Gran Canaria 2015

February 2014

During an evening spent with the neighbours John and Anne, who got to know us when we were living temporarily in Mitre Court with Emma, the subject turned to holidays. They told us of a really good hotel in a resort called Mogan in Gran Canaria. They’d been a few times and were suitably impressed with John telling us the hotel welcomed you with a drink and even took your luggage to your room for you. We hadn’t the heart to tell him that most hotels we’d been to did this so it wasn’t that exceptional. We thanked them for the advice and I immediately forgot about it.

September 2014

Pauline said she wanted to book a short break early in 2015 and thought she might try the hotel and resort that John and Anne had recommended earlier in the year. This she did.

March 2015

During another evening with John and Anne as the talk of his allotment slowly dried up along with my interest, the conversation turned to the old standby of holidays again. Pauline told them that we were going to the hotel and resort that they’d told us about the previous year. “Oh, when are you going?” asked John. “First week in May,” said Pauline. “Well guess what?” said John, “you’re going to be there during our second week. We’ll see you there!”

That’s when I reached for the third bottle of wine…

Highlights Of A Week In May 2015. Gran Canaria

Monday Day 1

We were met at Las Palmas airport by Paul, the Thomas Cook rep who immediately annoyed me during the coach journey to Mogan, our resort, by speaking in sentences that ended as if he was asking us a question all the time. 

He used the words ‘cool’ and ‘beautiful’ at every opportunity. He told us about the welcome meeting tomorrow. 

Well he doesn’t, he asks us, “There will be a welcome meeting tomorrow morning at 10.30?” 

Oh, will there Paul? Are you sure? You seem to be asking us, the people who’ve just bloody arrived and have no idea where they are or what’s going on yet. If you wait until we get to the bloody hotel I’ll ask someone for you. Will that be OK with you?

Tuesday Day 2

It’s time for the dreaded welcome meeting. 

Oh how I hate these things but Pauline likes to go just in case she stumbles on a pure nugget of interesting information hidden amongst the constant drivel pouring out of the rep’s mouth.

Paul was waiting for us with his clipboard. As we approached he glanced down at his board and said, “Your names are?” I said, “You should know, you’re our rep after all. If I can remember your name Paul, the least you can do is make the effort and remember ours.”

There were only three couples there including us!

Paul continued to ask us questions with every statement he came out with. “This part of the island is the most cool and beautiful? It can be as quiet or as interesting as you want it to be?” and so on…and so on. Then he said, “Next week in Puerto Rico it’s Gay Pride week? So if you want some excitement it might be an idea to pay a visit? It can get a bit fruity in the evening though, so you’ve been warned?”

What a strange word to use. Fruity.

If it were me Paul, and I was addressing three couples, all of whom were obviously over the age of consent and past their sixtieth birthdays I don’t think I’d have been so coy when describing Gay Pride week as fruity. More like the evenings will be one long homosexual orgy wherever you went and if you don’t want to watch tattooed poofs with pony tails, stubble and piercings having sex in public then best stay clear, would be my advice.

Most of the rest of Paul’s talk concentrated on encouraging us to go to the Aeroclub. A ‘famous’ comedy drag dinner and show that he promised would be the funniest night of our holiday.

By this time I was having serious doubts about Paul’s sexual orientation.

Paul continued, “This show is so good in fact that Denise Welch of ‘Loose Women’ has been to see it? She was so impressed and thought it so hilarious she invited the three drag queens to her wedding? She even got them a spot on ‘Loose Women’?” 

Well far be it from me to interrupt your delusional presentation Paul but a recommendation like that only goes to reinforce my idea that this evening out will be one of crap of the highest order and should be avoided at all costs. Just in case we needed any further evidence Paul handed out the publicity flyer which managed to convince us even more of the inordinate amount of shit on offer during this ‘hilarious evening out’. 

Here’s what the brochure says so you can make your own minds up:

‘A truly magnificent night of dazzling costumes, side splitting laughter and a cast of unique characters singing and dancing all night long! All achieved by three poofs in dresses!’

I made that last bit up. There are also pictures on the brochure of one old tart wearing a pair of comedy ‘big ears’ and gurning, another one wearing outsize sun glasses…and gurning and another wearing a comedy false moustache…and gurning. Need I go on? 

Paul seemed to think it was all cool and beautiful and I didn’t want to disillusion him so I kept quiet with a wry smile on my face the whole time.

Paul’s parting shot was to inform us, “Don’t forget there are free tea, coffee and biscuits every day at 3pm in the library area? I recommend that you all get there early as all the good biscuits disappear fast? That’s the end of my little talk? If you want to book any trips just come and see me? I’m around the hotel most days and times are pinned on the notice board?  Any questions about anything I’ve said?”

