Sorry to say however, customers, that I was too busy enjoying the great white wines of Portugal under 3 euros to actually take any worthwhile photos of them. I have several pictures of other people´s breasts, several of one particularly handsome gentleman and all the other shots are out of focus. Thank god for Marta who not only has exceptional hair but has steady hands and a sharp eye. Phew, the post is saved.

The first thing one can say is that inexpensive Portuguese white wines are a great deal of fun. The post party emails keep streaming in with the same hilarity of the night. Ilya´s comment that such evenings should be banned by the Organizacão Mundial Da Saude had me weeping with laughter before breakfast this morning.

We tested 11 wines in all, with one wine, rather cheekily, being included twice, just to prove beyond doubt, according to the results, that we were a bunch of people having a good time rather than engaging in a rigorous scientific study.

The double agent came by the classical name Fratelli Coglione, or Irmãos Colhões, meaning Balls Brothers. The name is a devotion to the illustrious Italian rennaissance military commander Bartolomeo Colleoni, who indisputably had courage, and balls, as is pictorially represented on the Colleoni coat of arms. A coat of arms is nothing without a motto, as Judge João says, and to this fine wine he has attributed that of the “Order of the Garter” which is of course “Honi soit qui mal y pense” which in googlish can be roughly translated “shame on you for thinking there’s some dirty mockery in all of this”.

While no one but me rated wine number one in the manner of “give me one baby oh god I needed that”,  this wine did receive a great deal more praise when listed again as wine number 6. Judge Wonky, of Lousã, for example, described wine number one as “Cold and Mildly Fruity”, with a unremarkable score of 32/50, but as wine number 6 felt that it was “Unbe-fuckin-leivable” and gave it the perfect score 50/50. Judge Fiona of Condeixa started with “bem” at number one and rose to “fixe” at number 6.

In general terms the commentary given to each wine began conscientiously and legibly. Judge Bitateiro, of Infesto, who could initially be relied upon for credible descriptions such as “young and fruity, silky nose with a long finish”, but who, by wine number 7, offers meekly “really can’t tell anymore”.

Wines listed later in the evening solicited passionate and even profane comments from the judges, ranging from simply “wine of love” given by Judge Purdey, a policewoman from Povoa to Judge Chef Fiona comparing wine 11 to a “Beijinho”. Judge Trotsky of Tomar, whose hobbies include Tap dancing and Toad Treating describes wine number 10 as “Bang Bang Bang”, the undelying meaning of which I think is clear to all of us.

Oddly, the harshest criticism was aimed at the winning wine, number 5. Judge Trotsky’s description of this wine as “cat’s wee” went against the general trend of high scores and superlatives. Variously described as full, acidic, dry, good with sardines and piri piri, orgasmic, automatic, cincomatic and just plain good. This wine was the clear winner of the evening. So what was it? Drumroll…. maestro….

It is the

Esporão Alandra

(thunderous round of applause sound effect insert here)

Significantly this beautiful wine’s usual retail price is €1.99. Read that and weep. Or just move to Portugal.

The other wines tested were

Loios

Adega da Borba

Porta da Ravessa

J P Azeitão

Dão Grão Vasco

Pegões

Colares

and special mention to runner up wine number 1 & 6

Quinta do Cardal Branco 2009

That’s right, smartypants, there are only 9. We lost number 10, and no one can remember where we put it.

As promised in a compromised state of inebriation, here are a couple of recipes of the night.

Vietnamese Rice Paper Rolls

- Rice Paper wrappers – my sister brought them from australia. Good luck getting them here.
- One pork febra or small steak, tenderised and pan fried in garlic and a bit of soy sauce
- some prawns, say two or three per roll, schoolies if you can get them, for the flavour, steamed, or just boil them for a minute with a pinch of salt
- vermicelli rice noodles – softened in boiling water just for a minute or two – can’t say how much but I always overestimate by ten times the amount required
- strips of cucumber without seeds
- spring onion or shallots – long green stems with white at the base – they are undeveloped onions, slice them lengthwise and cut into 10 cm lengths
- Mint, Vietnamese mint preferably, or maybe a little asian basil if you can get it
other optional stuff
– a bit of shredded lettuce, bean sprouts, or a single toothpick of carrot

You’re making a little parcel about 10cm long and 3cm wide, cylindrical. After softening the paper just collect the ingredients in little long pile and fold up the roll like a parcel. It’s not brain surgery. You’ll get the hang of it.

Dipping Sauce:
Hoi Sin Sauce
Fish Sauce
Peanuts
Splash of Lime or lemon juice
splash of piri piri or whatever chilli sauce
soy to season

Garlic Prawns as inspired by the ones in Nazaré

Prawns – green, frozen on the ship “ultracongelado”  I repeat GREEN
Lemon
Garlic
Olive oil
Salt & Pepper
Handful of parsley or go all Portuguese and use coriander ooo yummy

Peel your prawns down to the tail, (or the lot of you prefer), rinse them well in water and slip them into a ceramic bowl with the juice of a lemon, an enormous quantity of sliced garlic (not crushed, not finely chopped, I’m talking a wackload of big bits) cover it in olive oil and keep it in the fridge, overnight at best but at least for an hour or two. Heat the oven at the highest temperature, put them in for 5 or 10 minutes, give them one stir and another 5 minutes and then serve them up with a bunch of chunky strong bread. And then sit back and wait for the marriage proposals to roll in.

Stay tuned for the Prova dos Vinhos: Verdes,  and further, we could even trial Rosés… perhaps even saving the worldwidely famous Mateus from the doldrums of jokedom.

Super special thanks to Emma (the other emma in portugal) and Lawrence for being the hosts with the most, thanks to a really brutal bunch of Portuguese friends who make me love this country all the more and who are as generous as they are fun, and to Wonky (and Marta, sorry you´ll have to be quicker next time) for the marriage proposal, and more thanks to Tiny for having to eat all four rice paper rolls from Yen´s in Regent St Sydney so that she could take that accurately luscious photo above.

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Caldas Da Rainha, the Hot Springs of the Queen, is a classic spa town. Spa towns always hint at a 19th century grandeur,  where the monied would while away their days “taking the waters” and relaxing. These days the old spa towns are gracefully fading, and the ailing have moved on to detox and rehab. But the grand old hotels, gardens, tea rooms, and what used to be fashionable architecture, remain. Spa towns are quaint and gentle, and often very pretty. Caldas certainly is all of these things.

The Spa is a predominantly European phenomenon,  but Katoomba in the Blue Mountains outside of Sydney has exactly the personality I’m talking about. Cauterets in the French Pyrenees is a classic place,  and I’ve been to a wonderful old pool/spas in Berlin and Stockholm. Luso in Portugal is also a favourite town of mine here,  especially as the hospital-spa still offers many kinds of water treatments, like a “Vichy” hose down, steam inductions and a variety of strange massages.  I’ve met delightful spa town in the colonies too. Dalat in Vietnam is a charming 19th century gem and I would imagine there might be a few ex-spas in India.

One day I’d love to do a tour of the great spas of Europe. I’d start in Budapest, certainly the bath capital of the world, and move south seeking them out in Switzerland and Austria. You can never be too clean.

