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After travelling for what appeared like aeons on various trains throughout the European mainland we finally pitched up at our car hire place in Faro, which ironically was at Faro airport.
Given that we were travelling with cases, bags, and an acoustic guitar, we opted for the larger of the cars offered to us: a Seat Ibiza.
Last time we were in Portugal I tried driving our hired car but found the left-hand-drive thingy, and the driving on the wrong side of the road situation rather more than my nerves, or those of SWMBO, could stand: ergo Madame elected to drive, and demoted me to navigating duties. This lasted until we got hopelessly and comprehensively lost, whereupon I was demoted again to chauffeur. After attempting to change gear only to find I'd opened the driver's side door for the fourth time, I finally got the hang of the co-ordination enough to proceed with a modicum of safety. As an aside has anyone ever seen a right handed drummer trying to play a left handed kit? I'm sure you get my point. Stick-shift, as our American cousins call it, requires co-ordination between clutch pedal and gear change, which can lead to interesting door-opening incidents when trying to shift down a gear to overtake rather slower moving traffic, like for example rural agricultural machinery licensed to travel on what would otherwise be fast roads. Bliss.
We pitched up in the nearest village to our rented villa: a place called Azinheiro. We met the lady with the villa's keys thanks to the intervention of an ex-pat English chap who, seeing us arguing about directions, took pity on us, and took us to his partner's house (more of which later) and got us sorted. His partner was an upper-class English ex-pat of some sixty-mumble summers who lived in what can only be described as splendour in a house she had rebuilt to her own exacting standards. Humbled by their decency and hospitality, we thanked them profusely, drove to our villa, and slept.
The next day the temperature hit 38C, so obviously we shopped for essentials (alcohol and some small scraps of food) and then we spent the rest of the day in and around the pool. Madame read the Stieg Larsson's, and I reread an E Nesbit I had bought for the purpose of reliving my childhood. That night I dreamt of Corryvreckan and whisky.
We spent the next few days in the company of the couple who had come to our aid. Mike (the chap who had first noted our wandering and lost distress) is an amateur musician who divides his time between Azinheiro and Castlebar in Co. Mayo in Ireland where I have many relatives. He plays guitar and squeezebox and somehow or other invited a bunch of musicians around to Ginny's palatial home (a snip at €1.6M or so) and we made a night of it until too tired and drunk to move, whereupon we trundled down the hill back to our villa.
Given that we were travelling with cases, bags, and an acoustic guitar, we opted for the larger of the cars offered to us: a Seat Ibiza.
Last time we were in Portugal I tried driving our hired car but found the left-hand-drive thingy, and the driving on the wrong side of the road situation rather more than my nerves, or those of SWMBO, could stand: ergo Madame elected to drive, and demoted me to navigating duties. This lasted until we got hopelessly and comprehensively lost, whereupon I was demoted again to chauffeur. After attempting to change gear only to find I'd opened the driver's side door for the fourth time, I finally got the hang of the co-ordination enough to proceed with a modicum of safety. As an aside has anyone ever seen a right handed drummer trying to play a left handed kit? I'm sure you get my point. Stick-shift, as our American cousins call it, requires co-ordination between clutch pedal and gear change, which can lead to interesting door-opening incidents when trying to shift down a gear to overtake rather slower moving traffic, like for example rural agricultural machinery licensed to travel on what would otherwise be fast roads. Bliss.
We pitched up in the nearest village to our rented villa: a place called Azinheiro. We met the lady with the villa's keys thanks to the intervention of an ex-pat English chap who, seeing us arguing about directions, took pity on us, and took us to his partner's house (more of which later) and got us sorted. His partner was an upper-class English ex-pat of some sixty-mumble summers who lived in what can only be described as splendour in a house she had rebuilt to her own exacting standards. Humbled by their decency and hospitality, we thanked them profusely, drove to our villa, and slept.
The next day the temperature hit 38C, so obviously we shopped for essentials (alcohol and some small scraps of food) and then we spent the rest of the day in and around the pool. Madame read the Stieg Larsson's, and I reread an E Nesbit I had bought for the purpose of reliving my childhood. That night I dreamt of Corryvreckan and whisky.
We spent the next few days in the company of the couple who had come to our aid. Mike (the chap who had first noted our wandering and lost distress) is an amateur musician who divides his time between Azinheiro and Castlebar in Co. Mayo in Ireland where I have many relatives. He plays guitar and squeezebox and somehow or other invited a bunch of musicians around to Ginny's palatial home (a snip at €1.6M or so) and we made a night of it until too tired and drunk to move, whereupon we trundled down the hill back to our villa.
