Letter To Les.

Great news last weekend. Lifelong friend and former work colleague Les and his partner Gill are to visit and stay with us in early June. This inspired me to fire off a long e-mail describing to Les a typical weekend  in our new life.

Not having touched on any of those dark secrets lifelong buddies share I am sure Les will not mind me sharing it with you and so reproduce it here in full.

I think it gives the flavour of the place.

Good Morning Les

I am just sitting having my morning coffee at Ria Cafe, the sun is shining, god is in his heaven and all is well here in Santa Luzia.

We have had a steady little weekend.

Friday night we went to Virgilio's with a group of friends. We had the usual starters of bread and sardine paste followed by conqillas (the small clams) then the usual chicken pork or fish  all washed down with four litres of white wine and topped off with coffee and a large glass of Figo (aguadente/firewater).

A wander down the front and an hour in cafe Santa Luzia was enough to ensure that I woke up on Saturday morning with a still bloated stomach and something of a muzzy head.

We ate a small breakfast of "cowboys" (bacon and beans) and bread and then both settled down in the armchairs that we have moved up onto the sun terrace to read and bask in the sunshine.

Having been invited over to Pete and Lynn's for a curry night that evening  we spent the whole day just lounging around reading and enjoying the occasional sounds of village life that reached us up in our hideaway, excepting of course one short interlude at Ria Cafe for a fix of caffeine and an hour on Facebook.

Saving ourselves for the evening feast we lunched on sliced ham and salad (very English)  consuming only half a bottle of wine with this frugal repast!

Arriving at Pete and Lynn's around eight along with five other invited guests we enjoyed a splendid evening of ethnic fare.

Popadums and somosas were followed by Thai green curry, Chicken Korma and Chicken Dopiaza with rice and plain, garlic or peshwari nann breads. As I was driving a couple of glasses of white and a couple of mini pretas were all I dared risk as accompaniment.

After dinner the ladies retired to the garden whilst us men remained at the table  each trying to outdo the other with stories of base depravity and over indulgence.

I judged myself winner!

We dwelt untill almost one in the morning and on arriving home I was asleep before my head hit the pillow and slept soundly untill almost 8.30 Sunday morning.

Having pretty much abstained from both grape and grain on Saturday night I woke up on Sunday with a much clearer head, which was just as well because Joan had on one of her cleaning, tidying and reorganising heads and was firmly resolved to involve me in every stage of the operation.

To forestall this I became very attentive both to her, offering endless cups of tea, cigarettes and other distractions from the tasks in hand, and also to the numerous aircraft endlessly passing overhead on their final approach to Faro airport.

Each time I heard the distant drone of jet engines I would immediately drop whatever I was doing and grab my binoculars to observe the graceful passage of the assorted Boeings and Airbuses, hanging it out until the plane had disappeared into the distance and the engine sound had subsided completely.

At some stage of the morning our friend Janice appeared at the door bearing fresh mackerel which here Portuguese neighbour had thrust upon her that very morning. This was despatched to the fridge alongside the Piexe Aranha which I had caught the day before from Santa Luzia's pier. Piexe Aranha (spider fish) is a member of the same family as the Weever and though one needs to be mindful of the poisonous spines on the small dorsal fin just behind it's head it is a meaty white fish which is excellent battered and fried English fish and chip shop style.

Notwithstanding this minor diversion the clean up continued apace but, having convinced Joan that a years worth of east Algarve magazines should be dispatched to the recycling bin down near the boat landing, I managed, for a short while anyway, to escape the house and the attendant chores .

I have however to concede that  Joan's need for a fresh pack of Chesterfield wasprobably as responsible as anything else for the granting of permission to dispatch this duty!

On my return I was delighted to be turned around post haste and dispatched to neighbour Andre's house. His wife Maryse had just rung to inform us that a local fisherman had delivered a large bag of fresh Choco (cuttlefish) and for just 12 euro 2 kilos were ours.

A half hours instruction on how to gut and clean the fish (the longest I dared to spin it out) was accompanied with an excellent bottle of french Chardonnay and I returned home ravenous for lunch.

Joan, as ever, did not disappoint. in her own inimitable fashion using the donated Mackerel, the piexe aranha, some chopped salad, a handful of broad beans and a couple of large potatoes she produced in her own inimitable fashion a meal fit for a potentate.

The reigning prince washed it down with the half bottle of white left over from yesterdays meal!

Joan's ad-hoc offering.

This morning of extended effort and conspicuous consumption of course called for a lazy afternoon lounging in the easy chair in that wonderful state of semi consciousness that only a bottle and half of  fine wine and a copious plate of food can induce.

My observations of the passing aircraft were now not so urgent but when I could raise enough steam I cast the occasional glance to the skies and the great silver machines seemingly gliding by.