Anyway back to Caldas… the first stop should be the hospital itself, located in two lovely old buildings just down from the main square. At the back of the main building is the gorgeous Nossa Senhora do Pópulo, which has a fabulous bell tower, and where patients can go to bolster their faith in modern medicine. Opposite the church and beside one of the many lovely Manueline palacetes in the back streets of Caldas, is the Hospital Museum. I can never resist a hospital museum, and although there’s nothing much macabre about this one it certainly reinforces the image of an olde worlde cleanliness and some hysterical hypochondriasis… fainting spells and smelling salts and that sort of thing. Quaint, rather.

Of course it made me feel like a lie down in a cool room followed by a good professional pummelling by Irmã Perpétua (or whoever the Portuguese equivalent of Swedish Helga might be). But alas! Unlike at Luso, the hospital isn’t open to people just-chucking-a-sickie – and seriously Caldas CM -  this should change. Honestly they must have no idea how arduous being a tourist is and just how willingly we will shell out €15 to have someone in a white coat give us a rub down.

Actually it’s probably a good thing because there is really no time to waste if you want to see everything else that Caldas has got going on. The first thing you should start noticing is Caldas´ very special street signs. There aren’t many left these days so keep your eyes peeled, especially around the hospital area and along the park. The parque Dom Carlos I is gorgeous, with ponds and row boats and an excellent café/restaurant with loads of shaded outdoor seating. A wander around the José Malhoa Museum (naturalist / impressionist painter 1855-1933) inside the former park boat house is relaxing and mildly interesting. There’s also this enormous dilapidated building which they call the pavilões do parque, which appears to have been a former school. Stunning building, superb location and if this was Sydney it would have been turned into some seriously nice and expensive apartments by now. Looks like the pigeons will have it to themselves for a while longer.

Don’t let it get past midday or you’ll have missed the Caldas market. It’s on every day in Praça de Republica, right in the middle of things. It’s one of the nicest markets around, with the perfect balance of fresh veg, charcuterie, bread, sweets and stacks of different local handicrafts. But especially it has a spread of the famous ceramics of Caldas de Rainha. What you see at the market is not strictly Rafael Bordalo Pinheiro but it’s still fun and highly photogenic.

Just beside the market square is my favourite café in Caldas, Café Central.  Here is a café as we knew them in the old country, a place that does proper lunch, as in, light meals with salad. The food is inventive and wholesome and there is serious gelato and cakes too. But it’s the interior design that does me. Like the Brasileira in Braga, it’s like the owner (I don’t know her name but she’s always there and I want to be her when I grow up) has done the most restrained renovation possible, simply restoring the original design and adding a fresh coat of paint and some new chairs. It’s a rejuvenation of art deco/ mid century elegance. It looks modern and vintage at the same time. Thoroughly divine.

And right outside the café is one of those unique street signs. Cute. On the same side of the square is Residencial Central which is where I like to stay. It’s a big homey oldie of course, run by the super welcoming Diogo and Fatima who have three great girls. Watch Diogo or that welcome drink will end up with you under the table. It’s the kind of hotel I’d like to live in, and it felt like I did. Still a bargain at €20 single, €35 double.

But the real reason I visit Caldas so often is to catch up with my mate Rafael. Caldas is a good place to get to know him, first in the Museu de Ceramica where you can see his work in context with the other wacky ceramicists of the era. Then at the Bordalo factory there’s another little museum which explains more specifically about Rafael’s life in Caldas. After that you can lose a couple of hours in the shop where there are new editions of bizarre giant fish and crab artworks, fresh copies of large scale commissions, figurines and of course cabbage things in all colours. But what else the factory produces is some of the most lovely table china I’ve ever seen. Opulent, classic, whimsical. Oranges, rabbits and palm trees.  Funny and just pure elegance… and the most adorable little coffee cup sets in the world.

You’re bored? But there’s still the new cycling museum, Atelier-Museu António Duarte (1912-1998), some groovy Henry-Moore-like sculpture at Atelier-Museu João Fragoso (1913- 2000), the Museu Barato Feyo and yet more 20th century art at O Espaço da Concas. And a bunch of small interesting shops. And Mango. But never mind,  you can always pop off to the beach at Foz de Arelho (20 minutes), a pleasant strip of golden sand and no swell to speak of, and if Caldas hasn’t tickled your cute inner pony enough you can clip clop up to Obidos (15 minutes) which will twee your tail off.

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portugal vs. ivory coast

Sometimes the harmonisation of the team can turn a game into an all male performing art. Germany’s play, especially in the Australian and English matches, was elevating to watch like a ballet or opera. The Portuguese, against North Korea, made the game look too easy, and the players’ pride and joy was so potent that it spread throughout the whole country for a moment. Slovakia vs. Italy was operatic in its passion and hate and despair.  But sometimes the performance never gets there. Nigeria vs. South Korea was just boring. It’s been hard to enjoy watching England play, with their absence of pride or enjoyment. They are the antithesis of New Zealand’s enthusiasm and sportsmanship. So heroic were the Kiwis that they made defeat look like triumph.

Friends of mine will think it is most peculiar that I have gone soccer mad. I’ve never actually been averse to the football of Europe, and I even pretentiously thought of it as a culturally superior game to the gang-banging thick-necked vulgarity of rugby league, the sport which predominates in my home town. Of course the reality is that soccer in Europe isn’t classy at all, but populated by thugs and spivs and corruption. Just check out the suits on the Slovakian coaches… gangsters minus the style.

One contention I have had is the nationalism which comes with sport. “Love just one nation, and the whole world we deny” as Michael Franti says. Flying the flag and all that rot… it’s loathsome. However, being an expat gives a context to your national identity, and it also helps to spread your nationalism further. Not only am I an Australian, but also a Kiwi (by continent), a German (former resident) and a Portuguese (by adoption).

Another of my former aversions to spectator sport was its irrelevancy. But at last, now I get it :- it’s the diversion itself from all things worrying and important that gives it substance. Football is the opium of the people.

If you don’t understand what the all the fuss is about, but would like to take the trip and forget yourself for 90 minutes, here are my beginner’s watching tips: First you need to focus. You need to keep your eyes on the ball at all times, in the same way you work your concentration when trying to see a 3D picture. Relax, allow yourself to be hypnotised. Anticipate the moves of the players. Become the player. Once you can focus easily and re-focus when distracted, you’ll be able to start checking out what’s going on on the wider field, but to get started it’s imperative that you get into that focussed zone. It’s a quiet trance-like state which will have you feeling the pace, snapping at the refs, and emoting loudly when there’s a goal or a near goal. Second. Watch the violence. Slapping about the opponent is a essential tactic. It’s a messy side effect of desperately trying to get the ball off them at high speed and even though it’s against the rules, it’s actually a serious device. Actually, no, not serious – just like two 7 yr olds brawling. Stepping on a foot, gouging an eye, tripping them up – it’s all part of the fun. I can hear you’re about to object so let’s rush to #3 – Theatrics. Pretending you are hurt is another significant scheme of the game. It wins your side time and if you are convincing enough you might persuade the ref to give out a yellow card and/or a free kick. But I don’t really think they are all bunging it on – certainly a kick in the shins with studs and a knee in the ribs would have me writhing on the ground and crying like a baby too – it’s just funny how un-tough these guys can be when they want to be. Apart from these three characteristics of the game there’s not that much more you need to know. There are some rules, but they aren’t really important, nor particularly interesting. You can pretty much commit the rest of your brain to perving.

