Sue and I are just recovering from a visit by our eldest son and his delightful fiancée. It is a bit tiring for gentlefolk of our advanced years trying to keep up with a lively young couple, but Sue and I had a great time and did things that we wouldn't have done without them. I was cajoled and bullied into swimming and paddling a kayak in the lake at the bottom of our garden - not really recommended in the coldest and wettest May on record!
We also had some good days out, exploring the area, perhaps the most memorable of which was a visit to the town of Fatima about 20 miles away. For those who don't know about Fatima, it was the scene of religious apparitions throughout 1917 when the Madonna appeared to three children, passing various messages through them to the local populace about ending war, praying to the Rosary and generally following the Catholic teachings more closely.
Since then, Fatima has grown into a world famous religious centre, with devout pilgrims traveling from every corner of the Earth to pray at the scene and generally have a jolly good day out being holy. Now, I am not a religious man, but have always thought that that if people want to believe in Christianity or Father Christmas or fairies at the bottom of the garden, it’s up to them. I have no wish to upset anyone, but Fatima is little short of obscene. The location of the supposed apparitions is surrounded by a huge square with glorious buildings, ornate statues, chapels and churches. This must have cost millions and yet, at every corner, at every twist and turn of the buildings, there are post-boxes asking for donations into which the pilgrims were stuffing their hard-earned cash.
But worse, the whole town is made up of literally hundreds of gift shops, selling tacky religious icons: plastic models of the baby Jesus, plaster Madonnas with gaudy golden crowns, cheap and nasty models of the three children and other vulgar and shoddy souvenirs. So, whilst the virtuous traveler pays out a small fortune, the shopkeepers, the townsfolk and the church get richer. Perhaps they need the money to build more large and elaborate buildings in His name.
I don’t pretend to understand religion but I do remember a little from my RI lessons at Headlands school half a century or so ago. These taught that Christianity was based on being humble and modest and helping one’s fellow man, not erecting huge edifices and fleecing innocent, gullible devotees.
I also remember something about it being more difficult for a rich man to go to Heaven that for a camel to pass through the eye of a needle. I guess that this means that, if there is a Heaven and I go there, I won’t be plagued by shopkeepers selling plastic Madonnas or any members of the church.

The first thing I must do is to apologise for the mis-spelling of “garlic” in my last Blog entry. I have always thought that correct spelling and punctuation is most important in any communication; I even spell correctly and punctuate text messages! The only excuses I can give, albeit rather weak ones, are that I have some good friends in Swindon called Garlick and that I am getting old and confused.
Back to Portugal, where I have been very ill. That is a comparative “very ill” as I tend to be a pretty healthy sort of bloke: probably years of drinking Arkell’s 3Bs have made me resistant to germs. However, I recently contracted a stinking cold, since when I have had an earache which has ranged from a niggling pain to agony. Sue finally decided that she had had enough of my whingeing, so insisted that I go to see the local doctor.
In the nearby village of Serra, there is a health centre so off I set one morning last week to see the doctor. At the receptionist’s desk, I explained my problem in pigeon Portuguese and she pointed to some chairs outside of another door and said that I should wait there. After about five minutes, the door opened and a rather stern (though not unattractive) lady in a white coat invited me in. So far, good thinks I.
The stern lady asked me (I think) what was wrong. I explained about the earache. She looked at me for a few seconds, and then said in perfect English, “And just how do you think physiotherapy can help you?”
Luckily, she was then able to explain that the nearest doctor was in the town of Tomar, and so, with the physiotherapist’s instructions, I found the health centre. It was absolute mayhem. A maelstrom of men, women and children milling around, with several different queues, waiting rooms, surgeries and receptions. I finally found what looked liked the general reception and joined the end of the queue. After half an hour, I reached the receptionist’s desk and, as I arrived, she said, “Number sixty seven.”
The man behind me produced a little ticket labeled “67” and was greeted by Senora receptionist, ignoring me altogether. I then realized that I had to take a ticket, much like those at Tesco’s deli. counter. So I could do nothing else but go to the back of the queue, take a ticket and start all over again.
Finally I reached the desk and, after a brief explanation of my symptoms, was directed to a line of chairs further down the corridor. After another few minutes, the people in the queue moved into a nearby room, so I naturally followed them in and sat down waiting to seen. I began to think something may be wrong when I noticed that all the other patients were:
a) women, and
b) heavily pregnant
Also, the room was covered in pictures of bouncing babies and bosoms with posters extolling the virtues of breast feeding. Blushing madly and apologising profusely, I made another strategic withdrawal and went home and locked myself away in a darkened room until my colour had returned to normal.
The next day, we found a private practice in Tomar and paid 50 Euros for a consultation and another 30 euros for various pills. I am now cured and determined that I will never be ill again. Any chance of a delivery of Arkell’s to Portugal?

