Tinkerbell, a jar of shells and pretty maids all in a row

Travel is as much about the anticipation as it is the journey and, ultimately, the arrival. Whether it be by foot, on bicycle or in 'the beast', this past week or so of mini journeys and bitesize trips has been half-planned and half-'follow my heart'-ed. Thinking ahead to the destination, I am a blank canvas, the latest issue of a favourite magazine, a pregnancy test still wrapped in its cellophane, a bottle of perfume as yet unopened. It is the excitement of the unknown, the not-yet-experienced, the still-to-come that gives me this buzz; of the good and the bad but, mostly, the pretty damn good this far. All that said, the experiences on this trip are not enjoyed as a naive teen, despite my references back to an earlier life. At 48, one travels with a little more caution and a little less loose-footed. The pull in me to freefall from that desk-bound hamster wheel and to no longer 'just keep swimming' - that's for you, Marianne - is balanced by a bigger need to be assured our three daughters are safe and happy. These carefree days in Western Europe are tempered by our roles as 'mum and dad' to the children who, I hope, will embark on adventures to foreign climes far more frequently than I ever did. Neither of us want them to play 'travel catch up' in their older decades. And, as we hang a print of the girls, taken some years back (leaping into the Atlantic from rocks in Praia da Luz) or add shells to a jar of those previously salvaged from beaches on holidays past, the very essence of what this trip is all about is captured in those everyday tasks. Everything we see, the food we taste, the conversations we have are always with those three in our thoughts - 'Gaby would love this, Ellie will want to go here, Nicole would love the name of that place'. It is not so much running away as setting an example and laying down plans for the girls' future travel - starting with a post-Christmas excursion to Amsterdam, all five of us - 'the beast' will be blessed with a triple measure of female spirit as well as that of the festive kind.

Towering and fado 
But for now, I am in Lisbon, a city of narrow one-way streets with a few too many maverick drivers competing with a seemingly ever-multiplying rabbit run of trams. The criss-cross system, dating back to 1873, sees the beautiful vehicles rattle through the steep streets, brushing past parked traffic and only missing them by inches. We walk the two miles downtown to Alfama, Lisbon's oldest district and home to fado, songs usually sung by women with a melancholy theme and accompanied by mandolins or guitars with origins in the bars of the area. Overlooking the district is the mediaeval Castle of São Jorge, towering over the city and offering views that capture the many eras of building in Lisbon. We find a bar on one of the many terraces (miradouros) and share a bottle of harsh, red wine that strangely improves with each glass. Looking across the Tejo River, we watch the lights dance on the water, the stars in the clear night sky and listen to the banter on a table of birthday celebrations. 'The girls would love this,' Tony says. Once in the cab back to our hotel, driven by a Lisbon maverick, of course, we ring the girls and make a vow to bring them here.

Oranges and Le Mans

The beauty of travelling out of season - and with no set plan or agenda - is that, mostly, things happen slowly. Mapping a journey takes time, driving across Europe cannot be rushed and investigating cities and towns never before visited are whole-day affairs. In contrast, you scoff at those in an 'unnecessary' hurry, including the mothers in their BMWs, Mercedes Benz and 4x4s racing their offspring to the international school, in neighbouring Burgau, with minutes to spare as if they're taking part in the 24 hours of Le Mans, ironically one town we did actually speed through en route to the Pyrenees.
Slow travels also means time to seek out places previously bypassed, put on hold for 'the next time' or parked until you get the time to give them time. Giving our legs time out from walking, cycling, swimming (and any other limb-killing sport) we take a leisurely drive up to Monchique, a town of cobbled streets on the side of a hill that heads up towards the highest point in the Algarve - Foia - 902m high. The panoramic view is fantastic - you can see Cape St Vincent in the west to Faro in the east and the Serra da Arrabida, near Lisbon, to the north. Had I had invested in one of the handicrafts of the area - a scissor chair, a snip at €40 - I'd have cut out the 'food' stop en route down and settled for an espresso on the camp stove.
But stop we did, at a cafe on the mountainside, with views far tastier than its fare. What was wonderful was that the bar served freshly squeezed orange juice with the oranges from a grove outside the kitchen door, picked on request. But beyond growing its own ingredients, why does a restaurant in such a prime position grow lazy? In the fishing village of Salema, where we are based, the best restaurant is not overlooking the sea but, instead, is hidden away up a small cobbled street, modestly decorated but delivering fresh fish caught by its owner, Paulo, and cooked by his mother in a kitchen the size of a cupboard.