cristiano ronaldo for armani, and jesus navas, spain

Starting with the Portuguese team. Over here we are rather familiar with the sight of Cristiano Ronaldo on the tele and magazines and everywhere else. With undies and without. But in his native habitat he is something special. He is a star. And who can’t be moved by that dazzling smile even when he misses a goal? He’s a terrible show pony, but hey, he’s entertaining.

vincenzo iaquinta - italy

He’s perfect, but that’s nothing when compared to the Italians. Watching an Italian football game is a lot like being in Italy itself: so many spunks you don’t know where to look. Cannavaro, di Natale, Iaquinta – I wept with them at the end of the Slovakia match – so sorry am I to have to kiss them goodbye this week. Ditto the Kiwis, not just pretty but so nice! Helping up the Italians after elbowing them to the ground… so sweet.

fabio cannavaro - italy

It’s not like you have to hunt too hard because there are cuties in every team. Rodriguez of Argentina, Navas of Spain, Honda of Japan. Bendtner of Denmark. Van der Vaart of Holland. Even those mean slavs have a few hotties, like Kopunek. The German team is a little overloaded with looks. There’s Cacau, Aogo and Boateng for starters. And here’s the bottom line. Maybe I’m a little biased, but none of the players I’ve singled out is a slouch on the field. To state it plain, they are not there for their looks. Sure, some like the blessed Cristiano and the revered Rafael Van der Vaart are savaged when they play less brilliantly than usual… but that’s the whole problem with being a saint. Just one miracle will get you the title, but for the rest of your career you cannot get away with being a mere mortal.

cacau, germany

I’ve got a radical idea to make the game even better. To make the players purer and worthy of worship. To give the sport all the nobility it aspires to. Freedom from corruption and cheating… Don’t pay them. Like in the Olympics, let their talent, not their price, speak for itself. Would Beckham have played so well without the riches? Yes. Were Pelé or Maradona as good as Ronaldo, even though they didn’t earn anywhere near as much? Of course. Better, many would argue. Would kids in the Bairros still dream of being Kaká or Messi? You bet. Would a rose not smell as sweet?

a beautiful shot by annie leibovitz for louis vuitton. maradona, pelé and zidane.

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Nowadays, only one parish keeps the tradition every year, Carregueiros. Here, the flowers of the fields don’t fear the showers of May, unlike the paper flowers of the big production of Tomar, that made the whole thing move to the rain-proof month of July. Here, the Holy Spirit has not been forgotten, just like in the distant-cousin-festas of the Azores. Here, no tourists, virtually no outsiders, only the local youth donning the traditional clothes capped by the most modern haircuts and fancy sunglasses.

First the Band, followed by the Brotherhood carrying the Holy Spirit’s crown and flags and then the couples with their offerings to the Holy Spirit (or perhaps it´s really Ceres) pass under the windows of Carregueiros’ Main Street and the residents lean out over their best bedspreads to throw petals at the crowd.

The procession takes place between the two churches of the village, and small children carry their little baskets with flowers with great gravity and even greater courage.

The walk is long and the lazy are already waiting at the second church watching the long, colourful snake approach through the fields, up and down, and finally up a steep flight of stairs.

For thirsty onlookers, the “water” man has a mixture of beer and soda (a little beer and a lot of soda, to maintain the decorum of the festivities), and for the hungry there are bolos da cabeça to help them wait for lunch.

After mass everybody walks back to the centre of the village and the first church, where the baskets are blessed. The bread is then distributed among the people, who keep it throughout the year in the hope that they will be blessed with abundance.

The great Festa dos Tabuleiros of Tomar, that attracts hundreds of thousands of visitors, brings together the Tomarense who for a year work tirelessly to transform their city. But the connection with the mystical origins of this celebration is all but lost. Here in Carregueiros, and even more in the Azores and Brazil, the cult of the Holy Spirit still echoes the utopia of a Third Age, which would bring universal and egalitarian love and total freedom which comes from the direct inspiration of the Holy Spirit.

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There are just too many cafés in Central Portugal and having to sample all of their coffees and pastries is going to be the end of my arteries and me. I can no longer justify a diet of pasteis, bolos and caffeine for the sake of the blog. Sorry.

In any case the parameters of my research have become blurred. Do I stick to the boundaries of the three Beiras regions or shall we just call it Central Portugal instead? Is it really a post about the best pastelarias in which case does it become a study of fabrico proprio? Is it really just a competition of coffee brands, because I think I’ve developed a preference for Delta. What if I catch a great café on an off day? What if they do the best duchesse in the region and I order a marselhesa by mistake?

But the main reason to stop is that there are just too many good cafés and a post can only be soooo looong…

So I’ll just tell you about my favourites (so far) and you can tell me yours, ok? Let’s go.

How I judge a place. The coffee has to be good on successive visits, with or without milk, bastante quente (who actually likes their coffee luke warm? I don’t know) and a good café IMhO serves directo whether you ask for it or not (or if you can’t tell the difference, that’s impressive). These things show a respect for coffee.

Either a good range of pastelaria, or a unique, small range. I look for specialities, or if they do a classic exceptionally well.

And that’s it: this is not about interior design, comfortable chairs, history, fame or even the temper of the staff… it’s just strictly a coffee and cake experience.

There are certainly many good places. What made it to this selection is being exceptionally good, and I do confess that the surprise of their sometimes obscure locations may have influenced their ranking. How do they compare with my favourite cafés of Lisbon? Certainly not well for décor(!), but for the quality of their coffee and cake, yes, I do believe they are as good.

In alphabetical order, we start in Avelar… a funny little town with really nothing much to recommend it except a pretty church, the Casa Farrica hardware shop and this outrageously good pastelaria. When I was new here I thought I was a genius to discover a cute side alley old fashioned little café which then abruptly closed its doors. I felt guilty and unfaithful when I decided to go to the new big modern place, whose pastries were possibly even better… until I realised it was the same place, they had just expanded. Phew!

Pastelaria Rocha’s thing is sonhos, and they don’t call them dreams for nothing. Their miniatures are adorable and their savoury things also are great.

Ansião is also nothing much of a place (sorry Ansianense) but it does have Pastelaria Diogo, or two, actually. Massive display of goodies, consistently good coffee.

In Condeixa-a-Nova, conveniently located across from the centro de saude, is O Pote de Mel. It is slightly infamous for turning out more unusual creations, in life threatening sizes. If you’re up for something truly decadent, pop in here for a escrapiada or a delicia. After your blood tests.

Technically still in Condeixa, but tucked away in a bairro they call Urbanização Nova de Conimbriga (it’s off the roundabout that joins the IC3 to the IC2, towards Soure) is a little gem of a café called O Bom Forno. It serves more polite, but no less decadent, cake portions of divine invention.  And they make the cutest baby berlims I’ve seen. Chocolate berlims too. And it’s wookie friendly.

Coimbra has a few good places. There are three close together on Rua de Sofia near Praça 8 Maio. My favourite is the old fashioned stand-up-only Pastelaria Palmeira, whose speciality is the weird-but-yummy pastel de santa clara. Almost next door, Pastelaria Penta has a bigger range of mouth watering sins and arguably better coffee. Across the road, Pastelaria Sirius is also very good.

