet’s clinic and a store peddling garden furniture… Chuffing weirdo!
Our hotel was in a well-appointed location adjacent to a wonderfully clean, and not too busy, beach. My only criticism about the accommodation would be the bathroom. It’s cracked tiles, bath mildew and loose taps making showering nearly as unappealing as Janet Leigh’s experience in Hitchcock’s movie Psycho.
I tell a lie, Sarah and me were also utterly underwhelmed by the hotel food… So, it seemed was an elderly fella who I spoke to at the bar one morning. He disclosing his best meal since arriving had been his Friday night Viagra tablet.
The croissants I ate Saturday were so dry they were probably baked around the last time I visited the resort in September 2022… When I say baked, I am probably being overly kind. They tasted like they’d be moulded out of the souls of the oppressed.
As a result of the mediocre fodder, Brooky (Sarah) and me spent our last four evenings eating in restaurants in Albufeira’s Old Town. This area infinitely more upmarket than the popular Strip in the new town.
Here we ate like royalty. Sarah enhancing her experience further by people watching as the flavoursome fare passed our lips.
My beau making no secret of her love of watching Joe and Josephine Public (and the little Publics) strolling around the squares, courtyards, and streets of this little part of Portugal. Occasionally making observations like “Have the seen the big nose on that?” and “Bloody hell, if I looked like that I’d stop in!” … And they were just diatribes aimed at me!
It must be said, though, the highlight of Sarah’s oft brash approach to life was witnessing her haggling skills. This exchange occurring between her and a Portuguese fella selling dresses on the beach at around midday on Wednesday.
Her interest in these wares consequential of, due to hurriedly packing pre-vacation, running out of evening wear.
Watching her talk this bloke down from 75 euros to 40 euros for two dresses was an experience to behold. Her belligerent haggling frightening me, never mind the poor sod who was endeavouring not to give her the metaphorical shirt off his back.
Witnessing the fella reduced to a quivering wreck, made me wonder if what I witnessed was akin to being interrogated by MOSSAD agents. With his wallet being so brutalised by my forthright partner, I had visions of the poor guy going home to his wife and kids with merely a stale croissant from the hotel for tea.
I felt so sorry for him I nearly slipped him the 35 euros Sarah had bullied him out of. Only rescinding that idea from knowing I’d get the same ‘hairdryer treatment’ if she caught me undermining her in that way.
The hotel evening entertainment was at best uninspiring, and at worst about as appealing as watching back-to-back episodes of TV’s X-Factor.
One evening Sarah, who had read an advertisement for the clambake, advised me she would like to go watch the flamingo dancers. With as little patronisation as I could muster at the quirky revelation, I pointed out it was pronounced flamenco dancers. Although I really didn’t fancy it, in the spirit of compromise, I acquiesced to her wishes.
That evening, inside the tented entertainment area, Sarah perched excitedly on the end of her seat. Me lunging back on mine, arms folded to display my utter indifference while awaiting the show’s commencement… Much to my surprise, after curtains rose, Sarah had been correct. Up on stage were four flamingos dressed as toreadors.
Another fly (or should that be mosquito) in the hotel facilities ointment was the vigour and speed the lift doors shut. Mercifully, the door edges weren’t sharp, otherwise limbs would have been lost from the guillotine-like haste in which they shut.
Many drinks were taken, laughter emitted, and memories taken from our week Atlantic Ocean side.
Among our more ridiculous exchanges were debates whether Portuguese seagulls had teeth and Sarah’s insistence Algarve town Vilamoura was called Valamory. Along with debating whether fishing boats on the horizon were looking to catch sea brie (I think she meant sea bream, as opposed to an oceanic dairy product).
As with the venture to the resort seven days earlier, our return journey to Faro airport was taken on the buses back seat.
As always, it’s deflating when a vacation reaches its denouement. However, I’m cheered by taking counsel from Dr Seuss; the late writer advocating “Do not be sad because it is over. Rejoice because it happened.”… I suspect, though, the fella who sold Sarah two dresses on the beach is not as philosophical!