48 really is the new 18
Heading down the hills to the houses below, there are natural springs where visitors may drink the therapeutic water, said to have healing and restorative properties. Eager to sample this 'youth dew' - our legs need all the revitalising they can get - we wait patiently as we watch an elderly couple unload their car boot of empty 5L water bottles, one by one filling them to the brim. Apparently, it is a common sight on a Sunday to see locals stocking up their water supply for the week and we count ourselves lucky that:
1. There was only one couple in full flow and,
2. It was a Wednesday.
But, not for the first time this trip, we are overwhelmed by the generosity of people as the old man slowly fills a bottle and, smiling, his wife hands it to us.
Looking at the couple, I am guessing they are actually 156, run up this mountain every morning, never sleep and have sex at least six times a day. Rejuvenation has never come so cheap, nor has my humour. In one swig, my legs feel like those of my 18 year old former self.

Maroon Five - and five black coffees
Cycling through the villages of the western Algarve, you encounter a mixed bunch of fellow travellers, from weed-smoking drop-outs to beige sixty somethings to artisans and surfer dudes who stopped at the far west of Europe - and never turned back. The land is worked hard and by hand and not necessarily by the young. Relying on tourism is a seasonal necessity and an accepted part of scraping a living in a country currently facing further government austerity measures. However, surprisingly, these are some of the happiest and kindest people I have ever met. Today, an old man in a workshop, hidden in a back street in Lagos replaces a snapped gear cable on Tony's bike, resets the gears and repairs the tie around the padlock - and all for €5. In five minutes. While we wait. We then wheel the bikes into the town square, buy a copy of The Times and sit to listen to a trio - two guitarists and a bongo player - playing in the sun. A rendition of a much-loved Maroon Five track grabs our attention and we are taken by the rasping voice of the vocalist. The square is buzzing on a sunny November afternoon and Tony is so impressed, he not only throws some euros into their hat, but buys them - and us - a small black coffee each. The vocalist tells us that, at best, he can earn €15 for a star turn during winter, that he got as far as boot camp on X-Factor and is heading for Lisbon on Friday to play to his biggest audience yet - a decent crowd of 1,000 on Saturday night. He too is called Paulo, has a newborn baby, is struggling to earn money by getting paid for a job he so obviously adores and at which he is talented, but he seems happy. He smiles a lot, speaks of his family with fondness despite 'not having slept for four nights' and takes time to chat. We take his number and consider heading for Lisbon at the weekend in time to join him at his big gig. It is only when we are later chatting about the band we realise Tony had asked the waitress for five cocks rather than five coffees. Lesson learnt, number 5765643: there is a huge difference between a pica and a bica.

Walking, backpack, happiness

Simplicity is a much underrated state of mind. Easily confused with stupidity, it is a rare situation to find yourself in - or indeed, in which to find yourself. Don't get me wrong, I adore the multitasking attraction of modern technology. I can have business conversations with a boss, political debate with a key player in the profession on which I write, and a filthy chat with a colleague all at the same time - and nobody knows. Unless they can access my emails . . .  In which case, we can take one, two or all three conversations offline and into the arena of texting or Facebook messaging or private email whilst tweeting and writing news for a website.

But for now, I am restricting my fix for these things to first thing in the morning and last thing at night. Friends and family are not compatible with the simple life; and I cannot completely walk away from them as they are the very reason why I need to take a break. I need to break away, regroup and live my life a better and more accessible friend, sister, daughter - but, most of all, mumma.

Bark stripping
Today, we went for a walk. Not an amble or a stroll, but a solid, hard work, 'walking trouser wearing' walk. The kind of walk that makes the balls of your feet burn and your buttocks feel like they have done 12 rounds with a heavyweight boxing champion. We covered 20k - and kept to a promise we made before we left: to see the sun set on the most westerly point of Europe - in Sagres. But this is not simple.
Read all the forums on walking/cycling in the Algarve and they reveal a canine conundrum. They let the dogs out in Portugal - and they can be a hindrance to worthy walkers and smug cyclists. So, a taser is the answer. It stops the hounds in their tracks and strips them of their bark like the winter days strip the trees of theirs. Walking opens up your eyes - to a farmer pacing out his seed sowing, an old lady fetching her bread from the baker shop, the surf dude hostel, aptly named Good Feeling, that rents out surf boards and camper vans, and the cows and goats - and, of course, the frickin' scary dogs.

Sunset, boules - 'tis hard
We roll into town at 5.30pm as the sun is setting in the west. But our desire to sit, drink and watch the sun go down is quashed by a bigger desire to find the next bus out of town. It is cold, our legs ache and we just want to head home. The grand finale ruined by our most basic need for comfort and rest. Christina, we talk about your 500milesforsmiles charity walk as we wait for the bus with a young French couple and three elderly ladies all huddled in the shelter as the evening turns cold without the sun in the sky. Nine men are playing boules opposite as the light disappears. Simple joy.