I put my hand up. 

“Yes?” said Paul.

“What are the good biscuits Paul? I personally prefer a Hob Nob...”

Wednesday Day 3

John and Anne Watch.

We’ve been here three days and I’m a nervous wreck. We haven’t bumped into John and Anne yet so it’s so far, so good. I’m keeping a low profile by moving around the hotel in a stealthy and secretive manner. I’ve calculated the distance from our hotel room to the pool as 2 stairwells and 6 large Palm trees. 

Modus operandi as follows: 

 1. Rush from room to stairwell. Stand flat against the wall and breathe deeply. 

 2. When coast is clear, Rush downstairs to ground floor stairwell, stand flat against wall and calculate distance to 1st Palm tree. 

 3. Look to left and right, ignoring passing guests and using my old SAS training, snake crawl on my belly to first Palm tree. 

 4. Suddenly spring upright when reaching tree and standing stock still, get 2nd tree in sight. By this time Pauline is already over by the pool and is using the binoculars I brought with us. She's scanning the horizon. 

5. Using our pre-arranged set of signals, I emit my 'curlew on heat' bird cry and wait for Pauline's reply. One owl hoot from her means the coast's clear, two owl hoots mean hang on a minute I've dropped the binoculars and three hoots mean it might be dangerous to move at this time. 

 6. Getting the right owl hoot I suddenly sprint full pelt for the 2nd tree knocking any OAPs, the disabled and any cute children out of the way into the surrounding bushes. 

 7. At the 2nd tree I emit my 'all's well' monkey scream and wait for Pauline's next hoot. 

 8. Repeat until safely by the pool. 

 During the evening I wear all black clothing and smear black boot polish on my face and hands to merge into the night.  We always seem to get a table to ourselves at dinner, don't know why.

As we went into dinner tonight we were greeted at the door by a man dressed as some sort of Spanish cowboy. I have no idea why. He was just there.

Thursday Day 4

John and Anne Watch

I spent breakfast hiding behind the coffee machine. No sign of them yet. Then I spent the rest of the day by the pool disguised as a beach umbrella. Still no sign of them. I’m beginning to think I'm wasting my time.

During our evening stroll we found a very small bar, four tables outside, two tables inside. No English being spoken, always a good sign. At one of the outside tables sat an elderly man and two friends. He was playing the guitar and singing in Spanish while his two friends were encouraging him. Free entertainment? Why not. 

We sat at a table near them, ordered two brandies and a coffee. Pauline opened her bag and suddenly said, "Oh, I've not got my purse. I've left it at the hotel." 

She said to the girl serving us, "I'll have to go back to the hotel to get my purse." The girl said, "No problem. You stay. Pay us tomorrow."

Bloody hell. How trusting is that?

Pauline said, "No, I'll go,” and nodding at me, “I'll leave him here." 

And off she went. 

The hotel was about 10 minutes’ walk away. When Pauline got back after about half an hour or so, I'd finished the two brandies, made three new friends and was buying drinks for the guitarist and his mates. 

I was standing on a table with the guitarist singing "Bombalero", while I flamenco'd next to him. I shouted to Pauline, "Get the brandies in quick. We're doing his greatest hits next!” 

Then fell off the table.

What a night...

Friday Day 5

At breakfast I saw a man eating a huge bowl of muesli with a knife and fork. It took all my self-control to stop myself going over to him and saying “What the hell are you doing you really stupid person?”

The evening meal buffet area is absolutely huge. I can never remember where everything is. I always get back to our table with a plate of assorted bits only to find Pauline’s plate has things on it I never saw at all. 

I need a bloody sat-nav to get around the place.

Saturday Day 6

Saw Larry David eating breakfast at the next table to us this morning. Pauline said, “Don’t be stupid.” It wasn’t until I heard him speaking German that I conceded he might not be the famous comedian/producer/script writer. 

Still not sure though.

Monday Day 8

Time to go home. 

The coach is arriving to take us to the airport and we’re waiting outside the hotel with our cases trying to have a good time with John and Anne. We got to the airport around midday and our flight’s at 14.15. We’d already booked our seats and printed our boarding details online so we joined the much shorter online check in queue. 

Finally we’d checked in and we were handed our passports and boarding passes. From there we walked through the departure lounge and out to the security area. A woman was standing there looking at passports and boarding passes and ushering people through to the real security area where you have to submit to the usual indignities before you’re deemed not to be some sort of terrorist.

The woman took our passports and boarding cards.

She quickly checked Pauline’s but when she looked at my boarding pass she noticeably panicked, ever so slightly. “No, no,” she said and moved in front of me to make sure I couldn’t move forward. “No, no,” she said again and called over a male colleague. 

