Burgau
So I got the taxi from Praia da Luz to Burgau. As we were beginning to enter the village, the driver asked where I wanted to go. I don’t know, I said. Take me down to the seafront where the bars and restaurants are. He looked at me as if I was nuts. “ But nothing will be open now, it’s Winter”. “What, NOTHING??”
“No, well, there are two places and one of them might possibly be open, Breeze.” I remembered Owen had recommended Breeze, but I wasn’t sure if that was supposed to be in Lagos or Burgau. “Okay, take me to Breeze, and if that’s closed then you can drive me straight to my hotel in Lagos.” He drives me down towards the beach. Yes, he says, it’s open. He drops me beside a small bar/restaurant with a very small outside terrace, maybe 10-12 small round plastic tables, from where you can see the sea and a sandy beach. I walk up onto the terrace. There are five customers there: a French couple, an English couple with a lovely black and white cocker spaniel called Ruby and an English lady, about my age, on the adjacent corner table. The English owner appears and asks what I would like. I just order a drink; after yesterday’s food poisoning bout I’m not sure I dare try to eat anything. The owner, George, has definitely kissed the Blarney Stone. His wife intermittently calls him from the kitchen hatch to collect drinks and food which he distributes. Meanwhile he’s doing the classic English mein host (erm, something doesn’t look quite right there, must be mine host I think ). Anyway, think Dirty Den and Ange, Kat and Alfie, Mick and Linda or even the erstwhile team at the Try Again in Javea, whose style was a little different.
I decide to eat something but, to play it safe, choose just a cheese and ham toastie. When George brings it out, I tell him, with difficulty, given that I can hardly speak, that this bar had been recommended to me by a friend in Dubai. He asked who. Owen, oh yes, we know Owen and Peter and his son Ollie who now has a bar in Luz. I tell him that more people are coming out soon: the Donaldsons and someone else whom they know. This is obviously welcome news for him. I also tell him about my conversation with the taxi driver and he is even more delighted with this. “Hey, did you hear that” he says to his wife. “The taxi driver said Breeze was probably the only place open.”
Well I can’t eat all of my toastie. The crusts are far too abrasive on my sore throat. So I pick a nice one that still had some ham and cheese in it. May I feed Ruby a little bit? I ask. Yes, says the lady but you need to be careful, you have to say “Ruby, gently, gently now”. Thank heavens for the warning. I split the crust in half and say the magic words. Ruby is looking eager but still innocent. I proffer the half crust and she nearly takes my damn arm off. Everyone laughs as I yank my arm back as quickly as if I’m feeding a crocodile. “Naughty Ruby. Naughty. Now be gentle”. I admonish her. I offer the second half and, unchastened, she does exactly the same again. My reaction makes everyone laugh again. Blimey, and I thought Hannah’s manners were poor. I retire to my table. A rotund guy comes in. A worker, judging from the state of his clothes. He orders a mug of tea. Ruby goes nuts with joy to see him, jumping up and licking him, tail going like Billy-oh. I don’t get this, he complains. I don’t like dogs, but this one doesn’t seem to understand that. He pets her nevertheless. He soon leaves, promising to return later when he’d finished his work. Another guy comes in, oozing retired banker or CEO. Slim, permatanned, expensive shorts, loafers and polo shirt, self-assured, not to say arrogant. He casts me a brief backwards glance and moves to the chair I was just about to take (the French couple having just left) so I could try and join the general conversation as best my voice would allow. He sits with his back to me and engages the others in conversation. It takes him about two minutes before he brags that he has a house in Basingstoke as well as here , and splits his time between the two, with a place in Javea as a holiday home. My ears prick up. It crosses my mind to enter into a slap ‘em on the table and measure them contest, but I can’t be arsed. I have met far too many like him in my time. I saw the dismissive and disdainful glance he gave me when he sat down, a look I received so many times over my career. Just an unimportant little woman-couldn’t possibly be of interest.