Geek dressing - and well-oiled bicycles

The glory in being older - and not so much wiser but, perhaps, more indifferent - is that I can happily admit to being a geek without fear of ridicule. There is something truly liberating about embracing this middle age of indifference to critics and cynics alike. Three things matter: health, family and friends. Oh, as do safe cycling gear and perfect grammar and documenting this journey in a blog. So that's six things that are important to me...

Do I look like a prawn in this?
We arrive at 8pm in Salema and eat giant prawns and clams at the restaurant that is three minutes' walk away. Unpacking the 'beast' can wait. This morning, we gear up and put together our bicycles for a 30k round trip to my favourite beach bar for more prawns. I am dressed neck to knee in cycling lycra with a sexy blue helmet that has a headlight attached. The cycling shorts are necessarily padded and unnecessarily unflattering. Do I care? Do I f***. Don't get me wrong - I adore wearing F.M. heels, Ted Baker dresses, tailored shorts and worship my collection of Teddy B bags. But, just for now, I am embracing the geek in me. I wouldn't have been seen dead in this garb at 18. Come to think of it, I wouldn't have been seen on a bike either. And if I had cycled then, no doubt, without the hi-vis tops etc, I would have run the risk of being seen dead on the roads. What was acceptable at 11-12 years of age quickly became uncool and I recall selling the bike my parents bought for me not long after it was gifted to me on my birthday. But today, I was a kid again. We climbed a 1 in 6 hill by bike and whizzed down it again at 38mph. You can't do that in a pair of three-inch heels.

I have always taken a walk on the geek side - Heather and Siobhan, you knew this when you bought me a journal for this journey. A journey that, in all honesty, does remind me of being 18 - or, at least, in my early 20s.
So far, there have been hints of time spent with friends skiing in Italy and Andorra, driving around Somerset and Gloucestershire and exploring Germany. The feeling of taking off on a whim, should the weather change or should we be inspired by something elsewhere, is liberating. I spend time thinking back to escapades with Victoria, Jackie, Clare and Alan and with my brothers, Adam and Kevin, too, and it reminds me that happiness doesn't come with the Queen's face on it, just the faces of friends and family.

Tales of toro

Lesson learnt on this trip no 46746... You've not tasted the real Spain until you've stood in a busy, overcrowded tapas bar, jostling for space, sharing bull's tail and Rioja with a couple of Spaniards from Madrid - Tony quite literally sharing, inadvertently sipping from two glasses of wine until the nice Madrid lady pointed out his faux pas, jabbing at first the glass and then herself. And so a bond was made as her partner took each of our forks and dug into a meaty plate of tapas. El rabo de toro is a tasy cut of meat and we learn what it is from the couple from Madrid as they take it in turns to flick their arms behind their backsides. Language is never a barrier to making friends. 'Happy holidays' the guy shouts as they skip off to seek out another bar and more food. Not ones to be beaten, we do the same.

Salamanca to Salema
We toy with the idea of another stopover en route down to the western Algarve. Last night, we were planning on staying on in Salamanca, in awe of its nightlife and its architecture. This morning, we consider a stopover in Seville so off we go - and head for Lisbon. Approximately 60k into our route and I realise we have, Pavlovian-like, seen signs saying PORTUGAL and followed them. With a quick reference to my reliable AA atlas - secretly, I am a little old school and, quite frankly, SatNav can get lost - we cut down, cross country, to pick up the correct motorway south to Seville some 200k away. There is always a reason why things happen like this. The sights through the Sierra de Gata are spectacular and this, coupled with our time in Salamanca, leaves us a little in love with Spain again. We decide not to linger in Seville this time, but consider it for our journey back to the UK.

We have been to Seville. Once. And it was only to the airport when our plane, en route to Faro, abandoned landing. Twice. Attempting to land the plane in the eye of a storm and failing, the pilot announced we were running low on fuel and needed to head for Seville. Immediately. We needed to get off that plane. Also immediately. It had been a bumpy ride and neither of us like fairgrounds. We had to do a lot of talking but Tony can be rather persuasive - well, he is a car salesman. And, as we stood in the runway awaiting an airport bus to whisk us to the terminal, the worn-down pilot waved us farewell like we were old friends. This time, we will take a more steady, happier approach to Seville but Salema is calling and we have a heavily laden 'beast' that needs to offload - and I'm not talking mierda.

Trams, planes and auto toll bills

The magic of air travel is in the speed at which we can reach a destination but not in the experience. The drive to the airport (allowing an extra hour or so for the inevitable motorway hold ups), the handover of car at the airport (even an indulgent 'meet and greet' can be fraught), the snaking queues at customs, the endless checking of passports and boarding passes, not to mention the dash for a departure gate only to find there are approximately 465748495 people ahead of you, are no fun. Factor in the flight delays and inconvenient flight times and it is enough to put off the most hardy traveller. Oh, and did I mention my fear of flying? Not enough to stop me getting on a plane, but it's another low-flying minus that causes a bit of turbulence as it crashlands into the 'cons' section of my 'air travel' checklist.