When in Leiria I always go to Martin & Thomas on Praça Rodrigues Lobo. It quite rightly uses “gourmet” in its self description and indeed would not be out of place in any modern foodie location in the world. Great bread. Great everything. I think of Leiria as the Braga of Central Portugal. It’s civilised. It has Zara.

And now to Tentúgal and Vouzela. But these places and their pastelarias are SO good that they deserve their own day trip posts. It’s certainly worth going all the way to Vouzela for a visit to Café Central, and to eat a pastel de Vouzela. But the town itself is such a treasure that it’s a destination in itself. Similarly, at first glance Tentúgal’s pastelarias dos doces conventuais look like a truckies´ stop. But Tentúgal not only has an exceptional café but an unforgettable restaurant and a fascinating historic church as well. It’s not just a lay-by, it’s a lay-day.

But after visiting hundreds of other cafés, I always come back to my local. Pastelaria Pingo Doce in Figueiró Dos Vinhos, behind the Câmara, is so inconspicuous you’d normally not notice it. The coffee here is just as I like it and while I’m very fond of their bolos de arroz and tigeladas, it’s their pasteis de nata that are by far and away the best in Central Portugal. I’m tempted to say, the best outside of Pastéis de Belém. I know, it’s a big call, but I have tried, I have tested and I have the belly to prove it.

I would like to hear I’ve missed something in Castelo Branco, or that there’s a gem in Guarda (I’ve never been to Guarda). Have I passed on something in Pombal? Fundão? Do you have a favourite in Aveiro? Does Sertã have something hidden? Anything new in Lousã? Let me know. Not for any more serious research, no, just in case I’m passing…

innocent and unassuming... and the best pastel in the region

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WELL SNAP OUT OF IT YOU DAYDREAMER AND GET BACK TO WORK.

If there’s one thing I know now it’s this:

POVERTY IS OVERRATED.

Yes, trouble is, once you have a healthy cash flow it’s rather difficult to remember what it’s like not having one. Of course, I know you’re not planning on being poor and desperate, but if you’re going to give up working your bum off, then you are inevitably going to have to adjust to living on less. A lot less. And then, as time goes on, even less and less. It sounds fine as an idea, but believe me it is extremely difficult to change your mentality from “rich” to “poor”, and to change it fast enough to keep pace with your economic status.

How much do you need to live on in Portugal? The minimum wage here is €450/ month: I cannot see how anyone can live on that. I get by, in a painfully, unhappily, penny-watching way (see the Support button below) on about €600, and some months this blows out dramatically: all it takes is a sick car or dog, an insurance bill or a visitor or two and my budget goes out the window. I estimate that a couple with a cat should budget for $1200/month or €15000 a year. PLUS accommodation – allow another €250/ month for renting a 3 bedroom house (you’ll need a guest room, or two). Readers please throw in your two cents worth on this, as costs, as people, vary region to region.

Debt is the enemy. I seriously do not recommend giving up work if you have any debt. What you are undertaking is already enormously financially challenging and complicating the risk with old financial baggage is a bad idea. If you have a mortgage at home or on your new life, then either you or your dog needs a regular job. Sorry about that.

Should the math still be working in your favour, I have this to say. Doing without feels quite good at first. But after a while the novelty wears off and you’d rather have back a flushing toilet, a kitchen with plumbing, a shiny black golf and a goddam dishwasher. So here’s my first piece of advice for those who are persisting with the idea:

1. Don’t Throw the Baby Out With The Bathwater.

I know some people who have tossed their lives away, like me, but they are still living comfortably in a house with modern appliances, eating interesting meals, and maintaining proper standards of personal hygiene. Their secret has been better financial planning coupled with a more moderate approach to deprivation. In essence, they started with more money and they did not elect to live in their ruin.

So, if your other half (or your other identity) is advising caution and saying `let’s give it another 6 months and then we’ll be more financially secure´, then listen to them. On the other hand, that advice would not have saved me. As a freelancer, I may have been waiting forever for that last 50 grand to appear, and it is critical to getting a new life that you don’t put it off forever and to know when you have to make the leap. So if you think your team mate (or you yourself) is just procrastinating and they don’t really want to go and live in Portugal, then dump them and move on.

The point I’m trying to make is when you’re making-frugal, don’t go overboard. Going from living in a penthouse to living in a tent is not nice. Try not to overestimate your stamina and try not to underestimate the length of time your money has to last.

2. Start Living Frugal Immediately And Be Committed.

Somehow you have to guess at the most basic living conditions you can tolerate for an unknown period of time… and then start living that life and stick to it. Even though your money hasn’t run out yet try to live as though it may run out tomorrow. It might sound a bit contradictory to the first advice, but this is about not living in denial about your financial situation. As soon as you stop earning you need to stop spending. Make a long term budget and be sure to include a bucketload of contingency.

One of the trickier things is getting other people to understand your new situation. I am still being invited to skiing trips in Val d’Isère when I haven’t earned a dime in three years. And I don’t even like skiing. You’ll have to tell your friends and family loud and clear, and over and over. No more lavish gifts, no more expensive restaurants. You are Frugalling. You may have to start a blog as well or get a tattoo on your forehead.

3. Go Bush

Mission Frugal should involve the switch from city to country.

The biggest advantage for country living for the ex-city materialist is the absence of temptations. I really appreciate not being surrounded by shops full of shiny things. And there’s something about living in the city that results in needing $15 cocktails on a Friday night. As much as I miss the food, I am glad that I cannot accidentally blow $50 on a sushi tray. Thank god rural Portugal is not a glamorous place – or rather, it is a very unpretentious place. One may comfortably go about looking like a sack and no one snorts or huffs or looks you up and down… On the contrary, I’ve been complimented on my nice dressing gown.

4. Making Friends With The Natives

Let’s now assume you’ve quit your job and moved to Portugal.

Your Portuguese neighbours will be an enormous support and resource to you, even if they want to kill your dog. Firstly because frugality is a way of life in rural Portugal, and secondly they will help you overcome the foreigner/local price divide.

In most places in the world, foreigners are presumed to be better off than the locals, based on the simple principle that you’re travelling and they’re not. It is now your job to undo this misunderstanding. You will ingratiate yourself with your neighbours by complaining about the price of things, griping about being poor and moaning about your poor health. Once you graduate from whingeing you can move onto the higher subjects like local supermarket specials. After that it’s carte blanche on cheap tips: what price they get on sand, which car mechanic won’t rip you off, and what you should have paid for those onion seedlings. And all this invaluable assistance just for your time, your witty banter and your liver.

Unlike your friends at home, your Portuguese neighbours will not expect you to bring a fine wine every time you drop over. On the contrary, my neighbours have scorned all my gifts like home made jam, spaghetti sauce and marinated olives because this gift giving nonsense is just not on. It’s not because they are stingey or ungrateful (no siree, just watch them force food on you) it’s because they don’t have money to waste. Christmas is the best. They gave me crap (but useful) gifts like tea towels, and in return I gave them crap (but useful) things like tea towels.

