It is a truth universally acknowledged that life-on-wheels is a constant round of adventure and excitement; strange places, new people, challenging food and awesome sights. And it probably is for people with mountains of money. But for us? Well, we do get to have all of those at some point, but they’re interspersed with lots of ‘real life’. Sometimes we don’t need a new adventure, we just need to a place to park up for a while, and the chance to get on with some practical things. Hence the idea of a month at Frank’s in Moncarapacho, with regular electricity, and the company of the wonderful Intrepids (meet them here, here, here and here), seems just the job.

Market day

Moncarapacho is a typical Portuguese village, on the east side of the Algarve, about 7km north of Fuseta. We arrive in time for the monthly market, and, as it’s the first one of the year, a stage has been set up for all the local folk bands and choirs to perform. We wander happily around the canary stalls near the entrance, to the sound of clappy music and birdsong.

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There are tables laden with brightly painted ceramics, or purses made from cork. Steve lingers near the hardware and I enjoy the textiles. At the back of the market are open grills with men frying fish and meat. The surrounding tables are loaded with folk drinking beer and wine, and chowing down. We buy mini doughnuts, and cheese, and a new trivet for our kitchen.

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In the mountains

Back at Frank’s we get invited to visit Terry and June in their new homestead. Like many of the Intrepids, they have decided to put down some proper roots in the area. They’ve bought a patch of land further in the mountains, and have moved both their camper-van and a static caravan onto their land. They have water, and have also finally got electricity. They’ve planted fruit trees and cabbages, and are very happy. They call the new place Goodwood, because some bits of being British hang on wherever you are. We go for a walk and find a pig leaning over a garden wall. The wall is a good eight feet tall, and he appears to have his own treehouse.

I get the Lurgies

But then, just as I’m getting used to the sleepily lovely pace of life, the cafe coffee stops, and the invitations to lunch after doing some decorating, I suddenly go down with the flu.

Badly.

Outside of a burst appendix, I’ve never been this sick before, and I get very weepy and demanding. I go through a whole bottle of Night Nurse, and croak miserably at Steve when he brings me lentils for dinner instead of ‘comfort food’. I mean, seriously, bloody lentils, man! Then I feel guilty, and think I’m just being a baby, but I genuinely can’t seem to throw it off like I normally do.

Steve reads me a paragraph from the local paper which says that this particular strain of flu is awful: over five hundred Portuguese people died from it, just last Monday. I stop complaining instantly, and realise how lucky I am. The fact that I come out of it with bronchitis is still fine with me.

The Ria Formosa

Once I’m relatively back on my feet, the Intrepids take us out to the Ria Formosa, for a bird-watching walk. I’m hoping to see flamingoes on the salt pans. I stick close to Ian who has a spotter scope on his back. I figure he must know what’s what in the feathered world.

In fact, nearly all the Intrepids know heaps, so I get properly educated and have a great time. I also get to walk for 8.7 km – a big improvement on my step count from the day before, which my phone informs me was 16 steps (that can’t be right).

The list of birds that’s pointed out to me is quite impressive, and I bet I’ll recognise, ooh, at least five of them again.

If you’re interested, here’s the list: Grey Plover, Little Egret, Caspian Tern, Curlew, Spoonbill, Cormorant (fighting a big fish), Greenshank, Redshank, Stork, Coot, Black-shouldered Kite, Grey Heron, Widgeon, Black-winged Stilt, Shoveller, Little Grebe, Pintail, Kestrel, Gadwall, Tufted Duck, Pochard, Purple Gallinule, Moorhen, Glossy Ibis, Mallard,Teal, White Wagtail, Shelduck, Osprey, Sanderling, Flamingo, Great Crested Grebe, White Morph Booted Eagle, Azure Winged Magpie.

But my favourite is the Hoopoe. Brilliant bird, never seen one before. And to top it off, there are lots of wild turtles all stacked up in the reeds at the edges of the ponds.

Fado

The last time we were in Portugal, we totally failed to hear any of the traditional music, Fado. The Intrepids take us out to a local village for a Fado night. I’m not sure what to expect, as Fado translates as Fate. So, kind of Country and Western, but more mournful and with everyone getting lost at sea, right? I’m told it doesn’t matter if I can’t understand the language, as the skill of a Fado performer is as much in the way they express the meaning of the song, as it is in the quality of their voices.

A nice lady, with big boobies and a black and white spotted dress, gets on stage to introduce the support act. Nobody stops talking, and nobody seems to mind this at all. A motley group troops onto the stage, looking very much like a contingent from the local bingo night, apart from one young boy and a pretty girl with a piano accordion. The women have tambourines, and the men, castanets.

An old fella in a beret blows sharply down a whistle. It must be said that the whistle carries piercingly, and is obviously of the ‘stop it, I’m a policeman, and if I can’t catch you then I’m bloody well going to burst your eardrums’ variety. He begins and ends every song with a whistle, and, for one long, long tune, he introduces each verse this way too. I jump every single time.

I’m mesmerised by a castanet guy with a very flourishing wrist-action: he nearly brains the young lad in front of him with every snap. The long song has an intro, then a verse and chorus, then a series of breaks in which beret man points to someone. They then rattle something off, after which everybody laughs and we all yell, ‘yee-har’. Then he whistles, I jump, the chorus kicks off again, and round we go. Once everyone in the band’s had a go, then several people are picked out from the audience to put their ten-pennyworth in. I wonder if they are actually just telling jokes, because whatever they are saying, it’s causing a lot of amusement.

