Did I just write that? It must be a reflection of the book I’m reading, The Black Prince by Iris Murdoch. Described as an intellectual thriller, it is ponderously philosophical, groan, but I have sympathy for the hero, a 58-year-old divorced, frustrated wannabe writer.
What I was actually thinking when I wrote that title is that my trip is coming to a close. It’s a bittersweet, in-between time, still here physically but already gone mentally. I catch the bus from Ferragudo to Lisbon tomorrow morning. My bag is packed, waiting by the door. There will be one last night in a hotel near the airport, then, several time zones and an ocean later, home.
I’ve done everything I’d hoped to and a whole lot more. I even had a dental issue dealt with for $73 that was going to cost over $500 in the U.S. That savings affords me another round-trip flight somewhere. I’m already imagining my next adventure.
But right now, I’m sitting on the upper terrace in a dreamy, reflective mood, bathed with sunshine softened by fluffy clouds.
The cats were here first, but they don’t tolerate company, so I have the entire space to myself.
What I know about who I am has been confirmed over these past twenty days. I am a solitary soul who enjoys the companionship of friends but has no capacity for the vulnerability required of intimate partnership. And I’m OK with that. There is vast freedom, no unmet expectations, and whatever shoulds or shouldn’ts exist, are self-inflicted.
That said, I love the comradery of a shared meal, a morning stroll, an evening movie, which is what I’ve experienced here. The best of all worlds.
This fishing village on the Atlantic coast has been a sweet respite from Minnesota snow and brutal cold. I’ve missed the diversity of cultures, languages, and attitudes afforded by travel. And there’s something about palm trees in February that makes me very, very happy!
But I’m ready now. I’ve had my fix. Until next time…adeus e obrigado, Portugal!
Holding a place at the very apex of my to-do list for Portugal was a river cruise to the Arvad vineyards. But the trip was touch-and-go, dependant upon the tides and the weather. At one point, I got a cancelation email.
Come Wednesday, the sun appeared, the tide flowed in, and YAY! It was on again. Let’s go!
Nine of us strapped into life preservers and trailed down the concrete steps of the pier into what appeared to be an old fishing boat. Later, as our captain extolled the beauty of the landscape, the history of the river, and pointed out the chimneys of dozens of derelict sardine factories, we learned that he used to be a fisherman, and this was iindeed his old fishing boat.
Speaking of chimneys, white cranes are plentiful in Ferragudo. Every single one of those towering columns boasts a toupee of twigs and grass, home to Mom and Pop Crane.
These birds have many sounds: caterwauling like cats in heat, raucously cawing like crows, and a loud clacking, a warning when another bird approaches. I captured one such event in the above video.
We chugged along in the boat for about 45 minutes, listening and learning, waving to other boats, enjoying the companionship of our group.
That’s our captain in the sunglasses.
Six of the passengers were going to the town of Silves for a walking tour. A Dutch couple and I would be dropped at the Arvad winery and picked up after the Silves tour.
I’m behind the couple, disembarking. The golf cart driver from the vineyard is letting the captain know they are ready for us.
We waved the boat off and climbed into the golf cart. It jiggled and lurched up a washed-out gravel road. I tried to catch a few photos while hanging on for dear life.
We were met by the sommelier in an elegant setting on the terrace. He explained the layout of the vines, the soil, and the pruning, which is happening now. Then, led us to the barrel room.
The ceramic vats are made in Sicily. In themselves, they are flawless works of art.
Our host explained that the name Arvad means refuge. When Phoenicians brought wine-making to Potugal, they found refuge here from pirates.
The Arvad logo is shaped like a Phoenician clay amphora and that is what was used all those centuries ago to age the wine. Some were lined with pine pitch and resin. The majestic ceramic urns that line the walls of this barrel room lend a hint of their essence to the wines aged in them.