By nine o'clock that evening I had recovered sufficiently to drag my weary body round to the Largo Do Igrejia for a couple of bottles of cerveja Preta in the Cafe da Villa in the company of friends Bill, Janice and her sister Joyce, and Maryse and her Daughter Aurora (( family of aforementioned french neighbour Andre).

As it was ascension Sunday a candlelit procession of the faithful had been organised around the village and this provide a spectacle for this heathen observer and the assorted onlookers to enjoy with their drinks.

Midnight heralded the end of my weekends exertions and my bed called irresistibly to my weary body and soul.A good nights sleep and as I said earlier all is well in Santa Luzia.

It is a busy life and not for the feint  hearted but I am determined to persevere and make a success of it.

See you very soon and give my regards to all in Leeds.

Stewart

Time Flies.

I have previously and elsewhere in this blog referred to Santa Luzia as “the thief of time” and now, having lived here for over a month I can absolutely confirm that description.                                   

  Time here is generally irrelevant and the day just bobs along at its own pace until, suddenly, you find there is precious little of it left and all the grand plans you made to “get on” lie in sun bleached tatters in the shadow of the empty wine bottle you only intended to have one glass from .

There are however the odd days of exceptional effort and achievement that prove the exception to the rule. Tuesday last was one of them.

Some years ago we were introduced to a very useful contact by our friend and neighbour Andre.

Originally from Romania Ovidiu now resides further down our street, Rua Joao Antonio Chagas ferrier, in a large old Portuguese house with his partner Georgia and father Joane.

 Ovi can turn his hand to just about any trade you can bring to mind but his real calling and passion is motor mechanics.

Thus it was, in need of some reasonably priced transport, I called in passing one Friday on Ovidiu and asked him to keep his eyes peeled for a decent car for me at “poor man’s prices”.

Sure enough the following day whilst chatting with Andre outside Ria Café  I was informed “Ovidiu has a car for you”.

 Arrangements were immediately made and Sunday lunchtime saw us in Tavira trying to look like we knew what we were doing while we inspected our prospective new vehicle.

The little blue Fiat Palio Weekend showed the inevitable signs of its fifteen years of existence here on the Algarve. A bump in the bonnet, a scrape down the offside and the usual sun damage to the paintwork testified to its life and experience but a test drive proved satisfactory and a price of €1500 was eventually agreed and shook upon.

A price was quickly agreed.

Explaining to the seller, Nico, the need to draw the cash piecemeal on our various UK debit and credit cards we arranged to return Tuesday morning and complete the transaction.

This impending acquisition forced me to address an issue that I have been pushing onto the back burner for the last seven years. In Portugal it is virtually impossible to make any substantial purchase without a NIF (Numero Identifacacao Fiscal) and it is absolutely impossible to deal with any bureaucrat without this nine digit number. A visit to the offices of the Financas would be required prior to the purchase.

The next thirty six hours was an interminable round of visits to the Multibanco (cashpoint) withdrawing the €1500 purchase price in €150 or €200 lumps depending on the daily cash limits of our various cards.

By 10.00am Tuesday the bounty had been gathered and Ovidiu and I set off to obtain the required number and complete the purchase. Unfortunately April is the month for the issue and payment of the Imposto Municipal Sobre Imoveis (council tax) and consequently when we arrived at Financas it was thronged with people waiting to pay their bills. On enquiring at the information desk we were informed we needed to take a ticket for queue F-pagmentos (payments).

Removing our ticket from the machine we discovered we were allocated F69 and a check of the screen revealed that the counter was currently dealing with F31. With 38 people in the queue before us we reckoned on at least an hour wait. We settled down in a sunny spot on the outside steps and began to chat animatedly on any subject that crossed our minds.

Now Ovidiu is a native Romanian speaker but has very good Portuguese and understands considerably more English than he can speak. I of course speak English and a little Portuguese, however I understand substantially more of the latter than I can speak. Our conversation therefore quickly slipped into Ovi addressing me in Portuguese and me replying in English with every now and then the roles reversing as one or the other of us got more adventurous. This was a source of great entertainment and amusement to the horde of hopeful payees also sunning themselves on the steps.

Things were cracking along nicely till about 11 o’clock when the screen seemed to stall at F71 and stay there for a good twenty minutes. It seems the Portuguese have not yet discovered the staggered tea break. During this hiatus we bumped into Vincent, the French owner of Restaurant Vincent in Santa Luzia, who had the misfortune to be in possession of ticket F121.

After morning coffee the screen once again began to flash and bleep on a more regular basis and  finally around about 12-10 F69 flashed up and we commenced our “counter attack”. By 12-30 we emerged, €10.20 poorer, but triumphantly clutching the prized number. I have though to admit that had it not been for Ovidiu the quest would probably have floundered at the first (and inevitable) “Ha problema”.