4. Trading

I discovered the village bartering system by accident. Tia Maria had been abandoned by her children (they went to France to work) which meant she had to walk up and down the hill to tend to the crops. It’s a bitch of a hill and she’s 30 years older than me, so we’d throw the pumpkins the back of my van and I’d give her a lift. No biggie. But then in return she’d try to give me three weeks worth of green beans, a dozen eggs and a bottle of wine.

Once we’d negotiated a more restrained quantity of produce, this became a regular thing. Then I realised that everyone was up for this trading thing. Next door would drop over some lemons, I’d leave a bag of dog food my dog doesn’t like. Lately we’ve been getting into car swapping, internet access for labour, land clearing for firewood.  Of course it’s been going on between them for ever: one historic transaction was when one neighbour fixed the other one’s car for 6 jars of honey. It seems so right that I wonder why we aren’t living like this all our lives…

5. Grow Your Own

Of course you’ll need something to trade, and your exotic city tastes may help. I can’t compete with my neighbour’s talent for horticulture, but I can offer them things they don’t grow or have never tried. My stuff has novelty value. And other friends will appreciate your efforts too – so instead of bringing a bottle of wine you can take a pot of basil, cherry tomatoes or some rocket – things we can’t often find in our local markets. Of course anything else you can grow in your garden will help your frug-style. Growing stuff in Portuguese soil will be made easier if you also raise chickens, and while you’re at it, get a pig, some goats and sheep too.

6. Think Global, Buy Local

The biggest immediate saving to you is that you’ll spend less on petrol, but that’s the next point. You have to buy locally because rural areas are in rapid decline and things will get more expensive if we don’t invest in our tiny towns. Your custom with local business will help you forge relationships which will get you better prices in the long run. If you don’t take an interest in your local shop you might find that it no longer exists next year.

While regular customers are the most valuable, you should try to share the love around. The most obvious example is to buy whatever you can from local markets and not from big supermarkets. At the market I even prefer the smaller, older stallholders who are not importing fruit and vegies, but growing it themselves. Your money goes directly into the local’s pocket and keeps the local economy working. Just now a neighbour proudly showed me some apples that have come from Argentina… can you imagine the real cost of those apples, and can they be so much better than what’s hanging on the tree outside? Maybe they are not paying the extra cost right now, but the economy and the planet’s environment is, and if you’re thinking big picture, it is relevant to your personal operation frugal.

7. Step Off The Gas.

Apart from the urgent need to stop burning fossil fuels, the cost of petrol and the distances you often need to travel in the country is a major handicap to the frugal life. I consider every hour in the car costs me nearly €10. Most of the time I’m better off spending more on individual items at the nearer corner shop than driving further to the supermarket. And I prefer to buy things from my neighbours for more than I’d pay elsewhere because of what I save on petrol. It’s a strong argument for using the bread, fish and veg trucks that visit the village. My neighbours, the dedicated bargain hunters, once recommended I buy car tyres about 1 1/2 hrs drive away. So those cheap €20 retreads really cost me €35 each… and they’ll need replacing again in a year’s time… see more about “false economy” below.

When you have to use the car, take your foot off the gas. Driving slower in this country may even save your life.  And while on the road I try to encourage others to slow down too.  I flirt lasciviously at men who attempt to overtake me, which works a treat. My parents had a test of not using the accelerator on the way home from the shops. In turn us kids would do it too, and make it more fun by not using the brakes either… I still do this today, when there are no other cars around, of course.

8. Beware of False Economy.

There are false economy traps everywhere. Initially I bought cheap vacuum cleaners, cheap power tools and kitchen appliances which all had to be replaced. Buying stuff at the bottom of the market is rarely worth it unless you are really only using it once. When I researched my purchases properly by using organizations like Choice (Australia) I bought things that actually worked, and still work today. Beware especially the lojas chinesas (el-cheapo import shops) in Portugal. I have some strict rules about the things I am allowed to buy in them. I can’t tell you how many hose fittings I’ve been through because I stubbornly refuse to spend three times as much for something that actually functions. So instead I buy things that break before I get them home. Clever.

Frugal shortcuts; Electricity is not your friend. Use the free Espaços Internet if you are only an occasional net user. Give up cheese, or save it for restaurants. Eat less meat. And if you like to take a coffee, you should do as the Porties do and drink espresso… a 55c café is the kind of treat you never have to do without.

For specific prices consult the following:

http://www.mosqueteiros.com/. They publish their brochures on line for both groceries (Intermarché) and hardware (Bricomarché). See “Folhetos”.

More groceries http://www.clubeminipreco.webside.pt/index.htm

Groceries and larger stuff http://www.modelo.pt/promocoes/folhetos

Now, nudie hippie dude, go forth and frugal yourself!

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10 days is not enough! You will not be able to see the whole country without wasting large amounts of time travelling. And this is my Tour Golden Rule #1: spend as little time in the car (or other transport) as possible. You should commit yourself to either the north (north of Porto), the south (south of Lisbon) or central Portugal. This is the central Portugal tour. Well, more or less, because I include Braga, because it´s worth the exception.

Tour Golden Rule #2 is to spend lots of time relaxing and eating. Even with your dearest friends or family it can be hard to gauge just how many churches/museums/goats they want to see… but exhaustion is rarely on anyone´s wish list. Don´t rush them, they are trying to chill out.

Keeping visitors well fed and watered is essential, and Portugal makes this task easy provided you keep an eye on the time. Try to start lunch between 1pm-2pm and dinner between 8-9pm. Getting fed during these hours is guaranteed anywhere, outside these hours you can´t make assumptions. Fortunately tostas mistas, pastéis de nata and café are generally available at all times in an emergency. These disciplined meal times allow you space for morning and afternoon tea as pastries and coffee are a cultural obligation.

We start in Porto and finish in Lisbon. Arranging your flights and transport this way conforms with Rule #1. But whether you start with Porto or Lisbon is up to you.

Day One : Porto

I´ve been sworn to secrecy about the best hotel bargain in all of Portugal, suffice to say you can live royally in Porto and blow away your guests with extravagance, for a mere €83 (triple). After this, unfortunately, nothing else compares. Start hunting now… “Castelo” is your keyword.

Porto has too much to do in just one day… but here´s a bunch of the best: Ribeira district, Bolhão market, Palaçio da Bolsa, São Bento train station and Igreja do Carmo for azulejos, Café Majestic and Leitaria Quinta do Paço for refreshment, Porto Paixão for shopping. The top museum is the Museu do Arte Contemporânea, in a modern Alvaro Siza building and surrounded by gardens. And of course, there is port tasting.

For dining, head to the Ribeira district. The many restaurants range from rustic to fine dining. Take a wander and find your own.

Day Two: Braga

My favourite hotel and restaurant in all of Portugal are in Braga. Hotel Francfort is on the main square. I go there for the furniture, not the plumbing, and for €15 a head no one complains.

The restaurant is Taverna Felix and I recommend you book ahead. They are full every night because their food is fantastic. Leave room for dessert.

In Braga you shouldn´t miss Café Brasileira, the cobbled old town, or a glimpse of the cathedral, the oldest in Portugal. But really you come to Braga to see the Bom Jesus do Monte, a crazy baroque staircase located 5 mins out of town. Take the funicular.