Booby lady then introduces the main act. Three guys, one with a Portuguese guitar, sit on the stage, and launch into a beautiful piece of complicated finger-work, and interesting melodies.

Then it all gets a bit karaoke.

There are at least seven Fado singers sat in the audience, and they all get invited to stand up and sing a couple of songs each. But here’s the thing. None of them appear to have rehearsed with the band. In fact, I don’t think they’ve met before. So, as each one climbs on the stage, they have to ask the band if they know the song (which sometimes they do, and other times they have to sort of work it out), and then there are the tuning and pitch problems. It is all brilliantly relaxed and low-key.

They act out the songs, one of which seems far too saucy and joyful to be about fishermen lost at sea. I find out later that it is actually about a menage-a-trois. It is a highly enjoyable evening, even if, like most karaoke, it goes on a bit too long. By half past eleven all the singers have done their best numbers and are now on the less cracking stuff. So booby lady gets everyone on stage to do a final song that the audience can all sing along with.

DIY

Knowing that Steve has things to fix, and that I have the bathroom to decorate, we head off to my favourite DIY store, Leroy Merlin. The paint chap recommends radiator paint, as it will cover every surface, and I need something for the wooden cupboard doors, the wood-effect-paper covered hardboard, the shiny wallpaper, some brass bits, and the plastic door edges.

We also grab a piece of perspex to replace the glass shelf I shattered in the fridge. We’re unable to work out the ticket system for the guy who cuts it to size, so a nice man in the queue helps us out. Then he helps out a Dutch couple. Then he chats to his mate in Portuguese.

‘How many languages do you speak?’ we ask.

‘Six, because I am a music conductor, you know? You have to be able to speak to everyone in the orchestra.’ We are very impressed.

I try, unsuccessfully, to find a couple of sea-themed cupboard door handles, which are ubiquitous in the UK, but impossible to find here. I settle for blue and white stripes ones. The shank is too large so I substitute a couple of silver beads from the Chinese Shop at Alfandanga (I know, right?). The redundant shanks are turned upside down, painted with nail polish, and used to fill the gaps from the broken tap covers. Well, waste not, want not, as my old gran used to say.

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And while we are in the Chinese shop, I find all the usual rubbish. Well, colour me happy, I can light a joss-stick and my room will smell of saints.

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Nom nom

We are taken to a local restaurant in Fuseta that makes the best grilled fish, as the Intrepids like to go for Fish on Friday. It is perfect, and afterwards Mike takes us for a walk around Fuseta and to a bar/cafe that he frequents. He bumps into his mate, Che, who is very entertaining and speaks really good English. In fact, he speaks six languages and ten African dialects. Why? For the best reason of all – because languages interest him. Plus, he travels a lot in Africa. Used to know Colonal Gadaffi, apparently, ‘in the early days,’ he says, ‘before… you know.’

The Intrepids also take us to a place they call the Chicken Shack. They go there on a regular basis and have been told that the dish of the day will be PIE.

Now there has been much speculation on the campsite as to what PIE means to a Portuguese cook. None of us are expecting to see pastry in any form.

Nor do we think it will be a fish pie, as the Portuguese have a fabulous version of that called Bacalhau. We’ve already had that at Ana’s in Moncarapacho – which we had to order in advance as it takes three days to make!

I am warned that John will get special treatment by the waitress at the Chicken Shack. He always asks for the dish of the day, and he always clears his plate: it seems that the way to a waitress’s heart is also through the stomach. She speaks very little English but she likes to joke with him. One time he asked for the usual, only to be told by her that they’d sold out. Then she served everybody else chicken, and popped the dish of the day down in front of John. And only John.

The PIE turns out to be a very creditable Cottage Pie, albeit with mashed potatoes at the bottom as well as at the top. For dessert there is a traditional cream pie: a bit like a cheesecake, but soft, light and silky. The waitress puts the largest piece in front of Ian, thinking that John has ordered something else. When she realises her mistake, she whips it smartly out from under Ian’s hovering spoon and gives him a smaller piece, presently the larger one to John with a radiant smile.

Poor Steve

Just as I’m seeing out the last of my bronchitis, Steve starts experiencing weird pins-and-needles sensations. We’re not sure what is wrong, so we wait to see if it gets worse. One evening, after watching some telly in bed, he gets up complaining of pains at the top of his stomach. By two in the morning, his stomach is hard and distended, and by four the pain has become severe and he has shortness of breath. We know all the symptoms that could be to do with his heart problem, and it’s not that, but we don’t know what it is, so it’s time to go to the hospital.

My night driving is a bit crap, actually. And so are many of the smaller Portuguese roads. So I’m trying to find the right balance between getting him to Faro quickly, and not hitting every pothole, at speed, in a suspension-less Smart car. I fail a bit, by not noticing a large speed bump and whacking into it at thirty miles an hour. Steve yelps and I feel awful.

But by the time we reach the hospital he’s starting to feel a bit better.

‘Something seemed to jolt in my body when you hit that bump,’ he says.

By the time he’s called to see a doctor, a mere fifteen minutes later, all the pain has gone. So we go home instead. We reckon it was a hernia, and that the jolt had been it falling back into place. We’ll keep an eye on him, and get it checked out when we come home, of course, but for now, all the pain, and even the pins-and-needles have gone.

He is totally wiped out from the experience though, poor pet. This morning he tried to take my blood pressure pills instead of his heart meds, and this afternoon he walked off wearing my glasses. Took me an age to find them – on Steve’s face being the last place I’d usually think to look.

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