He took both boarding passes and repeatedly flicked between them with a worried look on his face. All of a sudden he said, “No, you go back, you go back.” 

It was then we saw what the problem appeared to be.

Pauline’s boarding pass said:  ‘Mrs. Pauline Southcombe. Seat 26A’.

My boarding pass said: ‘Mrs. Pauline Southcombe. Seat 26A’.

“But all they’ve done is printed one out incorrectly at the desk,” we said, showing him the details which we had printed off at home, “Look, Mrs. Southcombe Seat 26A, Mr. Southcombe Seat 26B. We’ve already booked it.”

“Go back to company,” the man said, “Go back to company.” 

What did he mean? 

“Go back,” he said again and led us back out of the security area and pointed to the departure lounge. “Go back to company,” he said yet again. Pauline was fuming. “Oh this is ridiculous,” she said to the man, “It’s just a boarding pass that the sour-faced stupid woman at the check in desk has printed off incorrectly.”

We made our way back to the departure lounge, through the crowds of people queuing to check in and made a beeline for Paul the rep. We told him what had happened and he immediately said, “No problem. I’ll get it sorted.” We stood and waited while he spoke to someone behind the desk.

"They’re going to get the airport manager down,” he said.

“Why?” we said. 

Paul just shrugged. 

He asked us to go and sit down and he would come across to us when it was all sorted out. It would only be five minutes or so. 

Ten minutes passed. No sign of anyone. Paul was keeping himself busy helping passengers at the check in. it was now 12.45. We went back to Paul. “What’s going on? Where’s the airport manager?” Paul spoke to someone else behind the desk. “Oh, she’s apparently busy dealing with something else. She’ll be along shortly.” 

“Our flight goes at 14.15 and it’s now 13.00,” said Pauline, “We are going to get that flight are we?” 

“Oh absolutely,” said Paul, “don’t worry.” 

We sat down again. Time dragged on. It was now 13.20, the departure lounge had emptied out, everyone had checked in for all flights and the airport staff were busy picking up and clearing away all the temporary barriers, signs and equipment scattered about the hall.

Paul and another rep were now standing at the check in desk talking to a man and the sour-faced woman who had  checked us in and cocked everything up for us. 

And do you know what? 

The bloody airport manager never turned up and all we had to do was give our passports to the check in cock-up woman who tutted and immediately printed out two correct boarding passes. No apology from her at all. It was left to Paul to apologise profusely even though none of it was actually his fault. What a fiasco. 

Not only were we made to feel like criminals we’d spent all our free time before the flight in a highly exaggerated state of nervousness and worry. It had all taken an unnecessary length of time to resolve what should have been a quick reprint of the boarding passes in two minutes flat. The bastards.

We finally made our way back to the security area. A woman took Pauline’s boarding pass and placed it on a scanner. It beeped. Jesus, something appears to be wrong. Please don’t say they’ve screwed it up again…please. The woman tried again. Another beep. She gave the pass to another woman who looked at it intently. She finally smoothed it out a bit, placed it on another scanner and it was accepted. I can’t tell you how relieved we felt. We finally got to the departure gate with around five minutes to spare before boarding began.

Bloody hell!

On the plane Pauline decided she was going to buy three bottles of spirit to take home. Now although the Canary Islands are part of the EU, they are outside the EU VAT area which means that all duty free allowances have to adhere to non-EU country rules which means, yes you’ve guessed, only one bottle of spirit per person and we had a total of three. “We’re over the limit,” I said to Pauline who ignored me completely.

The flight was on time and we got to the baggage carousel to wait for our luggage. Eventually quite a few cases came bouncing and crashing down but after a while – nothing. The carousel kept turning but no new bags were appearing. 

We waited and waited. 

Nothing. 

Nobody knew why. 

Five minutes. Ten minutes. Fifteen minutes. Twenty minutes. 

Nothing. 

Then suddenly, with a sudden noise,  all the luggage started to bang and crash down again. After a wait of thirty minutes or so we had our bloody cases. This was the second fiasco and I was beginning to get really concerned that there could be a third before we got out of the damned airport.

Then I remembered the duty free we were carrying...

We went through ‘Nothing to Declare’ and I tried my usual trick of trying to look innocent while all the time thinking to myself, bloody hell, it’s a long walk to the exit isn’t it, don’t walk funny, don’t look too serious, don’t smile, don’t look too casual but don’t look too worried, look natural….

We got to the other end alive and I’ve never had such a nerve-wracking flight in all my life. It couldn’t have been worse…or could it?

Well yes it could and there’s always next time isn’t there?