In the light of this delay we now had less than three and a half hours in which to make the purchase, transfer the documents and acquire insurance.

 The transfer of documents needed to be completed at the Loja do Ciadadao (literally- Citizen shop) and the insurance was to be purchased at the bank in Santa Luzia.

We sped off to our appointment and having paid the purchase price, completed the official transfer document, exchanged NIFs and obtained a Photostat copy of the sellers ID card we were at last in a position to attempt the transfer of ownership at the Loja do Ciadadao, however the bank closed one hour earlier so it seemed sensible to obtain the insurance first. Not in Portugal.

The bank teller patiently and kindly informed us that without the temporary transfer document from the Loja do Ciadadao it was not possible to insure the vehicle.

We screamed off to the Gran plaza shopping centre in Tavira, where said Loja do Ciadadao is situated, and were mightily relieved on arrival to find that all it’s prospective customers were probably still sunning themselves on the steps of Financas holding tickets for F queue while the staff enjoyed their dinner break.

We were dealt with promptly and efficiently and despite several “Ha problemas”s  we emerged once again with the required documentation but this time some €65 lighter.

A mad dash back to the bank in Santa Luzia ensued and despite an interminable round of computer consultations and telephone calls by the time the bank closed at 3.00pm I was fully insured.

Obtaining a NIF, purchasing a car, transferring ownership and insuring said car all in the space of five hours is quite an achievement in Portugal and as I sat in Ria Café and sipped on my cerveja preta I was more than a little pleased with myself.

I was however totally exhausted and in the ensuing week I have had to indulge in much rest and relaxation……………………….c’est la vie!!

Jose to the rescue.

Whilst Joan and I have now been in Santa Luzia for over a fortnight we still haven’t really settled properly into village life due, in no small part, to the number of holidaying friends here during the Easter period.

It was the imminent arrival last week of two of these friends, Barney and Darren, from Leeds that sparked an amusing little incident I would like to relate to you.

As the two were staying as guests in our spare room Joan determined that the whole house and its environs should be thoroughly cleaned.  (After all everyone knows how fussy a bricklayer can be should he discover fluff balls under his bed.)

Having swept, cleaned, dusted and polished the internal rooms Tuesday was declared as the day to “sort out” the external area.  Now the greatest obstacle to this “sorting” was the inflatable dinghy given to me last October by friend and neighbour Jenny.

Knowing that I would not be around to keep an eye on the vessel I had deflated it and stowed it in the space at the bottom of the steps leading up to our little rooftop sun terrace.

It was decreed that now I would be around to make daily security inspections the boat should be reflated and moored in a suitable place on the Ria. To this end around midday I dragged the offending conveyance into our narrow cobbled street and commenced the arduous task of blowing it up using a foot pump whilst Joan busied herself sweeping and organising the yard.

I had toiled away unsupervised and in my view quite successfully at this task for some forty minutes before Joan felt the need to emerge from the house and assess the situation.

It was at this point, just as Joan was demonstrating to me a superior and more efficient way of foot pumping, that the steady westerly breeze that had blown persistently since our arrival developed into a door slamming gust.

WHAM !!  We were outside in the street with the doors and windows firmly locked against us.

For me, as you can imagine, this was more than slightly annoying and a trifle inconvenient.

For Joan however who had not yet that day acquainted herself with the hairbrush, bra less and regaled in her best Primark PJs and carpet slippers it was a major catastrophe.

Not to worry. Jenny, just a hundred yards down the street, had a key and failing that our adopted Portuguese family the Baptistas also held one.

For the dual purpose of hiding her embarrassment and retrieving the key Joan scurried off in her PJs to Jenny’s whilst I popped into Restaurant Alcatruz just opposite our house to inform them of our plight and see if anyone could contact the Baptistas. Joan quickly established that the key at Jenny’s was now unfortunately in the possession of another friend, Carole, who lives out in the sticks on the road to Cachopo and I equally quickly found that nobody in the Baptista household was answering their mobile phone.

Shouting down the street to Joan who was now directing operations from the second floor balcony of Jenny’s apartment along with Jen and her visitors Clive and Janice I informed her I would walk round to the Baptistas and retrieve our fall back key.

On arriving at the Baptistas I found father, Jose, and mother, Luisa, busy in the kitchen preparing dishes for youngest son Jose’s birthday party which we were due to attend the following day.

Neither Jose (senior) nor Luisa speak any English but I managed in my faltering Portuguese to explain that the wind had blown the door shut leaving us stranded in the street and I needed the spare key.

“Ha problema” Jose (senior) explained. The last time the key was seen it was in the possession of eldest son Berto who is currently resident in our house in Leeds.

