Blog hijack!

Long goodbyes, 20 minutes' sleep and we’re off. My parents look incredulous at my ability to rise after such little rest,  yet I’m equally as questioning of their getting up at 1am when we aren’t supposed to leave the house for another two and a half hours. I've barely been back in England for five minutes and I’m already back on the road – holiday number three in just five weeks. Not that I’m complaining, as a (hopefully) relaxing trip to one of my favourite places is desperately needed after a fast-paced and exhausting week in the inexhaustible Magaluf.

Stay at home
This has also been the most anticipated holiday. For months. We’ve been fired at with enthusiasm from parents about an unmissable two-day drive down to Portugal that contrasts greatly with their insistence that our attendance is not compulsory if we feel we'd 'rather stay at home'. Regardless, who would choose to remain in England? Firstly, for fear of breaking the hearts of parents who, despite their insistence that 'we understand completely if you don’t want to come' actually really, really want you with them and secondly. the chance to see places so old and so beautiful it would be foolish to miss out.

At 18, the idea of travelling a distance of more than 1,500 miles with parents in a large, although still slightly cramped, car, is often one of horror yet it doesn’t particularly faze me. This may be unusual, yet I see our ability to stand each other (most of the time) as a happy bonus and I pity other families for not having something I hope will stay with us for a very long time. As we travel on the unattractive motorways of the north of France, with Dad pinching his nose, horribly imitating the muffled voice of a pilot and the car filled with the monotonous, yet slightly aggressive instructions of the SatNav as we head into Salamanca, I still can’t help thinking how lucky I am.

Curb your enthusiasm

And so we’re off again on this now much-loved oft-trod escape to the south west of Europe. As we grow more familiar with each schlep (even allowing for the sneaky curveball of some changes to the complicated diversion through Rouen), this trip, two have become six – with four teens aboard, we are outnumbered.

We are taking the slow road to our quick fix of happiness. Two weeks heading towards/staying in/returning from Salema in the western Algarve. We have packed looms and bands, countless magazines, and DVDs of their choosing are piled high in the boot. There’s a boxed up, newly purchased three-man dinghy (complete with oars and pump) atop their four bulging suitcases that hold 19 bikinis between them.

The next generation

We’ve lost the battle over music choice but, to be fair, we never even put up a fight. For this holiday belongs to our next generation, two of them having joined the ranks of adulthood since our last summer all together in the sun. But do they count among the numbers of adults on this holiday? I think not.

When did I last download a ‘Now’ album, I ponder, as I buy boosters to ensure its full delivery to my iPhone. I am appalled to discover this latest release is number 88. ‘What is she singing?’ husband asks, and I hear echoes of my parents. As we all do eventually, I suspect – as these girls will, I hope. In the confines of a Dodge Super Caravan (strangely, no longer feeling overlarge, wide and roomy), we will all dig deep to become tolerant of each other but not of any other travellers – those many strangers who swell in huge numbers in airports this time of year. We have neither the desire or need. We are in our own world of travel and it may not be as fast or cheap as flight but it will be fun.

‘ROAD TRIPS ARE MUCH MORE FUN AND FREE.’ I keep telling the girls this, in a variety of ways and at varying interludes – from when I booked the crossing to just before we leave, when heading out of the EuroTunnel at Calais and as we enter Bordeaux and so on, increasing the frequency and pitch as we nose ever nearer.

‘YOU JUST SEE SO MUCH MORE IN A CAR!’ I screech.
Holidays are often said to make or break a family. I am in danger of either nailing it or putting the final nail in the coffin of whole-family excursions with my high expectations and breathy enthusiasm. And it’s only day one.

War-torn mothering

I am torn. I cannot decide if I was more fretful when our two eldest daughters headed off to Magaluf last Sunday amid headlines of THE sex scandal (insert Daily Mail latest – 'British holidaymakers are avoiding the Mallorca resort of Magaluf following its sex act shame') or whether their return flight home is the more worrying. The latter following the shooting down and destruction of Malaysian Airlines flight MH17 over eastern Ukraine that killed 298 people on board. The two 18-year-old loves of my life flew the nest, alone but together, for the first time last Sunday. They survived a week in Magaluf (save the stories a teenager should never share with a parent) and they will arrive at Stansted in one piece, too. Safe, tanned and exhausted and with seven days of self-sufficiency under their belt to be built on in the many years to come. I hope. For their travels home do not include the option of a flight path over a war-torn area and security is at red alert for all airlines right now, I imagine. However, my irrational fear of flying can only be accentuated by such a catastrophic tragedy as befell the world this week. I read and reread about every passenger on board. Their DNA and dental records the only forensic evidence left to identify their bodies scattered across the fields of sunflowers.