Portugal 2009 - Day 1

It’s the early hours of Monday June 1^st and we’re off on a three day city break to Lisbon followed by seven days on the coast at Estoril. The flights and hotels are booked and we’re going to make our own way in Portugal using their apparently excellent and cheap public transport. On the way to Heathrow we managed to miss the turning to ‘Long Term Parking’ three times so it doesn’t bode too well for finding our way around Portugal does it?

We arrived at Lisbon airport and found the right bus to take us to the city centre and our hotel but there were a lot of people seemingly doing the same as us. We clambered on board with our cases and Pauline immediately spotted a couple of seats right at the back of the bus and while I struggled to put the cases on one of the luggage racks at the front of the bus she rushed to the back to get the seats. It didn’t help that all the time I was case struggling there was a constant stream of people boarding and packing out the bus – standing room only. By the time I reached Pauline at the back I was already hot, bothered and bewildered and it was only about one hour into the holiday.

“Do we know where to get off?” I said.

“Of course, I’ve got the instructions here, it has all the stops on the route,” said Pauline.

The bus had a small overhead display screen that showed the stops and there was a pre-recorded announcement in Portuguese telling us the stop as well. I couldn’t really understand the announcement and I couldn’t read the display so a fat lot of good that all was. I relied on Pauline to dig me in the ribs when it was our stop which brought to an end me constantly asking her if we were there yet and was she sure she knew when our stop would appear. As the bus progressed it got more and more crowded with luggage being stacked in the racks on top of ours. I noticed that you had to get off the bus from the door at the back and when it was our stop I had to struggle down the length of the bus to get the cases and then fight my way through to the back again to get off. All this time there was a constant stream of people with luggage moving up and down, some getting on from the front, others getting off at the back, with me in the middle chucking cases in the air in an attempt to find ours before rushing to the open doors at the back before they closed and we drove off again.

Nobody said “Let me help you” and nobody got out of the way when they saw me careering towards them with two out of control suitcases until I’d bashed into them a few times and only then did they make the smallest of movements to let me pass. I got off the bus even more hot, bothered and bewildered than I was at the beginning.

Luckily the hotel was only a couple of streets away from the bus stop and right in the centre of things so at least we didn’t have far to walk.

After checking in we took a tram to the Alfama district. This is the oldest area in Lisbon and is situated at the top of a steep hill. Taking the tram up there and walking down seemed like an excellent idea. Alfama is a collection of ancient homes, squares and narrow cobbled streets topped off by the Castle of St. George, surrounded by a dry moat and with far-reaching views of the city below.

Portugal 2009 - Day 2

We were coming down in the lift with a German man and his wife when the man suddenly and without warning said, “Are you in best condition?” When we looked surprised and replied, “Best condition?” he said, “Yes, are you both in best condition? Oh, do you not say in English are you in best condition?” We said, “No.” He said, “What never?” We said, “Not really.” He said, “Oh, sorry.”

Luckily we never saw him again.

Some foreign man at the breakfast buffet counter hesitantly picked up a slice of bread in his hand, realised he should be using the tongs provided, fumbled the bread and dropped it on the floor. Then in a completely useless gesture to hygiene used the tongs to pick it up from the floor and left it on the side of the counter.

We decided to visit the traditional old centre of the city. Lisbon is very hilly so rather than climb up to it we went looking for the Bica Funicular which would whiz us up there in no time. Pauline had her map of the city so we knew we were walking in the right direction, even recognising some of the street names as we passed, but could we find this bloody Funicular thing? Blimey, you’d think there would be some signs pointing in the right direction at least but there was nothing until we walked past a hole in the wall. Suddenly Pauline said, “That’s it!” And it was. About two feet inside this hole was a small ticket barrier and a narrow track rising ahead of us at about 60 degrees with the small carriage of the Funicular clattering down towards us. We waited patiently while the driver and passengers got off and then started to get on. There weren’t too many of us which was just as well as it only had six rows of seats which took three people at a pinch. Two Germans pushed their way into the front row of seats and settled down with their cameras ready. Being German, they filled the row of seats so completely it was like a wall of flabby flesh blocking the only view we had out of the front of the carriage. They were fiddling with their cameras, framing preliminary shots and generally preparing themselves for the photo opportunity of a lifetime when a couple of Portuguese men got on at the last minute and stood on a small platform right in front of them. No photos for these pushy Germans after all. And it gave me a feeling of intense satisfaction.

As we ascended, clattering up the steep incline, the track was flanked either side by houses with front doors that opened directly onto the track. There was about a two foot gap between the walls of the houses and the carriage and people were using the gap to walk up and down as the Funicular progressed. One man was walking behind us holding on to a handle on the back of the carriage getting a helping hand up the slope. No health and safety rules in this part of the country then.