Day Three: Coimbra with a stop at the Palaçio do Busaco

A visit to the Palaçio has been a nice diversion in the past but I don´t think I´ll bother again. It´s a stunning piece of architecture, nestled in a national park, but the €5 entry fee to the park and the bad attitude of the hotel staff when we wanted to have afternoon tea has turned me off. I suppose the time has come when the hotel is sick of tourists, and if they can genuinely afford to turn punters away, then good luck to them.

Coimbra´s personality is dominated by the university, one of the oldest in Europe. A walk around the steep maze of streets in the old centre is a must and it´s best at night. It´s dotted with cool bars where you can mix it with the young people until the wee hours. The Baixa area is full of inexpensive restaurants and hotels. The outstanding sight in Coimbra is the Biblioteca Joanina, don´t miss it. Café Santa Cruz is an excellent place for people watching and for free fado on a Friday or Saturday night.

Day Four and Five we spent at my house… so here are some other suggestions because I can´t put you all up. You could stay in Coimbra two nights and visit the roman ruins at Conimbriga. There´s an excellent restaurant at the ruins too, with more spectacular desserts, mark my words. Suggestion two is Tomar, or Santarem. If the people like Batalha (see next) then you could also take them to Alcobaça, and Leiria is also good for a feed, or a shop or another castle. If you need a nature fix, go to Lousã, where you can stay at the excellent youth hostel or the adorable palaçio, or a least eat at A Condessa. From Lousã you can walk in the mountains and visit the Aldeias do Xisto. Only two days to fill, and too many suggestions.

Day Six: Nazaré with a stop in Batalha

“A Giant Hairy Spider” is how I describe the UNESCO-listed monastery known as Batalha. There is nothing else to do here, but with a monument this awesome, you need no distractions. The best café is located perpendicular to the cathedral towards the man on the horse.

The best part of Nazaré, apart from the beach, is O Sitio.  Hang around near the cliff walk and you´ll be approached to rent rooms, hopefully by Dona Berta, as we were. One knockout bargain two bed apartment (€70) with views,  thank you very much. For unforgettable garlic prawns head for Vista A Mar, the first restaurant on the way to the lighthouse (Farol).

Still in O Sitio, visit the tiny chapel called Hermida da Memoria, and then take the funicular down to the beach. Past the restaurant strip at right angles to the sea there are impressive pastelarias. The beach has very photogenic tents in the summer and a large fish drying camp, with some very tolerant local oldies waiting.

We were loving Nazaré, with our enviable apartment and gorgeous weather, so we stayed another night and on the second day did a day trip to Obidos. Obidos is more touristy than most places in Portugal, but it is very cute nonetheless. Get off the main path and you can avoid the bus tour groups. Up on the miradouro is a quiet, leafy and groovy bar.

Day Eight: Caldas da Rainha.

I love Caldas, where the daily main-square market, the park, the Bordalo Pinheiro museum and factory shop are on the agenda. In Caldas I love the Residencial Central and Café Central.

Day Nine: Lisboa to stay, with stops in Sintra and Mafra

The Palaçio Naçional de Mafra showcases the obscene spending of Dom João V. It´s a massive place with some lovely baroque living quarters, an interesting hospital and kitchen for the monks and a stunning royal library. But don´t miss the town of Mafra itself. There are more than a few quality pastelarias and good restaurants.

Then it´s onto Sintra which has a choice of castles to visit. My number one here is the Palaçio de Pena, a mockery of a royal palace designed by the royals themselves who clearly had a sense of humour. It´s camp, disney and delightful but I hope the €12 entry fee doesn´t turn you off. It´s doubled in price in 3 years. I´m all for a tourism-led-economic-recovery but… eek.

Day Ten: Lisboa

Again, it´s difficult to fit this great city into just a day. Three days might start to do it justice. Time to make the visitors commit to a return visit…

Driving around Lisbon will make you swear. Dump the car asap if you have one. Stay in a hotel that has a deal with a carpark.

For an impressive bargain hotel you need to book at least a week ahead. Try the Lisbon Lounge Hostel or look at others in Alfama, the Baixa or Bairro Alto so you´ll have atmosphere at your doorstep.

Things I call must dos: Confeitaria Naçional: coffee and pastries are the priority, naturally. Tram 28 is in all the guide books, but note that the good bit is between Estrela and Alfama. As it doesn´t pass through Praça Figueira anymore then perhaps the short round trip of the 12E is more convenient.

The 15E tram from Praça Figueira will conveniently take you to Belem, where you can have a famous pastel, see Jerónimos for free, visit the Berardo Modern Art Museum and check out the Torre de Belem.

While still on transport, I´ve always wanted to take the ferry from Cais do Sodré to Cacilhas. A relaxing 20 minutes each way and great views of Lisbon. And for more transport-for-fun, take one of the four elevadores in Lisbon and the Santa Justa lift.

I think the Gulbenkian Museum has one of best collections in the world: Calouste Gulbenkian was a fascinating person, the collection is varied, not too big and ends with a stunning Lalique jewellery collection. Or if there are 8 yr olds to impress, go to the Museu dos Coches, (coaches, as in cinderella) which, they say, is the most visited museum in Portugal.

In Lisbon you have a chance to show off some amazing interiors over dinner. We went to Casa do Alentejo and Galeto, which in my mind is the grooviest restaurant in the world. Bairro Alto is the perfect place to window shop for restaurants and bars. Alfama too is dotted with tiny authentic places, and you can’t really go too wrong.

Yeah I know, it´s all over too soon. A month next time. A year. Or the rest of your life…

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But the thing is, the arrival of spring is indeed worth noting. As Sr Cardoso points out, the season of spring in Portugal is a true season, not just summer light. The charm of spring is that it definitively marks the end of the winter. OK that’s obvious, but its psychological effect is really significant. Quite suddenly this year, the sun has come out, I’m not wearing a coat and insects are everywhere. And the flowers! Spring has sprung!

That the malady named SAD (seasonal affective disorder) actually has been given a name (and what a dumb name) seems ridiculous to me. Of course winter makes you unhappy. Winter is miserable.  Winter is bad for you. It’s cold, wet and dark. Winter should be renamed depressing. I concede that some things about winter can be nice, like a roaring fire, woollen scarves and hot chocolate or a warming whisky. And I do like snow, for an hour. But the rest of it totally sucks. I could tolerate winter in Sydney, because it’s not really winter, just summer again, watered down. We don’t need beanies or gloves, for instance. I hate beanies. If there are laws against wearing headscarves I think there should be laws against wearing beanies too. To me beanies represent something dangerous, oppressive and separatist. Beanies are a political statement.

And this winter has been the worst winter ever, according to my neighbours. Tia Maria says she has never seen a winter as long and cold and despicable as this one. You know it’s a bad winter when matches won’t light. This year the firelighters won’t light either. The vet told me we have had five days of sunshine since October. And not just a bad winter in Portugal either.  Even the Swedes were complaining about the snow, still falling in April (just for me and the film crew). And Swedes are pretty tough.

So thank god that some buds have appeared on the bare trees at last, confirming what we were all quietly suspecting, that it’s not quite so cold as the week before. Like the trees, I’m relieved to have survived the hibernation. I’ve run out of firewood, because it’s been longer and more fierce than expected, but now I don’t have to run around after twigs like my life depended on it. The panic of basic survival is over. And that’s what the little flowers are saying: it’s not something twee or quaint or puerile: it’s time to get on living, which is not what I’ve been doing this winter.