When we first deserted Swindon's sunny shores and moved to Spain, we spent the first 2 months looking for a house to buy. Our plan was to find an old village house and modernise it to live in. Due to the delapidated state of most village properties, we soon found out that this is possible only if you are:

a) a very experienced builder
b) very rich
c) verging on the insane

As we consider ourselves none of the above (although the jury is still out on c), we bought a small plot of land on the edge of a village, drew up some plans and found a builder to build us a house. The stress was such during the year that it took to build that we agreed that we would never, ever do it again.

When we arrived in Portugal, we wanted a newish house with no modernistion needed, so that we could move straight in and be stress free.

After looking for houses for some time, we have now bought a plot of land on the edge of a village to build our own house. This time, however, is a little easier because plans were already prepared and passed and the builder, Carlos, had started work.

We have spent a great deal of time with Carlos planning various aspects of the build and this week it was time to choose the floor and wall tiles and bathroom suites. We met Carlos at 9 o'clock and proceeded to be driven around the local countryside at breakneck speed finding tile and bathroom suppliers. Unlike in England, these suppliers tend to be small, privately owned businesses often situated miles from nowhere. It is common to drive up to someone's country house and find that they have a warehouse built in their back gardens, full of sinks and toilets.

Having finally selected our tiles, toilets and so on, Carlos drove us through small country lanes and villages at even greater speed to a local restaurant to celebrate, at the same time explaining that his driving had slowed down a lot because four years ago he had crashed his Ferrari at 150 mph,in the rain. All the while, he was driving with just one hand on the steering wheel and turning round to talk to Sue in the back seat.

The restaurant was, however, incredible. There was no menu as they served only one meal: Bacalhau (salt cod) in olive oil and garlick with potatoes in olive oil and garlick. There was only locally made red wine to drink and home made bread to soak up the oil and garlick. The restaurant was packed. Carlos told us that it is always packed and that they serve just this one meal, lunchtimes and evenings, seven days a week. And it is always packed. The food was delicious (if you like olive oil and garlick) but the sad thing is that it may not last. Apparently, EEC regulations may stop them serving the wine because it is made by local villagers treading grapes in their baths, which does comply to some idiotic health regulations. Also the bread, olive oil and garlick is locally produced, again upsetting some bureaucratic nonsence from Brussels. Why can these overpaid, self important, expenses claiming MEPs not leave things to individual choice. If I don't mind risking getting a bit of toenail or a cornplaster in my wine, what business is it of theirs.

Everyone should visit Portugal very soon before it is forced to become another modern, clinical, characterless European country, exactly like all the others. And if you could drive here via Brussells and run down an MEP on the way, so much the better.

As this Blog business is new to me and as my personal Blog is new to everyone, it's probably worth outlining my background.
After living in Swindon for 56 years, 25 of them with my lovely wife Sue, we decided that we had had enough of (in no particular order) President B Liar, antisocial behaviour, stealth taxes, traffic, poor service, antisocial behaviour, yobboism, noise, pollution, pace of life, political correctness, antisocial behaviour, bad weather, dirty hospitals, poor policing, speed cameras and (of course)antisocial behaviour. Apart from that, we quite liked living in England, however we felt that it was time to move on.
We sold up everything and moved to a small, quiet village in Andalusia, southern Spain, where we lived very peacefully and contentedly for 4 years. As happy as we were, Sue began to contract itchy feet syndrome (IFS)in the middle of last year and suggested that we move on. After 2 superb holidays in Portugal, the contagious IFS spread to me and the only cure was to move, so we started looking for somewhere to live in the land of Porkandcheese.
We discovered a beautiful area in central Portugal, near the spectacular and historic city of Tomar, on the shores of Portugal's secong biggest lake. With beautiful scenery, fascinating wildlife and friendly, helpful natives, the area offered the quiet and rural lifestyle we wanted so, for the second time, we sold up and moved on.
And here we are. Living the good life in another country with new customs, new food, new culture and another new language. I hope that IFS is finally eliminated this time.