Once we reached the top Pauline got out her map which showed a particular area and a suggested walk to take us past many buildings of interest. We walked around trying to find the street names but they’d either moved the streets overnight or the map wasn’t up to much because, as usual, we wandered around for ages in the heat getting absolutely nowhere until quite by chance we happened upon a street that was shown on the map in the suggested walk guide. Now we knew where we were and could start following the walk on the map but by then, the so-called buildings of interest didn’t interest us and we’d spent so much time trouping about, bumping into other tourists looking at their maps with puzzled looks on their faces that we decided to call it a day. Rather than get the Funicular back down to the city centre we opted for a lift which trundled us down in a few minutes.

By this time it was around 3 pm so after a quick bite to eat we hopped on a bus to Belem. Belem is another distinct area of Lisbon and situated on the banks of the River Tagus and it was here, apparently, that many explorers set sail for Africa and America. It also has far too many museums for its own good. A bit of culture’s all right on holiday but it would take you at least a week to see this lot even if you wanted to…and we didn’t.

It was here that my highlight of the day occurred when I saw a man out walking his three-legged dog. Every time he cocked his leg he fell over. Not the man silly, his dog. No, he didn’t really but the dog did have three legs and fortunately the missing leg was at the front so weeing wasn’t so much of a problem after all.

There are quite a few amputee beggars about the streets of Lisbon. As we passed one amputee beggar with one arm, he appeared to be preparing to get up and move on. “See if he needs a hand.” I said to Pauline. “Don’t be stupid,” she said as I walked away chuckling to myself. Further along we passed another beggar (this one had the full complement of limbs) sitting cross-legged on his blanket with the smallest, cutest, cuddliest dog sitting on his lap holding a small metal bucket in its mouth for donations. The dog sat motionless with huge beautiful brown eyes pleading for attention. “Aaah,” said Pauline immediately reaching for her purse, “I’ve got to give that man something.”

“Don’t,” I said, “if he’s that hungry he can eat his bloody dog.”

I saw Sralan Sugar having a cigarette outside a bar today. What? It could have been him. Why not? This bloke was certainly short, ugly and unshaven enough to have been him. And anyway, why wouldn’t Sralan have a bar in Portugal as part of his business empire? He doesn’t seem to do much else. Apart from rubbishy computers that are no longer being made and a ‘revolutionary’ internet phone that nobody wanted because it was even more rubbish than his computers and is only ever seen these days strategically placed on the desk of his receptionist in The Apprentice and who pretends to answer it every week with the words ‘Sralan will see you now’ – what has he done? Talk about product placement.

Hang on, I’ve just remembered. I’ll tell you what else Sralan’s done: The one thing he’s done is to stick one of his apprentice winners into a top job of marketing an Amstrad beauty device that pumps electricity into your face. (Look it up). How could it possibly fail? A product entering the image sensitive health and beauty market, a smoke and mirrors world with a brand name mostly associated with green screen 1980s word processors and a very gruff ugly man with a stubbly beard. How could it fail? And it pumps electricity into your face? How could it possibly fail?

In order to overcome the image problem, they gave this revolutionary health and beauty product a very Sloaney name of Integra Face Care System. Face Care System. That’s Caring. Systematically. For your face. The £130 (look it up) Integra applies electricity to the face (mostly “on a sub sensory level” – that is, you can’t feel it doing anything) to “improve circulation and muscle relaxation by varying the shapes of the impulses or waveforms” (‘waveforms’ – a word that does not exist but presumably helps your face turn wavier), thus providing “stimulation by micro-current for you to treat your own face in the comfort of your own home”.

I’m feeling visibly more beautiful just thinking about it.

And did it fail?

Have you or anyone you know bought one?

Of course it bloody failed. It’s rubbish.

So I reckon he patently needs this bar in Portugal to supplement the millions he must have lost over the past forty years or so. 

Back at the hotel later we wandered around looking for somewhere to eat. Eating out is reasonable here but the days of cheap holidays seem to be over. House wine is always of good quality and cheap but meals are on a par with average English prices. The days of all you can eat and drink for two quid are definitely over. Mind you, that was back in the sixties.

Anyway, we’d stopped outside a rather large restaurant on the corner of two main Lisbon streets and as we stood there looking at the menu posted up outside I noticed, out of the corner of my eye, flashes of movement through the restaurant window. I looked in and there was a waiter waving at me. I looked away and pretended to be interested in the menu once more but couldn’t help but look through the window again. He was still there, this time giving me a thumbs up sign and gesturing to me to come in. I tried to ignore him but each time I glanced through the window he kept doing it. Time was getting on and we were starting to feel hungry so I said to Pauline, “I think he likes me. Let’s go in.”

