It was 6.15 a.m. at Shannon Airport when we checked in for our flight to the Algarve, Portugal. Our fellow passengers, pale and bleary-eyed, looked as if a Mediterranean vacation was just what the doctor ordered. A few families were loaded down with teddy bears, bottles and nappies. There was the sneakaway for the week couple. Solo travellers were attached to the ever-present bestseller, hot off the presses. There was a group of lads who had anticipated their trip all year. And us, the epitome of last minute holidaymakers. We believed a week away would be just the ticket for the long winter ahead.
The Algarve appeared through our coach window as we were shuttled to our resort. September is a good time to go, we had been told. The airport bustled. It was hot, the earth a baked terracotta. Bougainvillea cascaded from balconies. Pastel, shuttered houses stood beside concrete apartment blocks. A weird mix of ugly and beautiful interspersed the landscape. The resort did not tally with the photograph in the brochue. Must have been the angle? Our apartment stank of cat and dirty socks. Tired and irritable, we protested. Eventually we were given a cleaner but temporary alternative. The "ocean view" was achieved with a little imagination. Dinner at the poolside bar comforted us. The following day misunderstandings were taken care of by our trusty tour representative, Fernando. We got a clean, airy apartment, a stone's throw from the water. Splendid view!
Outstanding beaches
The beaches were outstanding. We marvelled at the caves, inlets and great stone formations. Access to them was often difficult, however. Each morning, early, we manoeuvred our way down winding, rickety wooden steps. Our reward was soft, clean sand, an ocean of turquoise, surf and coloured beach mats of blues, yellows and picks. Bare breasts abounded, but not an inch of cellulite. There were tans galore. Our nude toddler drew more stares and wondering glances than the topless Cindy Crawford physiques romping at the water's edge. One Dublin woman told me she spent her entire holiday reclining beside the pool at the complex. She seemed astonished to hear of our daily outings to the beach. Lord, what she missed! The quests for sea shells and treasures washed ashore from distant lands filled our imaginations and pails. The pilgrimage to the beach was just that. It was the highlight of our visit and a reason to return.
Dining in the Algarvian restaurants was disappointing, however. Packing the sausages and rashers for the week had not been on our agenda, for we had hoped to explore the local cuisine. There was variety there - crepes, pizza, fish and pasta - but all lacking in any real flavour. One evening, in a "traditional" restaurant, my seven-year-old ordered mackerel, which arrived at the table complete with head and tail. Unsure how to tackle it, he picked up the entire fish. The waiter, who up to now had been less than enthusiastic about our presence, patted him on the back, saying: "Ah, a true Portuguese!" Barriers were broken and we got superb service all evening, with intimate winks thrown at our table!
Of course you can always try the Mick and Chris caff, packed each day with happy diners eating egg and chips or beans on toast. Locally made bread and pastries were very good , though we didn`t take to the local wine. But the cold beer was excellent. Bottled water, we discovered, is a must. One major gripe; high chairs were non-existent, so makeshift ones had to be thrown together, made from cushions, books and trays. Poor baby!
Kitschy crafts
The so-called crafts on sale were kitschy, cheap souvenirs. Travel was taxi was inexpensive, so in search of pottery we went to some neighbouring towns, where we managed to find a few pieces at reasonable prices. Virgin olive oil is a good buy at about three pounds for a bottle. If you're travelling with a baby, bring plenty of nappies, as they are quite expensive.
As to the natives, the touted warm and friendly embrace of the tourist was not too prevalent. Nobody was overly rude or offensive, but we found people detached and rather remote in their dealings with us. Perhaps it was burn-out at the end of the season that was the reason for it, which could also explain the over-flowing rubbish skips that played hosts to wild cats.
But it is the vivid images which I recall. The apricot-coloured skies at dawn, the pristine surf on the shore, the blue mosaic tiles in whitewashed walls, our children dancing on the sands with golden limbs and the dazzling blue of sea and sky.
Journey home
The coach intercom rasped out Fureys` ballads as we returned to Faro airport. Somehow it seemed all wrong, not at all in keeping with our mood. But the line of people checking in their bags for the flight home were a contrast to the one we had encountered at Shannon. Gone were the pale faces, gone the frozen looks. We were a happy, contened honeyed crowd.
In Ireland a harvest moon lit our way home. The warmth of the sun, still in our bones, diluted the cool of the evening. I dug into my bag from some socks. My hand brushed the treasure trove - our seashells, tucked away. The silver sand clung to my toes.