Comfort blanket
Hours beforehand they were people just like you and me, loved by their families and tweeting comments and posting pictures on Facebook before embarking on the doomed flight. I torment myself with every minute detail, every morsel of information – the politics beyond my comprehension and control, but the true-life backgrounds easy to relate to my own small life. We can all make a connection to the personal stories behind harrowing headlines and heart-breaking images – and I so often err on the realistic ‘why not me?’ rather than the blindingly optimistic ‘this will never happen to me’. The additional storm clouds gathering – with much rain, thunder and lightning – add weight to my over-active imagination and so I turn to transferring thoughts to written words, creating that necessary distraction that is my 'comfort blanket' in times of internal, personal turmoil and panic. I call my mother, 80 last week but still a little fearful of storms as if she were still eight. We talk nonsense in a reassuringly conspiratorial fashion that is the very foundation of such a relationship. Unspoken words of reassurance pass between us, her knowing I am fretful about two daughters flying home from their wild days in Mallorca and my knowing she is uneasy about the storm brewing and the lightning that changes the colour of the skies. It is evident in our jolly tones and happy chatter that we are masking our real thoughts and unfounded fears.

Careful navigation
She need not cover mirrors and hide knives in a superstitious fashion and I have no need to make empty promises to be a better person to nobody in particular in order to have our daughters delivered home safely. Life follows a path, fate takes hold and that careful navigation is as much to do with strokes of luck as it is about wise choices, caution and sensible risk aversion. I am not 18. I am a 48-year-old mother. I adore the fact that I have become a little less 9 to 5 and more footloose, but I do have responsibilities. And forever will. Growing older offers many options. Shedding ridiculous fears and unwarranted worries are sadly not among them. My mother would tell you that.

A little potter - and the philosopher's home

Advent and a vent
'Why can't a woman be more like a man?' Rex Harrison asks in his role as Henry Higgins in the musical version of Pygmalion, My Fair Lady.
'Tis a fair point. If you're a man.
Conversely, I have often favoured a boy a tad more feminine than your average Joe, Josė or Joseph. And these days, I do like a man with whom I can share moisturiser en route, or appreciates the need to 'freshen up' on a particularly long drag across western Europe. I also far rather a co-pilot happy to indulge my passion for pontificating on all subjects under the sun - be it in France, Spain or Portugal - than a strong, silent fairweather friend who ducks for cover at the slightest hint of my thoughts raining down on him. Heavily. For example, I can say: 'Take cultural differences in Europe - I mean, why can't the British be more like the Spanish - or even the Portuguese?' And he will allow me to dilate.

Eyes wide open
Having rattled our morning through the Alfama district of Lisbon, on the much-lauded turn-of-the-century E18 tram, we head north east, once again, to Salamanca. With Advent celebrations in full swing in the Portuguese capital, we hit the Spanish city at around 7.30pm. We return as old friends to the tapas bars of this beautiful city, order our own rabo do toro - and drink our own glasses of Rioja. Strangely, it feels like home. The place buzzes with activity - even on a Sunday night - with families, students, travellers, locals, the young and the old, standing in pairs, trios, groups. The centre of the city, the Plaza Mayor, is a page out of a 'Where's Wally' book with a sea of faces bathed in a warm light that brings out the gold of the buildings' Villamayor stone, rich in iron oxide that, thanks to the skills of some stonemason long gone, can become pure filigree, delicate and intricate.
The tapas bars are, as they were on the Friday night we were here, packed tight with people sharing food, drink and conversation. Glasses of wine fill the tables alongside cups of coffee and small plates of tapas and cakes and, from the bar stools we've managed to bag, we watch, wide-eyed, the bustle of everyday Spanish night life. There are no football shirts, the shouting is simply part of the animated conversation and the atmosphere is one of easy living. In England, we lack meeting places such as these - for all ages, all appetites, all drinking options; places open to all and open all day. A shared experience across all ages is important - how else to best impart the importance of learned values and social mores to the next generation, and so on? 