As we entered the waving waiter ushered us to a table for two which was so small it could have been a table for one and once inside I settled down and took in the surroundings. It was a very large room furnished with cheap tables and chairs packed in so tightly that people jogged your arms as they walked by. All the way down one side of the room was a very long bar serving drinks and food while waiters scurried around serving the people like us sitting at tables. It didn’t remind me so much of a decent restaurant but of a British Rail station buffet and I was beginning to feel that out of all the restaurants we’d seen that evening and passed on, perhaps this wasn’t the wisest choice after all.

It was a disaster. Terrible food and over expensive average wine. We won’t be going there again.

Portugal 2009 - Day 3

As it’s our last day in Lisbon we’ve decided to explore the country outside of the main city areas. We’ve bought our one-day-go-everywhere tickets and armed with a bus/train map we’re off. Thinking about it now, we should have gone home the minute we found our bus tickets weren’t working.

What should happen is this: Get on bus. Swipe ticket in machine. Machine goes beep and displays green light. Go and sit down.

What actually happened is this: Got on bus. Swiped ticket in machine. Machine went beep and displayed red light. Swiped ticket again. Machine went beep and still displayed red light. Swiped ticket again, more forcibly this time. Machine went beep and displayed red light. Swiped ticket again. Wobbled it about a bit. Machine went beep and displayed red light. Rubbed ticket on T shirt (no, I don’t know why I did it either). Examined ticket carefully. Why? I don’t know, I don’t know. Looking at it serves no more useful purpose than opening the bonnet and staring at the engine when the car’s broken down. Somehow you’re trying to give the impression you know what you’re doing when in fact you haven’t a bloody clue. Swiped ticket again. Machine went beep and displayed red light. Looked at the bus driver. Looked at the queue of people behind me stretching down the road. Looked at the red light. Went and sat down anyway.

On the next bus it was exactly the same. Bloody red light again. The bus driver took the ticket, examined it carefully, gave it back and indicated we were to sit down. On the third bus it happened again. By now it was obvious that our newly purchased tickets were completely useless so every time we boarded a bus we had to explain to the driver we really, really had bought the tickets and weren’t just a couple of English hooligans trying to get a free ride. With this going on every time we changed buses the tour of the countryside was soon beginning to lose its appeal.

We were hoping to make a round trip out from Lisbon, through what looked like a National Park area on the map and back home in time for tea but I think it was after our third bus change that we realised we weren’t actually sure where the next bus would take us. We knew from the map which bus took us in the general direction we wanted to go but the bus we thought we needed next wasn’t shown on the bus stop we’d arrived at. Quite often it didn’t help matters when the bus stop for the next bus was in a different road. Which side of the road do you wait at? We didn’t know. Now when this sort of thing starts to happen it signifies the beginning of the end. An air of puzzlement, confusion, frustration and blame starts to materialise. (All the blame, I might add, was directed at the bus company for not providing the right bus numbers on their bus stop signs so that made us feel slightly better).

We ended up getting off another bus which had stopped outside a college. Why we got off there I don’t really remember but as I have no sense of direction whatsoever it seemed like as good a place as any to me. It was now midday and the students were pouring out of the college towards our bus stop. Pauline was engrossed in the map and surrounded by chattering students when she suddenly decided to ask one of them which of the buses on the bus stop board might take us in the general direction we wanted. The student looked blank, shrugged and said something about asking the bus driver. Thanks student. We didn’t think of that. With a brain like that she must have been taking meedja studies.

The rest is all a blur. I do remember getting yet another bus and asking the driver to tell us when to get off. He nodded and then completely forgot about us causing us to end up somewhere I can only describe as the Portuguese equivalent of the end of the Northern Line – a strange, alien, worrying sort of place with just a bus and metro station and a shopping mall. Absolutely nothing else and in the middle of nowhere.

It was at this point I realised we hadn’t a bloody clue where we were, nothing new for me but more worryingly, neither had Pauline. No idea how far we’d travelled. No idea how far still to go and more importantly as it was now mid-afternoon, no idea how long it would take. We were in this Godforsaken place with tickets that didn’t work and no idea how to get home. When suddenly we saw the metro station. “That’s it,” I said, “Forget about buses, the tour of the countryside, the picturesque drive through the National Park (wherever the hell it was). Let’s get the metro back to Lisbon.”

There was however one big snag. Although our tickets were valid for bus, tram and metro, they didn’t bloody work so would be utterly useless at the unmanned automatic ticket barriers on the metro. “We’re never going to get out of here alive,” I said, “we’re going to die out here in no man’s land. Everything’s against us.”