Then, it was time to taste. A Brazilian woman had come by car, so there were 4 of us. The couple had a table together, but the Brazilian woman and I each had one with our own loaded charcuterie boards, baskets of bread, olive oil, dishes of sea salt, and wine glasses.
We began. The whites were crisp and fresh. I could picture myself sitting in the shade on my deck on one of Minnesota’s suffocatingly hot, humid days, sipping a glass of this icy cold white.
The rosé had an exciting, tingly quality. I’m not a fan of rosé in general, but I liked the way it slightly numbed my lips.
I was eager to taste the red from a dark-skinned grape called Negra Mole. I had done my research and expected a full-bodied, flavorful wine. But, no. It was also light and fresh. Bright, I guess, would be a good word. Not sulky or brooding like a cabernet sauvignon.
When I’d tasted four wines, generously poured, and eaten more of the treats than was wise, I went to explore the wine shop where our golf cart driver was on duty. Come to find out, there was a more robust red from the Negra Mole grape. I added a bottle of that variety to my bill.
Then it was back to the boat and home fast with the ebbing tide.
We’re approaching our pier by the white buildings.
What an unforgettable day. My journey is complete. Anything else from here on in is the cherry on top, and there’s always room for another cherry!
A breeze off the river sent chilly fingers through my thin shirt. I’d walked to the first stop of my morning stroll, the Charity Thrift Shop, bought a book, then hurried back to the house for another layer. Now amply fortified, I set out to find the one fabric shop in Ferragudo. At least, I hoped it had fabric.
As soon as I turned away from the river, the incline veered steeply up, and my pace slowed proportionally.
A sewing machine on a sign suggested that might be the place I was looking for.
Stop #2.
I stepped into a hive of whirring needles and saw a note: Alterations, posted by the cash register. A young woman slid from behind her machine and hurried toward me. For the next few minutes, we earnestly and unintelligibly burbled at each other until she whipped out her phone and typed in, Please tell me what you want, and handed it to me.
Do you have small piecesof fabric for sale? I typed back.
Come and speak to the manager at noon, she replied,
Thank you. I said, and left. Dead end.
I continued my uphill climb, craning my neck to gaze at the whitewashed walls of The Palms, streaching heavenward. Later, I googled and learned that The Palms – Ferragudo is a private “closed condominium” providing peace, tranquility, and security to its privileged owners.
As I read the description, it was abundantly clear that my privilege was of some lesser variety than what was required to live there. I moved on.
The Palms was the summit. It was all downhill from there. And yet, there remained no shortage of charming gateways, stairways, and pavered roadways to delight the eye.
Destination #3
Club Nau on the beach. A sign at the roundabout directed me up another hill. This one offered views of a different nature.
And suddenly, I was at the top with sand, sea, and sky arrayed in splendor below.
Down the steps and left on the boardwalk brought me to the beachy vibe of Club Nau.
For a blissful hour, the ocean whispered secrets, sailboats, like giant white birds, skimmed the surface, and cranes circled, cawing and mewling overhead.
The panorama of peace played out while I sipped my blackberry SPARKLING CIDER! That’s the name I couldn’t remember in the video! Sparkling cider.
The slow meander home showed me the back side of the castle and weather-and water-sculpted rock formations.
A row of fisherman’s huts huddled against the cliff.
And I soaked it all in like a giant, starving sponge.
Getting old is worth it to have these magical days of falling wider, higher, and ever more deeply in love.
My black shirt welcomes the rays of morning sun. I’ve come to the upper terrace to draw its potted plants and tropical trees, the rusted wire fence and stained plaster. A cat slinks by on the ledge above me, casting a furtive, golden-eyed glance over his shoulder to make sure I don’t see him. It’s another bright blue day in Ferragudo.
The village, a quintessential masterpiece of white and terracotta Mediterranean architecture, festoons the mountainside and embraces the river littered with anchored fishing boats. An ancient castle, brooding and watchful, guards the broad expanse of water where the Rio Arade spills into the sea.
I’m in love.