I look around the still soggy, green-with-moss-house, and my ruin looks more ruined than ever. It seems years since I did any building work. I have watched while others continued to point and pour in the hours between showers, but up here in the mountains I just can’t see building in winter as a feasible proposition. During the multiple trips back and forth from the Tomar plains I calculated there must be five degrees difference in temperature, and if it’s cloudy down there, it’s raining up here. And it never seems to be just raining here; it’s either gusty & rainy or bucketing. Or it is just that I’ve lost my nerve? A financial beating is psychologically crushing as anyone knows: it’s an dark and omnipresent worry. Being sick is humiliating and boring, and both of these things are tangible obstacles to building work. But the winter has smothered me, like my eyes are still full of dirt from the burrow and my mind is foggy from the deep sleep of internment. My stores of incentive are as empty as my garden.

And I confess: I can see the projection that some weaker wills judge me to be. A dreamer. A procrastinator. An ingenue. HEY! STOP RIGHT THERE CAPTAIN! I only have to write those words to see how wrong there are. Moi, ingenue? Given the choice between the crotchety, tired and disappointed old woman of the winter, and a blithe virgin-of-life: I’ll take the wrinkles thanks. Young I was once, but naive I’ve never been.

If there’s SAD for winter, is there a diagnosis for spring? Is it contagious?

Goodbye winter. Good riddance. Shower me with spring rain, let me walk in compost and estrume and adubo and the sun:-  shine, warm and colour me… and watch me grow a house with my hands.

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When I bought my old house, she had no telephone line, which is quite normal for old houses in this country. Throughout rural portugal you will still see crusty signs that advertise a phone service in a local café or general store. Not so long ago, no one had a phone, and then suddenly mobile phones appeared, and the humble landline simply passed into obscurity. The technology skipped a generation.

And that’s fine if your locale has a nice robust mobile signal floating about. Mine doesn’t, which means to make or receive communications I had to walk up the mountain and stand on one leg. Which would have been complicated had I severed a limb with the chainsaw.

I explained this situation to Portugal Telecom in December 2007, in the hope that they would come the next day and fix me up with a telephone service. The next day, they did not. I continued to call them daily to remind them, and to also remind them that I was using a rival telecommunication company’s mobile network to do so. The more they put me off, the more money I would spend with vodafone. But they didn’t care.

After the first couple of months I decided to use a different tactic. I didn’t really need to explain that I was a foreigner but I pointed out that as an Australian-type foreigner almost everyone I knew was a very expensive phone call away. And how we Australians like to jibber-jabber. What a good client I would be! A big spender! But this didn’t impress them either.

Next, I tried begging. Then I tried being a pest. I tried being nice and developing a ‘customer service relationship’. At this point I had a breakthrough of sorts. They told me they were thinking about connecting the phone. I asked if they would call me back when they had thought about it and I was told “we are not allowed to call our clients”. Um, hello? Trying to do business, and you cannot call your clients? A telecommunications company who cannot call their clients. Nice strategy. Don’t think it will catch on somehow.

It was, at least, an original angle on the “don’t call us, we’ll call you” attitude traditional taken by producers towards actors. And I knew what that meant. It meant that our phoney relationship was over.

Several months later I received a letter from PT informing me that they had finished thinking about connnecting me and had decided not to. It was too hard. Too expensive. But you know, time had passed and I had moved on. I wasn’t hurt. I felt no desire to respond. I mean, I couldn’t exactly call them on my home phone or anything. They made it easy for me to walk away.

Just now I’m remembering something quite funny about dealing with Portugal Telecom. Everytime you call up they want you to provide a phone number. “That’s exactly the reason for my call” I would say, (for which they had no automated response). Brazil, anyone?

So my life continued on its uninterrupted way, free from birthday wishes, announcements of births and deaths, random calls from mother at 8am on a Sunday. In fact, as I didn’t have a TV or radio at this time either, my life trickled over without so much a squeak from the outside world, unless I dared to venture down to the tiny town for a newspaper or session at the espaço internet. Even then, the modern world would come to me only in strictly measured doses. And it’s amazing how few letters you receive when you send none yourself. And no pigeons arrived either (note huge gap in the market there, entepreneurs…).

Occasionally people from modern life would come to visit, because even though my existence had diminished to a barely detectable vibration, other people’s lives continued with the same rampant tramping zeitgeist as ever. I would be horrified by visitors who incessantly sent and received text messages and had separation anxiety from facebook after an hour. They scoffed at the absence of hotspots. Like, at the fonte. At the depositos do lixo. In the forest. Nothing. No signal. Zip. Tch. Toh. Gr. Humph. Who were these people, I wondered,  and what planet were they from?

Then, out of the blue, an incredibly good-looking guy with an 8 metre pole arrived and asked where would I like it. It was now December 2008, and I was making an on-the-spot decision about where to fit an ugly eyesore into my grandiose house plans. Up went the pole, and we fixed a date to run the cables.

I almost forgot to tell you about the sex. We were discussing a potential pole site down in the garden. I was standing on a wall that drops off a few metres to the little road below, and my neighbour was passing by, checking out me-and-hunkyportugueseguy. I wobbled, and considering that this was in pre-vertigo days, I think we’ll have to say I swooned, and Senhor Telefone reached out and grabbed me. And pulled me swiftly towards him. To him. At him. Oomph. My neighbour reacted just as I did, with a shriek of surprise and delight. And then it was over. But the moment was good and I definitely felt the earth move.

He came back to fix the line rather inconveniently as my sister and brother-in-law arrived for a visit. Rather more inconveniently for my sister who wanted to take a shower but found that the up-the-pole position gave the techo a perfect view of her less-suntanned bits. I argued on the side of the techo installing my much needed phone, but she got wise and covered the window with a piece of cardboard. The details one remembers of a good day. We sat around in high anticipation of connecting to the world, but as it goes in Portugal things don’t happen in the pre-estimated time. We were waiting for three days.

Mario, or Paulo? I can´t even remember his name, how superficial of me.

Maybe it was during this time that they decided I should start a blog. All I know is it wasn’t my idea and after a year of seclusion the last thing on my mind was revealing my every waking thought to the universe, especially if my thoughts were locked in the tedium of choosing toilet appliances. I was excited enough just to have a telephone line to telephone people on, but in a matter of minutes I would have email rushing at me, a world of information and news available, a facebook account where long lost friends could be found again and then in a month or two, I would be out there living nude in blogland. OK not nude, but sometimes feeling exposed nonetheless.

At first, I confess,  I found the contrast a bit extreme, but after few weeks I felt comfy in my little global village. I was mollycoddled by the fresh warmth of friends and family. While I  watched my life from another (quieter) era slip away, and the irritating interruptions of random communication began creeping in, I also realised anew just how important friends are.

And starting the blog only reinforced this. I expected the internet to be full of weirdos, and I can confirm that it is, but a few of them are now my friends, and if you can’t beat ‘em, join ‘em.

A year on, and more than 60,000 visits later, I’d like to thank a few people. Foremost, a gargantuan thank you to Fairy and Med for taking it on and keeping me going. About 6 months into it tinyartdirector and I realized there wasn’t going to be any largesse of riches coming our way but we had created quite a nice cuddly monster which other people liked as well, so we’d better keep at it.