Pauline suddenly said, “I’ve had enough of this.” And marched off to the one and only bus information kiosk to ask why our tickets weren’t working. The lady took them and for the next hour, in between serving a constant stream of people, she tried to get to the bottom of the problem. And do you know what? We never found out why the tickets didn’t work but the nice lady issued us with two new all day tickets valid for three days as a goodwill gesture. It seemed churlish to tell her this was our last day and we only had a few hours left of it but it was a nice thought on her part. So armed with our new super duper tickets we breezed through the metro ticket barrier and caught a train which took us back to the centre of Lisbon in fifteen minutes.

The day had been a total disaster from start to finish and a complete and utter waste of time. But, hey, we’re off to Estoril tomorrow.

It can’t get any worse…can it?

Portugal 2009 - Day 4

To get to Estoril we took a tram to Lisbon’s main railway station and picked up the train easily. They ran every forty minutes or so and the journey was roughly the same length of time. The peace was shattered however by two blokes who came through the carriage and stopped right by the doors in front of us. The older of the two suddenly started talking quite loudly making me jump and I thought, oh no, there are nutters everywhere you go, when I noticed the other bloke had an accordion. He started to play it and the other man stopped his rant and started to sing. Oh this is really embarrassing. What do you do? You just want them to shut up and go away but they’re now onto ‘When the Saints Go Marching In’ and in full flow. Avoid eye contact, stare out of the window, pretend they’re not there. They stopped eventually and the older one went through the part of the carriage in front of us with a plastic cup. He approached everyone and not one person gave him anything. Good for them I thought. He won’t be too disappointed when he comes to me then. But before he started to approach our part of the carriage he abruptly sat down and kept talking and muttering to himself but in a very loud voice. The accordion man had also sat down and cup man suddenly got up again and joined his mate on the same seat. It was at this point that two policeman wandered through the carriage and stood by the doors at the far end. As soon as the train reached the next station the accordion and cup man both got off, followed, surprise surprise, by the two police officers, cup man still ranting.

Luckily we never saw them again.

We got off the train at Estoril and turned left out of the station immediately onto the beach promenade. Pauline asked a man where our hotel was and he pointed along the coast. We started walking but after a while began to realise that our hotel wasn’t suddenly going to appear so Pauline asked again, this time it was a waiter standing outside a beach restaurant. He pointed back the way we’d just come and said we should have taken a small side road leading up from the promenade about halfway back. We turned round and when we finally found the turning it took us to the other end of the station platform that we’d been on when we got off the train. If we’d walked the other way to this end of the platform in the first place it would have taken about a minute instead of the fifteen minutes or so spent dragging our bloody suitcases up and down the promenade.

As Pauline was checking us into the hotel I stood to one side with the cases. The bell boy, a young lad, came over to me gesturing at the cases and offering his assistance. We only had two cases so I said, “No thanks, it’s OK.” He smiled, nodded and hovered. Once Pauline had checked in though, he suddenly appeared by my side with a trolley and indicated I put the cases on it. I said, “No really it’s OK, I can manage – oh OK then,” as he ignored me and started to pick up the cases anyway. Short of having an unseemly tug of war with each case there wasn’t much I could do about it. He showed us to the lift and followed us up in the other one. We were on the fifth floor but Pauline quickly noticed that the room didn’t have a balcony. “Oh, no balcony,” she said to the young lad, who suggested we talk to reception and dialled the number for us. The receptionist said that they didn’t allow bookings for balconies, and she didn’t have any available anyway, even though Pauline had booked one back in the UK. But on reflection and after Pauline’s persistence she finally said there was one available on the first floor but it would be noisy as it overlooked the main road. Funny that. A room with a balcony suddenly turned up all of a sudden. It must have been out for a walk. So, I stayed in the room on the 5^th floor while Pauline and the lad went down to reception to get the key and look at the other room.

They soon came back and Pauline said, “We’ll have it. You’ll see why when we get there.” The young lad, who by the way was called Michael, loaded up the cases again and we were off to the new room and this is when Michael really came into his own.

“You are in Room 107,” he said, pointing towards the lift, “Here, you press 1 for first floor.” Oh I see, yes, I thought, the first digit of the room number represents the floor – how unusual. Is this what he expects a tip for? Showing us where the lift was? You could hardly miss it in the lobby. Explaining that 107 was on the first floor and we have to press 1 once in the lift? And look, you have to walk along this corridor with a sign that says ‘Rooms 102 – 130’ until you come to a door with what certainly seems to look like a number 107 above it. Well let me guess old son, this must be our room. Yep, it is. That’s a relief then. I thought we’d be searching all day for it. I thought maybe 107 might have been 184 in disguise. But thanks to Michael we’ve arrived safely. But wait, there’s more to come. An explanation of how to put the card key in the slot to open the door and then once inside it’s more demonstrations.

