The Journal of a Fishing Widow
by
Sandra Armishaw
The last River Reads’ newsletter was written in July and now we find ourselves edging towards the end of September. There’s a distinct autumn chill in the air, felt even more keenly because Keith and I spent the previous week in Portugal with our eldest daughter Anna and partner Dan. We were invited on this spontaneous break and I jumped at the chance because in true ‘Fishing Widow’ style I’d been pretty well abandoned during our annual two-week stay at Rose Cottage, Brobury in August and I was in desperate need of a change from river-watching. Sun, beach, pool and a Mediterranean diet; to use the vernacular: I was ‘sorted.’
I shouldn’t complain, but I will anyway. The problem with our annual stay in Hereford was that the guests visiting our little bolt-hole were fishermen and naturally enough when you’re based on the River Wye, life revolved around fish, fish, canoeists, fish, canoeists and more fish. The only light relief I had was when my guitar-playing chum came to visit. He’s also a fisherman but managed to spend a little time with me, singing and playing, which temporarily restored my sanity. Also, our eldest son Lee, who spends most of his life cooped-up in an office in Edinburgh, has little time to fish so when he joins us, he and Keith tend to immerse themselves in the nearest river, sometimes quite literally, almost like Pilgrims returning to their baptismal waters and nothing, just nothing tears them away. So, having stubbornly refused to go anywhere because I didn’t want to eat into their fishing time together, I was really stroppy by the time we left for Portugal on a jaunt which for me was hippy-heaven.
It must be at least 35 years since I’d had a holiday like this one. The Villa do Golf in Almancil was our location for the week, but I had my reservations about it when we arrived. First impression on checking into the marble and chromed reception was that it had a holiday camp feel. We’d arrived at Faro Airport late at night so I couldn’t really get a feel for the place but it did remind me of the TV series, ‘The Prisoner’ and the Portmeirion resort in Wales.
The Portuguese villas are packed together around a 115 euros- a-round golf course and yet the accommodation has been cleverly planned so we didn’t feel crowded at any time. The complex is located in a nature park (not sure how they got planning permission) and the area is still being developed. Having read the reviews on ‘Trip Advisor’ I was a dubious because, to be honest, they were a little scathing – unnecessarily so in my view, but when we entered our two-bedroomed villa, I was more than happy with the pristine accommodation which I really could not fault. That was until ‘Basil’ decided to join us mid-way through the week, but that’s a story reminiscent of ‘Fawlty Towers’ so I’ll come back to it later.
On the fishing front, before we left for Bristol Airport, Keith was a little disgruntled when I removed his travel rod from the suitcase; ‘this is my holiday,’ I reminded him ‘and there’s definitely no fishing allowed,’ but he’s a hard-core angler and had other plans.
Day one: bikini on, lazing on a secluded sun-bed in temperatures of 35ºC – we were planning to eat out in the evening so Anna chose the bijou and unlikely sounding ‘Pig and Whistle’ in Almancil. ‘Good start,’ I thought but mini storm-clouds threatened. Early morning and Keith was already bored so wandered off with the camera to photograph local wildlife. Alarm bells rang when, late afternoon, he stirred me from my sun-warmed snooze with a cup of Lady Grey; he had a restrained smile on his face. Turns out he’d found a fishing trip he wanted to go on the next day and with a true ‘fishing-widow’ response, I said I didn’t mind. I was lying.
Day two: Off he went with Dan driving to Vilamoura, a swish marina where billionaires’ toys are moored; forlornly waiting for their neglectful owners, the dream-boats jostle for space with the tour operators who ply their trade from the harbour. Keith joined ten other anglers on board the tourist-trap boat. His first observation was that there were only five fishing rods for ten anglers but he was a little surprised when they were told that they had to draw lots to fish!!!!!! At 60 euros each, what a rip-off!
Fortunately for Keith, he drew the first lot but didn’t catch anything special (well I would say that wouldn’t I?) - It was actually my first dorado! – Keith.
Another tripper, Dean (it's his dorado photograph) caught a small Mako.