Big massive thanks also to Isabel (weirdo) for her constant ideas and feedback. Dee (weirdo in spain) and all the other hilarious women who have tuned in and encouraged. Non-scalable Derek (not that weird) and a variety of other cheerful blokes who’ve gotten into the building bits without being patronizing fools (I will try to actually build something this year, promise) and to all the Portuguese; the porties and the tugas who’ve made me feel welcome even though I can whinge like a pom and can’t write in their language, yet. Thanks peeps. Thanks.

Oh and I should thanks my pets, Mao and Wookie, for being themselves and keeping me warm in the winter. Onya, fellas

Ironic (or just stupidly shitful) that my phone line/internet connection died around the time of the one year anniversary of the first post. And I´m still not reconnected after months and innumerable chats with the good people at 16200. Shout out to Anna, Alvaro, Fernando, Patricia, Maria, Nuno… quite a lot of people there to answer the phones but no one to come and actually fix the line. And Portugal Telecom still don’t call their clients. What’s that all about?

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We would like to explain Emma’s protracted absence this month, and hope for your understanding on this matter.

To start with, Emma had a cold. We cannot provide a doctor’s certificate but as we are recovering from the worst winter on record I’m sure you appreciate that a few sick days are to be expected.

We believe the cold was brought on by stress, first initiated when Emma’s old but faithful ibook refused to start up. Thus began a search for the nearest apple repairer which led to the fateful trip to Coimbra.

On the way home was when the accident occurred. In a setting of rain,  congested traffic and roadworks, the driver in front braked suddenly and in reacting, Emma’s vehicle slid into oncoming traffic and collided with the another vehicle. Yes, yes, all her fault, technically. Fortunately, no excess of speed was involved, and Wookie simply slipped from the passenger’s seat onto the floor.

In service of expediency, Emma admitted fault and she and the other driver got all amicable together. It was then that Emma had the dumb idea of calling the cops. In the meantime, Emma was experiencing shock and some confusion regarding the circumstances of the accident. She stood staring at the large amount of debris on the road, particularly at a broken number plate that did not belong either to her vehicle nor to the other driver. The quantity of broken plastic and glass was most bewildering, especially the Fiat badge on a busted front grill and a discarded bumper bar. A road worker approached Emma and taking her by the shoulders, guided her back off the road. “This is the seventh accident here today. They only just finished sweeping the road after the last one,” he said.

Then Emma realized how the accident had happened. The road was as slippery as an ex-prime minister at a tribunal hearing, covered in a fine and compromising layer of dirt and oiliness. She had unwittingly ventured into an accident black spot. Bummer.

The coppers arrived. They didn´t help. They were mean, in a bad mood, and I´ve met some surly pigs in my life. Egyptian police for example; you have to carry cigarettes for them to calm them down. I encountered Turkish police after being sprung kissing in a public place, and even though I had apparently broken the law and they took us down to the station, there were quite ok, possibly a bit embarrassed as I kept asking them what they were doing at a remote lookout at midnight… was there a murderer?

But here goes the porty policia; after I so rudely interrupted their card game or something… They asked me to explain the circumstances, then banana 1 walked away, just as I started to speak. Banana 2 was not interested in looking at the scale of the debris left by other vehicles or speaking to the roadworkers on the scene. They wouldn’t even look me in the eye. B2 shouted. I replied, I´m foreign, not deaf. They made derisive remarks like “we. don’t. speak. engrish”. They accused me of excessive speed (based on what?). If they were so keen to do their job, the opportunity was there eating a doggie chew on my front seat – Wookie should have been in a box. But I surmise that these gents were as adequate at policing as they were at being decent.

But it´s just bad police PR: this behaviour I think is so very unportuguese. The other driver was embarrassed for them and within a few minutes of the police’s arrival apologised to me on their behalf. After several attempts, and despite me not holding the right bit of insurance paper, the other driver convinced me not to involve them.

Driving past the location a week later, the traffic was diverted and the same stretch of road is closed, like it was all some b-grade conspiracy movie about an hysterical blonde journalist.

Now car-less and computer-less I decide the time is right to chop off the dog’s nuts. Wookie becomes tomato-less. On a previous visit home (during houseminding) I met another 6 or 7 little wookie-poodles who may, any day, be abruptly given a new home in the wild. There are other male dogs in the village to father future furry tragedies, but at least I and mine will not be a part of it. So then, a couple of days leave-of-absence were spent passing the bag of frozen peas to the dog. I am secretly hoping that the desire to chase sheep and chickens was sexual, and has also therefore been neutered.

Speaking of home, houseminding bliss in the Ribatejo came to an end and I had to move back to the village. Nastiness awaited; my entire house went mouldy while I was away. The walls had mould, the toaster had mould, the picture frames had mould. Not just a few days were spent cleaning, scrubbing, washing, drying, painting and moving stuff in and out.

And just when I almost had the house habitable again, a film crew wanted to move me out again! They came to shoot an episode of  House Hunters International, a cable show about foreigners and real estate. Naturally, with drama/disaster in my aura I took the whole filming thing like a visit from demons-past. Not only that they wanted me to re-live the whole house buying catastrophe but the ghost takes the form of the film industry and this time I am to be the instrument and not the musician, or even the composer. Warm props. Actors. Talent. Yuck.

Of course it wasn’t so bad. In fact, the crew were so adorable (hi to chris, davide & jeff, we are still missing you) that it made me want to be back in the business. They reminded me of some of the great people I worked with, and particularly of the world-wise, liberal, sharp and simpatico men the film industry has in its employ. As for the action, Mao stole the show by hiding in the stone oven just as I was trying to act out ´getting a feel for living here´ and poked him with a bread paddle. He flew out, towards camera, quite literally like a bat out of hell. Soory for the heart attack davide, but god I hope you got the shot.

Meanwhile the car is fixed and my 4 week shitfight to get a new mac is finally over (just cut to the chase and buy it from fnac, portuguese mac-people, and don’t be seduced by the price of the mac mini, as it’s a hassle and a half. The piece work then becomes cable wrangling and more whatnot. And how much is this non-mac keyboard shitting me? Just buy the macbook next time. Just buy the macbook. Just… Grr) Another few days spent unpacking boxes and searching for items lost (if filming is tolerable then try moving house and filming on the same day). But now there’s the internet connection problem. Apparently the phone line also went mouldy and PT hasn’t fixed it yet and nor do they seem interested in doing so. Usual game. It’s been said before, but when it comes to modern life, Portugal is a pain in the arse. They have the technology, they just don’t know how to work it.

Now if all that isn’t enough of an excuse, I also slipped off to Stockholm for the easter weekend to do another day’s shoot (again, super nice crew, Izzy Paul and Ray), and to hang out with some sorely missed Swedish friends. If I really could relive the house purchase, I would take a tin shed there rather than a stone chateau here anyday. Sorry tugas, but Sweden is truly utopian.

The only bad thing about going away is what I come back to. Not only did Mao abscond for 4 days of the 5, he also to broke a toe. But Wookie and I are back on track after a few months where there was no love left to lose. There’s a whole lotta brown furry love going on at my place.

So while I am not exactly online, I am at least trying to be. Standby for more, if you please.

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