Portimao

Day #5.

Saturday 3rd April.
Last day.

Last sunny breakfast on the balcony. I left James with his cornflakes to go and heat up a chocolate croissant. The cooker confused me a little bit so I decided to rest the croissant on top of the toaster. Crap idea. When I got back from taking a Cremeo yoghurt and a giant spoon upstairs to James the toaster was SMOKING. There was a burnt black line down the side of my croissant. Bugger. Fiddled around with the cooker and put it in there for a bit after cutting off the burnt bit. Opened the window to try and waft out the burnt smell and hide my incompetence but it lingered. James didn’t say anything though.

Decided the time was nigh to hit up Portimao. Donned Tropicana [tropical skirt] and sun cream. James rolled up his jeans again to expose a bit of Italian brogued ankle. Taxied there and got dropped off near a fairly busy beach. James had never been to this part before and the sun was beaming so off came the coral shoes and cream ankle socks and I leapt like a gazelle onto the warm white sand. There were two beaches separated by a giant rock that you couldn’t get past. However there was a little arched opening that seemed to lead to the next beach but when we got closer it just led to the sea. Peeked round it whilst the waves retreated and saw that we could get round to the next beach but this would mean wading. James had to roll up his skinnys which cut off his circulation and we went forth three or four times before running back screaming like pathetic wafers as the waves came after us. Had visions of a giant wave hitting us and dashing us off the rocks. We’d be found days later washed up on the shore like beached whales. This definitely felt like a BIG challenge to get to the next beach. I could smell danger. A man and his boy [I almost wrote dog. Bom dog!] appeared from the other side of the rock looking wet and energised with adrenaline and thrill. If they can do it without dying then so can we! We galloped forth with a high pitched war cry. Once in the water I thought about octopus tentacles dragging me under. We rounded the corner and oh.. there was the next beach. We were still in shallow water, there was no chance of drowning. Feeling very let down I waded the very safe and calm water to the next beach.

Sat in a big rock and had my picture taken. Ran in the sea and had my picture taken. Noticed a lot of middle aged moobed men in tight speedos. One ran past us trying too hard to look slo-mo, ‘It’s not Baywatch!’ Noticed a family were standing in the shiny wet sand near where the waves were coming in. There was a pushchair there too, ‘Does she want her baby to become a mermaid?!’ We found a beach hut and sat on the front of it for a bit because it looked like something out of The OC. Then the first rain came and the beach emptied. It was only a ten minute light shower but there’s always the worry that it’ll turn into a monsoon. We sat dusting the sand off our feet – James with a tissue, me with my sock. It was time to leave the beach.

Walked, walked, walked. There was a lot of walking. My coral shoesies were starting to hurt. I blame the uneven cobbled terrain, there are a lot of cobbles in Portugal. A car went past and a man was leaning out of the window with a camera. We both stopped, dazed, ‘Did we just get papped?!’ RESULT.

Stopped briefly at a roundabout with three white statues of women. My three influences in life!. It’s a sign that I must get in touch with that artiste to secure my three lady painting. The statues looked like they were nuns praying or shalom-ing. Some joker had put a red road cone on one of the nun’s arms.

Finally reached civilisation after walking along non-pedestrian roads for hours. Sat down and ordered a burger in a basket, with an olive on top. Yummy, apart from the olive. James had an omelette even though he’d pooh-poohed my idea of ham, eggs and chips for tea one evening. We had a lot of eggs to get through, I don’t like waste! The café did some amazing giant ice cream desserts, liked the look of the banana split which is something I never have so decided to go for it. I think they’re intended to be shared so when I asked the waiter for one he gave me a look that was either impressed or he thought I was a heffa. The banana split turned out to be almost yummy but there were a few strange let downs. For a start there were two giant grapes perched atop the ice cream. They were too big for me to eat without choking due to my giant tonsils. James was convinced that they were cherries which was really silly because they definitely looked like grapes. Cherries are small anyway, I wouldn’t choke on them. Sliced a grape up to avoid choking and it had a big fat green seed in it! Eugh. Also there was a suspicious scoop of banana ice cream which I left because it tasted like bubblegum. The rest was alright though.

Browsed the shops of Portimao. Made the mistake of trying on a bottle green leather jacket in a shop called ‘Man Woman’. A shop assistant came over, ‘Too small?’ Alright cheeky! And she gave me the next size to try. I immediately felt obliged to buy but didn’t actually want it. It was a bit ugly really and I’d already got my eye on a gold studded faux leather jacket from Matalan. I’d been thinking about buying it at a welcome home present. Anyway, shrugged off the expensive leather, which was as smooth as butter and made a hasty exit.

Noticed a lot of the Portuguese [both male and female] were looking at my legs a lot. Started to feel uncomfortable and angry. I wasn’t sure if they were looks of approval or mockery. I contemplated whether they were mesmerised by my pale [prosthetic] legs or Tropicana or my shoes worn with ankle socks, or all three. Or even none of the above. Started to feel like I was being really big headed and conceited and shit so I tried not to think about it anymore. And failed.

Saw some beautiful blue leather ankle boots in a shop that sold only designer. Caught the faint scented whiff of my Vivien Westwood shoes and found a pair of them sitting on a low shelf. They weren’t as pretty as mine though. Also saw a pair of distressed knee highs with a chunky heel that were quite tasty but left the shop empty handed, not trusting myself to part with too many Euros in a strange land. I think the deciding factor was that I wouldn’t be able to return the boots, which is an Amy staple.

Feet were really starting to hurt so we tried to navigate back to the centre-ish bit to find a taxi. Stumbled upon a fountain that whooshes up from the floor and jumped at the picture possibilities. Waited for a bit for it to start whooshing again and ran under the fountains like a bird child. The spray from the fountain was cold and refreshing. There was a large huddle of a family taking pictures of each other in front of the fountain. They seemed very excited by it, they’d been there even longer than us but seemed very tentative on stepping in too far and getting sprayed. Wondered why and wondered if they would melt.

Insane very Portuguese taxi driver had the pleasure of chauffeuring us home. He spent the majority of the time on the phone speaking loud, fast Portuguese and trying to ask for directions to the villa. James had said several times that he could direct him but it was falling on deaf, mad ears. We got there in the end.

Lounged around playing cards and eating crisps feeling sad that the day was definitely almost over. Decided to pack early to get the faffing out the way. Blasted a bit of Lady Gaga to pack to but I felt very strange and not right. It felt like nervousness but what was I nervous about? Returning to everyday life where I didn’t have a clue what was going on or where I was heading? Maybe.. After packing we made tea whilst watching/performing/singing along to a Kylie tour dvd. Sat down to the quietest meal of the trip and struggled to think of anything silly to talk about.