The nicest thing was that Keith met someone from London who has since been in touch and has invited him to fish for Zander. ‘Oh, joy’ you hear me cry. So not an entirely wasted day for him and I must admit, I did enjoy the peace and quiet. Anna and Dan went off to the nearest beach but I was not alone; I had Basil for company.
Fast forward to late evening after a sumptuous dinner at the aforementioned ‘Pig and Whistle;’ (highly recommended) back at the villa the night was warm and I decided to lie out under the stars. With closed eyes, I listened to the rhythmic sound of cicadas in the surrounding woods.
The scent of jasmine and bougainvillaea filled the air as I opened my eyes to gaze up at the stars. I thought of ‘My India,’ that is until I saw the shadow of a giant creature making its way across the pagoda. ‘I’ve just seen a rat,’ I called. ‘Yeh, right,’ said Dan – ‘too many G & T’s?’ ‘I did,’ I insisted. Little did we know, a Portuguese ‘Basil,’ of Fawlty Towers’ fame was checking us out, trying to find a way into our Villa. It wasn’t difficult.
Day three: Pool, Tavira and restaurant. During the day, we visited the city of Tavira which is renowned for its Moorish architecture. It is also home to The Tuna Fishing museum as Tavira was formerly a prominent fishing village. They have a video of the history of Tuna fishing in the area but it’s not something I’d want to watch, as I’ve seen how Tuna are butchered. I did however want to try sardines but couldn’t find any, so ended up at a seafront café eating a cheeseburger – shame on me!
Anna did find a small restaurant and ordered grilled sardines but they still had their heads on and hadn’t been gutted, so when she put her fork into the fish, the guts spurted out. Mmmm; from that point on, I lost my appetite for that little delicacy! The sea front at Tavira is flanked by a very smart walkway, fringed with cafes, bars and touristy shops and it's from there you pay one euro to take the ferry across the Isle de Tavira and its sandy beach which is where we spent the rest of the afternoon. Keith slept with one eye open. Tavira’s a place I’d like to explore so I’d think about staying there longer but on that day, the heat was waning and it was time to head back to the villa to get ready for dinner at The Lemon Tree in nearby Almancil.
Anna was in good spirits; rustic food, wine and the scent of ‘Lady of the Night’ in the restaurant’s small courtyard then back to the ranch for a night-cap. On entering the villa, the lights automatically switched on; I explain this as Anna was the first to enter and with the room well-illuminated, was the first the spot ‘Basil.’ She screamed - not that she’s scared of rats, more, their tails! Dan pretended to need the loo and disappeared upstairs as Anna leapt onto a chair clutching her long dress so that it didn’t provide an escape route for Basil. Keith manfully reached for the broom and I rang reception who responded by sending a Manuel-sized security guard who only spoke Portuguese.
I was in stitches at what ensued; four adults with a broom chasing a very small rat with really cute ears around the villa. As you can see, I spent the whole time laughing and taking photos of their antics. The security guard eyed me suspiciously. After around 30 minutes of furniture being turned upside down, dishwasher being hauled out and lots of stamping, Basil disappeared (sensible chap) in an attempt to avoid being ‘brushed.’
Little did we know, he’d gone into hiding and when Dan went to make tea early the next morning, discovered him asleep in Keith’s trousers. (He wasn't wearing them at the time!) Out came the broom again but Basil had played this game before and disappeared into thin air. Over the course of the next few days, we spotted him skittering around the villa but by that time, all food had been put into the fridge and there was nothing left for him to munch on so he abandoned us for new pastures.
Day four: Beach and a red-flag rolling tide that knocked me off my feet and started to wash me away; fortunately Anna was standing next to me and with great presence of mind pushed down hard on my head, filling my bikini bottom with coarse sand and anchoring me to the spot. Keith was bored and fell asleep on the beach; I really should have let him take his rod.
Day five: Enough indolence; we wanted to see something of the real Portugal so took the hire car and headed for Alte, a hill-top village situated 25kms. northwest of Loule.
Its quaint Portguese houses and cobbled streets promised much, but it was still not rural enough for me so we did the touristy thing of visiting the beautiful little church and the local pottery where I bought a few pressies, but the greatest delight was the local shoemaker’s museum. What a gem that was; hard to judge the proud owner’s age but he was certainly very senior and he’s still making shoes by hand. For a small donation to his museum, he guided us through his three-storey home up to its rooftop terrace. The house was rammed with artefacts from a bygone age which he showed us with great pride. If ever you travel to that small village, make sure you go and see him and his wife.