“This is the TV remote control,” Michael said. Funny that, because it looked just like a TV remote. Glad he pointed that one out. I didn’t want to be trying to turn the TV on with the complimentary hotel pen and having to call reception to say it didn’t work and the man coming all the way up to our room to tell me I was using a pen instead of the TV remote which was on top of the TV. Oh how we would have laughed at such an understandably silly mistake.

Next it was the air conditioning remote control to try and identify. “Here it is,” said Michael. Oh yes, there it is, it’s got ‘air conditioning’ written on it. Michael carried on, “To turn air conditioning on and off, you press this button,” and he showed us the big red button which had the words ‘Start/Stop’ printed on it. “I think I’ve got that,” I said, “oh hold on, maybe not, just show me that again. Is it the big red button with ‘Start/Stop’ written on it or is it that complimentary hotel pen that I use to turn the TV on and off? I’ve quite forgotten. New technology eh? Always confuses us old ‘uns doesn’t it?”

“No, it’s this big red button with ‘Start/Stop’ on it,” said Michael, “don’t worry, you’ll soon get the hang of it. Shall I write it down for you?”

“Would you? That might be a good idea, here, use this pen,” I said, handing him the TV remote control.

Then we got to a physical demonstration of turning the air conditioning on and off. Having mastered the technology of using my finger to press the big red button with start/stop on it, Michael then showed me how to point the remote at the air conditioning unit, and - this was the hard bit - simultaneously pressing the big red button with start/stop on it.

He did this from the middle of the room but nothing happened. The air conditioning unit was above the pelmet which ran across the top of the balcony patio door, so he moved a few steps closer, holding the remote slightly higher. Nothing fired into life.

“Here, try this,” I said, handing him a complimentary hotel shower cap, “oh no, sorry, that’s the TV remote control isn’t it? My mistake.”

“No, no, no,” he suddenly shouted at me, “that is not the TV remote, that is a complimentary shower cap! This is the TV remote,” and he pushed the complimentary hotel pen into my hand.

“Oh of course,” I said, “silly me.”

“No, no, excuse me, no,” he shouted again, his voice beginning to crack a little, “that is a complimentary hotel pen.”

“Well I know that,” I said, “I was wondering whether you did. It’s easy to confuse the two. They are very similar aren’t they?”

By now Michael was standing about a foot away from the unit, holding the remote above his head and pressing the big red button like crazy but still no air conditioning came on.

“Perhaps it’s the batteries. Here, change them, I’ve got a couple of new AA batteries in my pocket,” I said, handing Michael two complimentary hotel chocolates that were lying on the bedside table next to the ‘Pillow Menu’ – (Pillow menu? Don’t ask, just don’t or we’ll be here all day).

By now he’d removed the complimentary chocolates that he’d inadvertently put into the TV remote by mistake and was about to put them into the air conditioning remote when he stopped, looked at the chocolates, looked at me and realising what he was trying to do, suddenly broke down sobbing.

“It’s OK,” I said, “calm down, blow your nose, wipe your eyes, here’s a tissue,” and I handed him a coat hanger.

“Thank you,” he said, “now where was I?”

“You’re trying to get the air conditioning unit to switch on,” I said, “but none of the remotes you’re using seem to work.”

“The problem,” he explained, and this is absolutely true, “is the remote control signal is being blocked by the window pelmet. The only way to get a signal is to get as close as possible to the air conditioning unit.” And with that he stood on a chair and pressed the remote physically against the air conditioning receiver. He pressed the big red button with start/stop on it and, guess what, nothing happened. He pressed again – nothing. The third time there was a beep and the air conditioning switched on.

“This is how you work the air conditioning,” Michael said with a grin as he clambered down from the chair, “you see?”

Wonderful. Wouldn’t it have been better to have had a switch on the unit and a long stick?

As Michael left I said, “Thank you Michael, for all you’ve done. Here, have a drink on me,” as I pressed a complimentary hotel sachet of Nescafe into his hand. 

It’s a 20 – 25 minute walk along the front to Cascais and we spent some time looking for somewhere to eat before we found a narrow side street with bars and restaurants down each side. The street was so narrow that by the time each bar had its tables and chairs outside there was only a narrow centre aisle for pedestrians to walk along.  We spent a few minutes looking at a menu outside a bar on our right, decided to eat there and a man said good evening sir and ushered me to an outside table on the left side of the street. I sat down and Pauline shouted over to me, “That’s a Thai restaurant, we don’t want that do we?” I looked at the man who was indeed oriental and I got up with a sheepish grin, apologised, took two paces and sat down at a table on our right which was for the restaurant we’d decided on in the first place.

Good oriental ploy though eh? Invite confused Englishman to sit at their restaurant after confused Englishman had decided to eat at the other restaurant. You could almost see the oriental staff inside, sniggering and slapping their hands in glee as another confused Englishman is suckered into the wrong establishment.