And enchanted by the slower pace, the friendly smiles, the flirty men who could never get away with their playful repartee where I’m from. He looks me in the eye. A hand rests casually on my shoulder. He points me in the right direction then says, “I show you. Not far,” and motions me to follow.
I’m in love.
Yesterday, I walked a mile to the big grocery store, Lidl. (Is it L-eye dl? Or Liddle? Or something that isn’t either of those? To my ear, the language sounds more Germanic than Romantic.) Just inside the entrance, one is accosted by breads – oh, the breads! I’m hopeless when presented with an array of artisan loaves, rustics, garlic-buttered baguettes, herb-infused rolls, and something that translates as bread of the gods. I have no shame, no resistance whatsoever. But I must be mindful of the load I will carry home on my back. One baguette and one irresistible nod to the dieties, then, with gourmet salad makings and a bottle of wine, my bag is full.
Today, lunch at a Thai restaurant in the square. The server made it clear that the Thai cook was on holiday, so we could not order from that menu. But tapas were available. I chose nachos. What could be tastier than beer with crisp tortilla chips, guacamole, beans, and – a scant hint of cheese if you looked hard enough – on a sun-drenched day in Portugal? The answer: two beers!
I’m in love.
And, I am privileged to be able to travel. I’m healthy, my mobility is balanced and sound, and my mind is functional. My finances are just enough to allow this indulgence, and for that, I am profoundly grateful. I am mesmerized by other cultures – thrilled to watch and learn – hungry for the joyous adventure of it all.
Sharing the magic with those of you who care to check in with me now and then is most satisfying, and your comments add to the pleasure. Thank you!
Now, for a sunshine fix on the terrace. I’m banking the rays knowing only too well what I’ll be returning to in a couple of weeks!
I didn’t know what to expect, but Portugal is beyond. Way beyond.
I’ll start from the beginning…
After the 3-hour drive from my home in the frigid deep north (my sister informed me that it was -35°F yesterday morning), I spent the night in Minneapolis. The next day, my daughter took me to the airport to catch my 1:15 p.m. flight to Philadelphia.
I cleared the checkpoints and was at my gate. It was a smaller plane for the domestic flight and definitely no frills. But we landed in Philadelphia safely and on time.
I was in terminal F and my next flight left from Terminal A. Meanwhile, I had a 4 1/2-hour layover, so I asked at the information desk which way to Terminal A. She pointed then said, “It’s a 25-minute walk.”
“Twenty-five?” I repeated.
She nodded. “But, there’s a shuttle right through those doors.”
I thanked her and took the shuttle.
Somehow, my flights always seem to be at the farthest gate possible. I found it, bought a roasted turkey wrap and bottled water, and settled in to wait.
They started the boarding process an hour before departure, which was a good thing because this dreamliner plane has the capacity for 240 passengers. Boarding that many takes a while.
Once on the plane, we taxied for about 5 minutes, then sat for another hour on the tarmac while the plane was de-iced.
I had a window seat with a perfect view of the left wing.
At last, all traces of ice and snow removed, we were off to Lisbon.
Six plus hours later, the coast of Portugal came into view, a sight for tired eyes.
My friend, who has been here 5 times, had sent explicit instructions. Before leaving the airport, go to Vodaphone for an eSim.
I found the Vodaphone booth and got in line behind 8 others. I stood there…and stood there…while each person’s process took at least 20 minutes. At that rate, I’d miss the bus to Ferragudo. I connected to the airport internet and put in a quick WhatsApp call to my friend. Her advice: Forget the eSim, just get to the bus.
OK, will do. So, I pulled up my Uber app.
Where are you going?
Bus Station.
Now or later?
Now.
Your visa is being charged. Your driver, Lucido, is 4 minutes away. White Nissan, license plate….
He arrived. He spoke no English, and my Potuguese contains approximately four words. I was whisked to the bus station and dropped at the curb. Obrigado, thank you, that’s one of the 4.