I have to digress here, to recall attending my first AGM. I was just a trainee lawyer with Pinsents in Birmingham (then their only office, but now they are global). I was going with my boss to some public company’s annual general meeting at a smart hotel. I was excited and my Mom had bought me a new outfit from Rackhams (a nice department store in Birmingham) the weekend before. Well, I thought I looked like the bee’s knees: smart, professional, lawyerly, elegant. It was a favourite brand of mine at the time, something like Bellini, but maybe that’s just a cocktail. Anyhow, I had a black chiffon, lined and tightly pleated black skirt. I loved the way it swished slightly as I moved, in a classy way (the skirt, not me ). The matching black blouse had detachable white collar and cuffs. To finish it off, there was a red chiffon scarf which I could tie in a large bow at the front. I loved it. Like I said, I thought I looked super smart and felt my confidence boosted.
My boss looked at me approvingly that morning. He and I arrived early for the meeting. There were rows of chairs set out on each side of an aisle which led to the stage, on which the board members would sit, facing questions from their shareholders and requesting votes in favour of their continued fat salaries, easy lives and huge pensions.
My boss and I put our paperwork and briefcases down on our chosen seats, about halfway along the second row. “Let’s go and get some coffee” he suggested. I followed him. After about fifteen minutes he said we should take our seats. Being a gentleman, he invited me to lead the way. The path to our seats was blocked by a couple of suits standing there and drinking coffee, talking in posh business voices. “Excuse me please” I asked politely, hoping they would move to let me get past them. The one with his back to me glanced round for a split second, grunted and carried on talking to the chap in front of him whilst holding out his empty coffee cup sideways for me to take. He assumed I was a bloody waitress. I was mortified and blushed, dumb-struck. When his cup was not taken away, as he expected, he looked round again and saw my expression. “Oh sorry”. He moved slightly, enough to let me brush by him and carried on his conversation. I have, as I said, had so many of those looks over the years. And don’t even get me started on the sexual harassment, but that’s another story.
Anyway, back to Breeze in Bergau. Mr Fancy Pants didn’t stay long. Just an espresso and some sort of liqueur or brandy and he was off. I got up and asked the other three if I might join them. Of course. The couple were here just on three months’ holiday, to avoid the English Winter. They had to drive, and use a ferry, to bring naughty Ruby with them. We discussed whether pet passports would work after Brexit. None of us knew what would or wouldn’t work after Brexit. Or what kind of Brexit we would have, if at all. So we all know as much as the English MPs and government.
The couple were very chatty. The lady in the corner didn’t say much, but observed and just kept drinking a succession of white wines.
The English couple ordered some very English scones and didn’t dare try to feed Ruby the crumbs. They said they had to go home to feed her.
I had kept trying to maintain eye contact with the lady in the corner, to make her feel included in the conversation, although she didn’t contribute much, if at all.
After the couple pushed off and we were the only two left, we had a great conversation. She had relocated here from UK about 18 months ago, her partner was still there (I didn’t enquire). She said she loved it, absolutely loved it, and wouldn’t dream of moving back in a million years. I asked how she managed to cope in a place with only two bars/restaurants that weren’t even open all the time. Oh no, she assured me, there were other places around, and managed to name three or four other restaurants in the vicinity. She didn’t mind cooking . I asked if it was easy to make friends here-were there clubs or groups like book clubs, bridge clubs, sailing clubs etc, etc. Well, she said, some ladies did yoga and it was a question of making an effort to get to know people. I can do that. But she still seemed lonely.
We discussed house prices and I said how horrified I was. She told me to ignore the estate agents’ shops and just go online-that was how she had found something very reasonable. I can’t remember the details she gave me of her place, but it did sound reasonable. She told me that the guy who came in for a mug of tea, was Alan, and he was essential to know if you needed anything done. Plumbing, electrics, painting etc. He owned several properties, including the one she had originally rented. When her shower stopped working, he fixed it straightaway. He knew everyone and everywhere in the area. We got to talking about surrounding towns and villages. She loved it too much in Burgau to think about moving. She mentioned in passing that Alan had said that, if he hadn’t set up in Burgau already, he would have gone to Alvor. This clinched it, Alvor was one of the few places I was considering moving to next. Settled. My next look-see spot beckons. You can’t beat local knowledge.
Breeze closed quite early, before it was dark, but not before calling me a taxi back to Lagos.
What a lovely day. Praia da Luz, Bergau, talking to people, moving from place to place on a whim. My favourite way to scope a place out.
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