Luzianes; Lisbon and Christmas

Once again we arrive in the pitch blackness of night, after stopping off at ....... and asking a Portuguese bloke the way, phoning Sabine for directions and panicking somewhat at the sudden change in terrain. They live in a valley up a dirt track that snakes under dark, river lined tunnels, up and down, over the bridge and up a slope so steep that the car refuses to climb it. Steve is there guiding us up with his wind up torch, but the car won't budge, and we have to content ourselves with reversing and parking on the bridge next to their house. It is freezing. Mark is ultra stressed. Already worrying about how the fuck we are going to get out again, what is going to happen if it rains, whether the kids will fall into the river in the night, etc etc. We go up to the house, meet the family and eat, feeling strangely alien in the new environment. We take the girls to bed and chat about what to do. The caravan has sustained major damage to the roof during some unknown wood based collision between Coimbra and here. The seam is split and the metal twisted in two places. The music system in the car is crap and needs serious attention. If it rains (and the rain is two months overdue) the place will turn into a quagmire, and getting the caravan out of the valley looks like a delicate operation even in the current weather conditions. It is the same temperature inside the caravan as it is outside. We can see our breath by the light of the flourescent lantern. All our stuff needs charging. We laugh hysterically at the absurdity of it all and go to bed fully clothed. The next morning, the family leave for their kids' christmas concert and we are left to our own devices. The ground is still blanketed with frost at 10.30am. Mark has to re negotiate the hill that beat him the previous night. We have a fracas about strategy while Mark is reversing back off the bridge, and without warning, he stamps on the accelerator, surging off in a fit of pique. I watch the caravan bouncing this way and that, falling items clearly visible through the rear windows. But up it went, and so did our spirits, and we set up the rig on the slope and secured ourselves two hours extra sunlight (and warmth) a day.
The next day we need provisions, Steve offers to show the way, so he comes with us. Just as well. The 'roads' are mud tracks, leading to tarmacked roads, and on to more mud tracks. The village shop is like someone's front room, and Steve asks for the items we need in Portuguese, then we go round the back to find an incredibly well stocked shop in the back, and are able to buy more or less everything we need. We move on to the post office, another bar. We buy coffee and chocolate milk for the girls, who proceed to stick rose thorns from a stem they have found into their finger tips for fun. The village is tiny, with a river running through, we drink our coffee and chat about living the slow life with Steve while the locals pass in and out, chatting on the streets, drinking their varied beverages. He is a Scottish stonemason and poet, and is happy to live the simple life here, getting involved with village life. His children attend the local school and speak three languages - english, german (Sabine is german) and portuguese. They are virtually self sufficient. There is a small german community in the area and half the children in the local primary school are foreign.
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They have been living at the farm for two years, and Steve has done a phenominal amount of work on the place, using anything he can find, or is given. They have a solar panel and a generator, but it seems every time they get a new one it last a few weeks then dies. Even the solar panel is failing to produce the energy they need. Not good for us. My dreams of steamy showers and easy internet access are soon dispersed as we settle into a more basic mode Mark works, digging, collecting wood, building bean cane structures, and I wallow, limping about because the constant putting up and down of the beds has done my back in. The kids all play together, and relax into it in the way that children do. I content myself with menial tasks.


Taping the gaping hole in the caravan, fixing up a cloakroom in the old toilet, which will house the coats, jackets boots and shoes that constantly clutter the caravan. I fix the cupboard that won't close and sweep two weeks of muck off the caravan floor. The power situation is problematic for us, but even more so for Steve and Sabine. They have a constant battle on their hands for the most basic of facilities. Not important during the long hot summers, but at this time of year, when the temperature at night is well below freezing and nights draw in at 5.30pm, it's quite debilitating. We don't like to ask for power in these circumstances. We decide to take the train to Lisbon and stay overnight. Splash out on a two star hotel...hot showers lure us on. The rain arrives the night before we leave, and continues all the way to Lisbon. We have decided to go on a Tuesday because there is a hugh flea market on Campo de Sta. Clara every week. However, despite leaving Luzianes at 8.50am, and going straight to the market after dropping stuff off at the hotel, we arrive within 10 minutes of it closing..
Ah well, as Silvie says. We still manage to pick up a few bargains, I get 2 new dresses for a euro, frida gets a skirt, tee shirt, handbag and scarf for 2, and Silvie picks up a mickey mouse tee shirt and hat, for a euro more. We walk up and down the windy streets, castle in sight but no way of getting there, eat a hearty meal, cakes and coffee, then are treated to an amazing show of starlings on the waterfront. Ah...civilization
There are shops and christmas lights, and santa's special tram, and beautiful lifts and tiled buildings and staircases and hotels with hot showers. They live up to our expectations, no press buttons, time limits or draughts, a constant perfect water temperature. Lush. Cleaning our teeth till they shone, washing my hair for the first time in three weeks. We all came out warm and shining, feeling fresh and new.
The next day we had a ride on the no 28 tram, through Alfama, but the rain was heavy and we, being ourselves, forgot to take anything waterproof (I'd worn clothes soley for glamour value). We had lunch and had to head for the last train home - they run twice a day at 7am and 5.05pm. We left the centre at 3 to catch the connection to find they left every two hours and we'd already missed it. Foreigners abroad eh , forgot to read the timetables cos we couldn't locate them, and whereas I'd be able to ask in pigeon spanish for the information I'd need, portuguese is a totally different ballgame. We get ripped off by a taxi driver, but work out we're only 20 euros down. We catch the train.