Not to worry. Granddaughter Anna-Rachel was promptly dispatched upstairs to wake youngest son Jose (junior) on holiday at home from Leeds to celebrate his birthday.

Minutes later a bare chested and decidedly fragile looking Jose (junior) appeared and, despite having been out till the early hours of the morning celebrating with girlfriend Adriana (and smelling like a brewery in full production),  declared his willingness to come and scale the wall and restore us to our property.

Arriving back in Rua Joao Antonio Chagas ferrier  we found a small group of Portuguese diners from restaurant Alcatruz enjoying a smoke in the street and examining the now abandoned dinghy with the grandstand party of Joan, jenny, Janice and Clive watching on from down the road.

A small stepladder was produced by the owners of Alcatruz but it was evident this was not going to get Jose over the three metre high wall into our yard. Joan, some hundred yards down the street, was bellowing at me from the roof terrace to call on another neighbour, Andre, who she felt sure owned a longer ladder. Dashing to Andre’s I explained to him our predicament. This however took a little longer than it should have as in my heightened state of excitement I had reverted to my full speed broad Yorkshire accent which French speaking Andre struggled to follow.

Having made myself understood I emerged from Andre’s triumphantly toting the ladder on my shoulder to a scene that could have graced the script of any carry on film.

The group of Portuguese diners were jabbering excitedly as Jose slung a double extension ladder he had acquired from a local painter and decorator up against our wall. Luis from Alcatruz was for some reason tearing down the street with the small stepladder and Joan was loudly declaring from the roof terrace that I was too bloody late as Jose already had ladders.

Quick as a flash Jose scaled the wall, crab walked across the pitched roof and gaining the sun terrace came down and opened the door to a round of applause from the assembled Portuguese diners and other interested parties.

Restored to my domain I rewarded our young hero with a beer and jammed a screwdriver under the door to ensure no repetition of our embarrassment.

The street quickly returned to its normal sleepy quietness, Joan returned from PJ exile, Jose was restored to his family and I toddled off into the sunset to moor the little boat that started it all.

Just another day in Santa Luzia. “Noa Faz Mal”..

Joan examines the little boat that caused it all.

Freezee-Jet.

Last Thursday (21st March)finally saw the day arrive that Joan and I departed the UK for our new life in Portugal and the beautiful village of Santa Luzia.
Arriving at Leeds & Bradford airport along with our three large suitcases and two smaller hand luggage cases we were about to unknowingly experience a portent of what was to befall the UK over the coming days.
 Having already checked in for our Jet2.com flight online we sailed through baggage drop without a hitch even managing to secure free in hold stowage of our hand luggage.
The gate was announced and opened pretty much on time but then boarding the buses which were to transport us to the aircraft parked on one of LBA's "remote " stands proceeded painfully slowly.
We were eventually deposited on stand twenty four at eight twenty, a full ten minutes past our scheduled departure  time.
Those of you who read this blog regularly will already be aware that I was employed by Jet2.com at LBA in various roles for almost two years and spotting one of my old baggage handler colleagues I sidled over for a chat.
 It was during this conversation he revealed that our Boeing 737 had been de-iced as is normal at this time of year some forty five minutes prior to our scheduled departure time but the Arctic wind blasting up the Aire valley had caused it to require a second treatment thus delaying our boarding and eventual take off by some forty minutes.
Over the next few days we had good reason to be thankful that we had selected the Thursday flight instead of the Saturday as we watched the English news bulletins in our little house in Portugal. The Siberian conditions, snowstorms and blizzards, which swept the country from Friday onward caused LBA to close on more than one occasion and resulted in many extended delays and cancellations.
Now though the weather here in Portugal has been far from perfect with temperatures some four or five degrees below average for the time of year and rain clouds making an almost daily appearance it is smugly satisfying to be able to say we got out just in the nick of time.
The weather prospects for the UK remain distinctly bleak right into April with the probability of more snow and forecast temperatures belying the start of British summer time this coming weekend.
Meanwhile here in Portugal, where the clocks also go forward this Sunday, we eagerly anticipate the steady rise of the thermometer to the mid twenties over the coming weeks.

Tia Zeta

Only two weeks now before Joan and I make the move to Santa Luzia and we are both eagerly anticipating the start of our new life. We are also looking forward to meeting again our old friend Donna Zeta. ((above)

Zeta makes a daily excursion around Santa Luzia calling into shops or friends houses often for no more than a chat.
With her thick algarvian/Santa Luzian accent it is often necessary for Zeta to repeat what she says several times in order to understand her.( Imagine an English speaking foreigner conversing with a broad Glaswegian and you get the picture.)
 Over the years we have befriended Zeta and, missing nothing that happens in Santa Luzia, she is usually  knocking on our door within hours of us arriving in town. It is a joy when that face breaks into a huge smile. She is truly a beautiful old lady from a beautiful old village.