Today, we saw trams trundling through Bordeaux as we grabbed a croissant, espresso and fresh orange juice - we know it was fresh because we saw the cafe owner dash out and return with a net of the fruit just for us. Later, heading out of the city, we saw more trams gliding around the outskirts but in the central reservation on a dual carriageway, the rails cleverly hidden in the grassy banks. How civilised and aesthetically pleasing in a city heavily pedestrianised and far easier to explore by foot than by car. A pied (that's for you, Hev, my bilingual friend), I notice the police and ambulance sirens are old school, the smells are different from home, the shops more interesting and people greet us with a 'bonjour'. We clock an original Fiat 500 in a garage and drive out of the city via the Rue John Fitzgerald Kennedy - it is only some hours later we realise the significance of the day.


Tolls and a stroll
The tolls en route through France and Spain are much maligned. Penny-pinching Brits discuss toll avoidance on forums with tactical pride. We have some time on our hands, but NOT so much that we want a 60km detour simply to avoid tolls. Yes, they add up, but it's worth it and the automatic booths that quickly swallow and burp out our credit card make passing through them seamless. The highlight today has been the lunch stop in St Jean de luz, a small seaside town of red and white shuttered buildings along from Biarritz. It doubles up in atmosphere as a ski resort with designer shops and nautical-themed gift shops nestling alongside chocolatiers and windows displaying winter boots, woollen accessories and walking trousers - *thinks 'I wonder if they all have hidden glasses wipes in the pockets.'

Salamanca cathedral - view from out hotel room
Snail and pace
We enjoy a Basque plate of tapas and I have sea snails for the first time. Sweeping towards the Pyrenees and we are both struck by the beauty of a mountainous backdrop with toy town buildings on the hillsides. We drive on through the range with its highest points topped in snow and, above it, a plane, perhaps on a two hours and 35 minute flight from London to Faro. But I am reminded of my lunch - and realise I am far happier going at a much slower pace.

And we're offski

So, prepped and ready to go, notes exchanged with sleepy daughters at 5am (they insist we wake them up), we climb aboard the 'love' bus - a 2004 Dodge Grand Caravan, a seven-seater beast of a machine that guzzles petrol like I guzzle alcohol after a long day in the office. That said, it is real comfy with its 'captain' seats and easy-to-hand refrigerator. It comfortably houses captain Antony, co-captain Bissett, two bikes, two huge mirrors (for the apartment NOT for our journey), some framed pictures and two cases of 'stuff'.

Three things already remind me I am 48 and nor 18:
* My new walking trousers, purchased in a camping shop (wtf?), have a 'glasses wipe' attached inside a zipped pocket
* Having safely slipped passports inside the wallet of euros given as a leaving present at work (thanks again, guys), I promptly forget where I put the passports
* The £2 for the toll to cross the QEII bridge on the M25 is clutched in my hand. An hour early.

Break for le Bordeaux
What is it that makes two very middle aged people give up the grind of everyday life and bump start it again with a break for the border(s), showing a clean pair of heels - or, in my case, a pair of solid and sensible pair of Timberlands?

Risk comes in many shades - who hasn't made a dash to work, breaking speed limits along the way whilst playing 'petrol gauge' roulette with the dial faltering in the red? But those everyday 'risks' that pepper my day grow too comfortable and too rehearsed and too predictable and, at 48, I needed a new challenge that cannot be met by a never-ending cycle of deadlines. So, Bordeaux is where we now rest our weary heads. We arrive without a plan and without knowing where we will stop tomorrow. It's fun and not something I've enjoyed since I was last 18. It's also a short-term fix - we will be back before our daughter, Nicole, reaches her 15th birthday next month - but it beats staring at an Apple Mac for the next month and I just want to take a bite out of life!

The day before the day we leave

The day before yesterday belongs to my previous life - commissioning, editing, proofing, liaising, cajoling, stressing, joshing and bantering. Great when you're in the thick of it, less so when you're pulled under by it and unable to give enough time to mix it all to perfection.

Weekdays
Weekdays meant: home time and a swift drink (downed in one) and a long moan (downed with a few more). Suddenly, I am aware the passion for my job is snuffing out the passion for my family life. Tired and beat, I decide to end the affair. I need to take a break, take time out and take off.

So, here I am at 48 and about to embark upon a 'break' with my husband - heading for Portugal without stress, without three teen girls (a little nervous about this bit) but, most bizarrely, without a job.

Tomorrow is the new bit, the 'taking time out' bit and the bit that, quite frankly, makes me smile every time I think about it.

BRB as the three girls would say  . . .