The sad part is that it’s on the tourist trail so you do get coach-loads of people visiting but it’s nice and quiet in between and a river runs through which kept Keith happy whilst I was browsing in the pottery.
Lunch was yummy; fresh squid and prawns on skewers – I wasn’t expecting such a large lunch; nor, when I ordered a large glass of white wine was I expecting a whole bottle! I really must brush up on my Portuguese.
On the way back, I asked Keith to drive to Albufeira; I almost visited there some thirty years ago when it was described as a little fishing village so I wasn’t really prepared for the city-sized development that is modern-day Albufeira. What a disappointment. I’m glad I didn’t choose to stay there; the enormity of this location is apparent when taking a sea trip along the coast which we did the following day.
Day six: Caves and geology, that’s what I wanted to see so we headed out to the swanky marina at Vilamoura to take a short boat-ride along the coast but, we were put on the wrong boat! Keith held up the leaflet when buying the tickets (38 euros each) but the clerk booked us onto what was going without telling us!
No caves, just a protracted boat-ride along the coast where the enormity of development is jaw-dropping. Soon, I fear there will be little natural coastline there as high-rise hotels and apartments desecrate the area; the old fishing port was just visible and it’s incredible that the monstrosity which is Albufeira continues to grow, gobbling up any spare land. The geology represents a time-line spanning millions of years and the soil ranges from iron-red sandstone to chalky white limestone. I did see sea-worn caves, but at a distance through the lens of a camera. It was a tedious voyage and at the turn-around point, the boat dropped anchor a little way off the coast. Several hardy passengers jumped in for a swim but I knew that a Mako had been caught in those waters earlier in the week (albeit a small one!) and that was enough of a deterrent for me not to wet my cozzie. The sun was beginning to set as we returned to the Marina; ‘fancy a drink,’ said Keith. ‘Sex on the beach?’ said I, raising an eyebrow. ‘Yeah, right,’ he said as he headed for the nearest bar to order my favourite cocktail.
Final fling: On the evening of our last full day at Villa do Golf, there was one more thing I wanted to experience. De Barra is a faux, Irish bar located at Quinta do Lago, a very smart shopping centre selling high-priced goodies. The bar sells Guinness and the live act for the night was ‘Six Irishmen’ (they number seven). That’s where I wanted to end my week in Portugal so after a courtyard dinner of paella (I know) we headed back to the bar not quite knowing what to expect. ‘If it’s rubbish, I’m going home,’ said Keith.
What we encountered was, in my view, the best live band I’ve seen in a long, long time; with oodles of high energy, they delivered Pogues/Dubliners and then some. The lead singer bounced his way around the confined stage area to rapturous applause and easily slipped into Irish dancing with a nimble-footed colleen from the audience. Encouraged by Dan, I foolishly joined in and was greatly relieved when they took a short break and I could breathe again! Dan strutted his stuff; what a nimble monkey he is and Keith looked on over the rim of his coke; it’s a bugger when you have to drive.
Anna was taking care of the drinks for the night and that’s why the following day, she had the mother of all hangovers; she was drinking mine as well! But back to the band; it’s a shame they’re based in Faro; I was looking forward to encouraging them to do a gig at the Plough Theatre in Torrington. If ever you get chance to see them, you’re in for a treat and when I next visit Portugal, I’ll definitely be checking out their gig dates.
Day seven: I never like packing to leave but that old cliché: ‘all good things …’ meant that we were flying back to Bristol that day, so we mooched around until it was time to leave. A short two-hour flight from Faro on Ryanair which delivered what it promised, left me standing on the runway and as I walked away from the plane into a cold grey night and reality, I was already missing the sun and heat of Portugal but that’s o.k. In a few weeks time, we’ll be heading off to Spain to stay with John and Angie, but that’ll be another story.
Sandra Armishaw
www.riverreads.co.uk
www.anglingheritage.org
September 2010