Mealtime matters
In our house, food is what links the five of us, keeps us in touch. Sharing meals is vital time together, it encourages debate and allows for an exchange of the woes and high points of our disparate lives. In a fast-paced world, home-cooked meals taken around a table, teach us the art of conversation and a patience for - and an appreciation of - other people. Similarly, shared food cements memories of moments in foreign worlds that linger far longer that the taste. The Spanish and the Portuguese, along with the other Mediterraneans, are leaders in this way of life - family and friends matter as do those lengthy gatherings. The meals on this journey will act as those now-absent stamps in our passports - an almost extinct travel experience these days - each one leaving an indelible mark on our memory banks of places once enjoyed.

Driving home for Christmas 
Snow-capped mountains greet us as we head ever further north east. It has also dropped to six degrees, according to the compass in 'the beast' and, driving into a tunnel carved through Mont St Obarenes, it suddenly feels like Christmas, not an emotion experienced by me for some years. The hackneyed phrase of 'absence makes the heart grow fonder' applies here, too, to a state of mind and I immediately feel on the cusp of a festive season that promises so much; one that I have the time and energy to enjoy without the Ghost of Christmas 'work' Past throwing a stressful spectral shadow over the whole enjoyment of a long break with my family.

In the deep, pre-winter
This trip proves ever more a necessary hiatus in my life, a vital severance from the hectic and the busy, an eye-opening stock-take of that which is important and that which is less so. What I once thought makes me tick is now undergoing a major reassessment. 
Coincidentally, I discover, buried at the bottom of a pile of books in Portugal, Alain de Botton's masterpiece collection of essays observing our relationships with work - The Pleasures and Sorrows of Work. In it, he observes it was only as late as the mid-18th century we began defining ourselves in terms of our job title and tasks. Before this, de Botton notes: 'Aristotle defined an attitude that was to last more than two millennia when he referred to a structured incompatibility between satisfaction and a paid position.' 
I know I may be lambasted for taking this time out from my job, for this need to quit work and seek some 'me' time. It all appears a little indulgent. I too would have subscribed to this school of thought only a few months back. But delaying this time to see a bit more of this world could possibly prove a mistake - fortunately or unfortunately, the power to see into the future is not yet with us. This experience could not be substituted with a 10-minute read of some beautiful prose by a Sunday Times travel writer. A 6% drop over seven miles through the mountains of the Pyrenees has to 'felt'; the shift in landscape with the flat, brown expanse of Northern Spain giving way to lush, green hills needs to be seen. It's not so much that happiness cannot be found in meeting a deadline or self-satisfaction experienced when a new issue of a magazine worked hard on lands on your desk; I have a professional pride and joy that surpasses any straightforward monetary gain. But, in life, as in diet and exercise - or even, for that matter, measuring flour on scales or playing on a see-saw - the balance needs to be kept in check for near perfection.


A hole in my French letters
A sorry absence of internet connection at our hotels in both Poitiers and Rouen puts paid to this flow of prose. We stay in a converted chapel in Poitiers and my schoolgirl French is put to the test in a city to which the question: 'Parlez-vous français?' is a rather blunt 'non'. The hotel's restaurant is inside a huge dining hall with a menu of French gastronomy around which - quelle surprise - I manage to navigate. Interestingly, I note that this picturesque place is twinned with Northampton and the nearby Parc du Futuroscope has revitalised tourism to this university city.
Next stop is in Rouen which ruined our journey south almost two weeks ago by cutting off the motorway route in its prime. As we follow the DEVIATION signs, they disappear from time to time just to confuse us a little further. This time, Rouen ruins the flow by throwing a thick fog in our way. Abandoning the motorway up to Calais, we book into a pretty, Hogwarts-esque building that proves a flashy cover for a pretty mediocre hotel. I am instantly thrown into a bit of a bad mood, realising hugs with the children are now delayed for another 12 hours. I am tired of living out of a weekend case but deep sleep escapes me in the excitement of seeing the girls I love deeply from whom I've not been severed this long since cords were cut.
I realise, as we embark on the last leg of our journey through the EuroTunnel, that this long road of discovery is not confined to the cities and landscapes that pepper our pathway. It's simply been an eye opener in many ways and, whilst It ain't deep nor complex, it is meaningful.

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.