Back at the ranch everythings back to cold and grey. The rain keeps coming and we realise we need to go before we're stuck. Steve has told us how the bridge had been washed away twice during their brief time there, so we decide to move on. In Lisbon we had read about Cintra, and its mystical reputation. Lay lines and batteries that drain quickly, lightbulbs that pop. Sound familiar? Possibly due to the angle of the iron lode in the rocks. We discuss a lead box for the batteries on the farm...who knows.
Next day, Sabine takes me for an amazing massage by a wonderful masseuse, and I am blissfully relaxed for an hour. I take my laptop and camera battery, and we all recharge together. After fond goodbyes we watch Steve pull the caravan down the track with his 4X4. Lovely time, lovely people.
Morocco here we come.

CHRISTMAS

We drive past Faro and the Algarve, stopping off for a night at Fuzeta,, a wierd campsite enclosed by high fences on all sides. Through the gates you can see the sea and marshes, and the next morning we walk to the seaside and wander around town, visiting the local market, eating more pastries in the Pastelaria. The girls befriend a pair of border collies and their owners. We stay for another night and move on. There is no christmas food. No cake ingredients, there is a paucity of gifts from santa and us. I manage to buy a penknife for Silvie at a service station. I read in the guide that Christmas in Spain is on the 24th. Today is the 23rd and it is a Sunday. All the shops we pass are closed, and I start to think about what I could possibly make with the ingredients we have . Potatoes, cabbage and carrots, various tins of fish, eggs and not much else. My Christmas anxiety has followed me unawares. I pull myself together and resign myself to being creative when in flashing lights ahead shines 'CARREFOUR' (pronounced 'care for' by Frida), and Mark tensely drives the rig into the car park. I find myself in a shopping mall, people, lights, products, plastic bags, lights, christmas a la capitalism. I hadn't missed it. We bought a chicken ans chocolate and cheerios on Silvie's request. Everything we needed. mark takes a phone call from Jamie. They will be in Chefchaouen on the tenth. We will be meeting mates in Morocco. How cool. Mark is totally happy, and suddenly chilled. When we get out it is dark - same old, same old...We negotiate the town, and manage by some miracle to find the campsite. It is extortionately expensive and full of modern tourers full of aging europeans with satellite dishes. We stay the night and decamp early, heading for the christmas stop in Tarifa. En route we stop off at Bolonia, site of more Roman ruins, sand dunes and the atlantic ocean. It is everything you don't imagine the southern coast of Spain to be. Undeveloped, unspoilt, quiet and peaceful. In the distance, across the sea, we can see the Atlas mountains. We are still in two minds about taking the caravan to Morocco, everyone we have mentioned it to has mumbled and disengaged eye contact at the mention. It'll be expensive, they tell us, you'll have to pay extra for the top box, there might be hassle over the lack of documents (it seems the UK is the only country where you don't need an MOT for a caravan - up until recently, Portuguese citizens even needed a registration document for their bicycles). Then we meet a biker and his limping mate, and their two orange haired spouses. One of them talks at length about travelling with caravan in Morocco. They make it all sound so easy, old hands. Their daughter goes on about her memories of Morocco as a child, then recommends a campsite on the beach just down the road. When we get there, I manage to secure a discount and we plot up for the festivities.

We put up and decorated the awning, instantly doubling the living space, and go to check out the beach. Very nice. Kids instantly run to the sea, then spot the sand dunes, then the 'lagoon', as they call it. The sun goes down, and we walk the three minutes back to the campsite. Kids abed with stories and songs, Silvie worrying that santa might not find her, finding two socks (which will never be the same again), and somewhere to hang it. They go to bed excited. Mark and I go through the usual Christmas eve ritual of drinking wine and wrapping presents. It was done in no time, we laughed at the simplicity and cheapness of it all. Usually we are up till 2am, having spent a small fortune and earning the christmas morning hangover whilst still worrying about the adequacy of it all. Tonight was better. Tomorrow we will go to the beach and make a cake, and play.
True to form, the kids wake up at the crack of dawn, but can't find the socks, so go back to sleep. Bliss. 2nd time they find their socks stuffed with chocolate and a small doll. They join us in bed for tea and biscuits. We have given them their flamenco dresses and a pen knife each, plus a CD of Queen's greatest hits - which includes their current favourite - Don't Stop me Now. They want to cut apples and sharpen pencils, they want to open and close the blades. We have to confiscate them within an hour after admitting to waving them at some other kids on the campsite to show off. They open their presents from nannies, grandads, aunties and uncles, all very well appreciated, then make phonecalls, feeling slightly homesick for the first time. I do miss everyone. Then we go for a walk down the beach taking our swimmers and towels but it is not really that warm. The beach is full of fully equipped germans, the car park is full of fully equipped german trucks. They are all kite surfing for christmas day, sporty in their neoprene outfits. We lay our frayed towels down, and head for the water. It's freezing, but we have to prove a point and go the whole hog. The girls play in the sand as my fingers go numb, we run back via the sand dunes, bumping into beetles sheep and cows meandering in the scrub. I get out the two day old chicken which isn't smelling so good, make a cake and crack open a bottle of wine while the children disappear to find the three dutch ferrets down the road. We eat, we laugh then watch Little Lord Fauntleroy on the laptop. Lovely day.