I asked a woman lined up in a queue for one of the 20 or so buses where the ticket office was. Found it. Went to the wrong window. A woman asked me where I was going.
“Portimao.”
“Follow me.” I followed her and discovered that she was the ticket agent. “Your bus leaves in 5 minutes,” she said. She printed the ticket then, again, “Follow me.” She led me to the bus.
From that bus window, I photographed the ever-changing Portuguese countryside.
Lisbon
I don’t know the names or the history of what I saw through that window leaving Lisbon, but it was magical.
Then we were in the country.
Cranes in their nests.
What a tour! Olive orchards, sheep, cork trees, figs, I had planned to sleep on the bus. Who can sleep in Wonderland?
My friend was waiting when we pulled into the station at Portimao. Twenty minutes later, we were at her house. She gave me a quick tour, then showed me my private suite (bedroom, bath, and balcony). By then, I’d had 2 hours of sleep in the past 40 hours.
“We’ll go out to dinner,” she said.
“If I’m awake,” I replied.
In a heartbeat, I was dead to the world. At around 5 p.m. she knocked.
Who? What? Where am I?
“Come downstairs when you’re ready. There’s wine and cheese. Then we’ll go to dinner.”
If you aren’t familiar with Portuguese wines, you should be. She had a bottle of red and a white, mixed cheeses, a baguette… Who needs dinner? I thought.
But an hour later, we were out the door and on our way to Restaurant Aria for A) more wine, B) an appetizer of marinated olives, and then…
Baked Octopus.
It was DIVINE.
When our engaging, single, middle-aged waiter with two cats told us there was one slice of raspberry cheesecake left, we decided dessert was essential. My friend had the cheesecake. I ordered a carob, fig, almond cake that was…well…you remember the scene with Meg Ryan in When Harry Met Sally? It was THAT good.
We got back to the house – a very short walk – and I slept so well…!
I can not tell you how happy I am to be far, far away from ice and snow exploring this Portuguese fishing village. The journey was so worth it! I sunned stretched out in a lounge chair on the upper terrace amid cacti and palms today. Ahhhh…bliss!
Oh! I will slip the snowy bonds of Earth And dance the skies on laughter-silvered wings; Sunward I’ll climb…
That isn’t quite how John Gillespie Mcgee begins his poem, High Flight I took liberties with the wording based on my circumstances. But in a few days, I will escape dreary Minnesota winter and fly to Portugal for three weeks.
My whole body tingles! A friend I met in Bali spent seven weeks of Covid in a house in Ferragudo in the Algarve region. Now she’s there again and I’ll be renting a room from her for my stay.
From the house, it’s a 7-minute walk to the beach. It won’t be swimming weather. The Atlantic seems to always be cold, and Portugal registers temperatures between 55° and 65° this time of year. But that’s perfect for meandering the endless coastline with sand in my toes.
A few days ago, I was researching the area and found a river cruise up the Arvade to one of the many vineyards in the region. I couldn’t book it fast enough! The tour of the vines, a premier wine tasting with a charcuterie board of local cheeses, meats, and sausages, and a visit to the barrel room, not to mention the 1 1/2-hour boat ride there, and another 1 1/2-hour back sounds absolutely divine. As I said, my whole body tingles!
I’ve decided this will be a trip of unlimited creativity. I packed a set of 72 pens that have a fine point at one end and a brush at the other.
I have my mixed media tablet ready for sketching.
My passport has been updated, my universal plug works all over the world, and the little book of passwords – I can’t forget that. I also bought new pens for journaling. You can never have too many pens!
I’ll have a carry-on and a backpack. I like to travel light.
My friend works at a thrift shop there. I can only imagine the kind of damage I’ll do to my Euros at that place.
As beautiful as the snowcovered Minnesota landscape is, after the initial rapturous day or two, I seek alternatives: friends in warm places, open escape routes, and as soon as something manifests…
writing for self-discovery 
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