A Year in Monchique 3

However, I’m more of a pool person than a beach person; all that sand gets into every nook and cranny and, somehow, part of the beach always makes its way back inside your car! I wonder whether you are a beach person or a pool person? Also, if you are a beach person, I wonder which is your favourite beach in Portugal and what it is about that place that makes it special for you?

I once met a Portuguese man who was as straight as can be. I asked him, “Why is there hardly any gay scene in Portugal?” to which he replied to my astonishment, “Because we don’t have gay people in Portugal.” I replied, “Of course you have gay people here, and I’ve seen some of them on the beach.” The man then said sternly, “Well, there’s an obvious explanation to that.” Curious, I replied, “Do tell”, to which he responded, “They must have come over the border from Spain!”

Back at the farmhouse, the phone rang, and it was my friend Caroline, who immediately said, “The bars are open again after lockdown!” So, we made arrangements to meet in Monchique at a cafe where the customer service was grim; in fact, the waiter’s service was akin to the ‘Grim Reaper,’ as he never said ‘Bom dia’ or smiled, and would hurl food and drinks at customers.

On arrival, we were informed face masks were required until we were seated, while the staff were required to wear theirs at all times. Apparently, the virus wasn’t transmissible when sitting down. Caroline was in high spirits, as were the other patrons, all celebrating their newfound freedom.

Having ordered drinks, the waiter arrived, scowling as he served us. It was then that I couldn’t help but say, “Finally, something positive has come out of Covid-19.” He paused then, curious, and asked, “What could that possibly be?” To which I quipped, “Because you’re wearing a face mask, I don’t have to look at your miserable face.” For a split second, there was silence — then he broke into a broad smile and burst out laughing. From that moment on, we were on good terms. Now, whenever I see him in Monchique, he greets me with a genuine smile and a cheerful “Bom dia.”

As we were enjoying each other’s company, I said to Caroline, “I have news,” to which she replied, “I had a feeling you might.” I went on to say, “I’ve been online, and I have a date.” Caroline replied, “Well, I hope it’s not an AI robot,” as that had been her experience of the online dating game!

That evening, on arriving at the farmhouse, the guest introduced himself as ‘José Marcelino de Araújo’. I thought ‘that sounds posh’. As we started dinner, we began the usual conversation about our backgrounds.

Marcelino, as he likes to be known, said: “I grew up in Brazil with my family, but am now a Portuguese citizen as my family on my father’s side originated from the city of Barcelos in the Braga district.” (Note to reader: The historic city of Barcelos is also famous as the origin of the legendary Galo de Barcelos, Rooster of Barcelos, the national symbol of Portugal.)

I replied, “I’m from Liverpool, Wales, and Portugal,” pausing to reflect on the journey that had brought us to this moment. Suddenly, Marcelino spoke some words that would change our lives, because he delivered them in a flawless Scouse accent! Startled, I asked, “Have you visited Liverpool?” Marcelino smiled and said, “Yes, I lived near Liverpool for a while.” Intrigued, I pressed further, “Really, where was that?” To our astonishment, Marcelino answered, “A place called Litherland.” It was the very place where I had grown up.

How unimaginable it is that Marcelino and I came to meet on a mountain in Portugal, he from South America, I from Northern Europe — yet we had both once lived in the same small town near Liverpool. Was it fate, chance, or luck? We may never know. What we both know is that it happened for a reason, and we have been together ever since.

The following week, Marcelino called and asked, “Would you like to go to the beach today?” With the sunshine glorious and the promise of a second date, I didn’t hesitate: “Absolutely!” He explained where we were headed — Praia do Submarino (Submarine Beach). (Note to reader: Perhaps Marcelino’s English didn’t allow me to understand exactly what he was trying to explain. But as best as I could gather, he was saying we could swim out to a submarine just off the shore.)

Later that morning, my parents called for the daily update on life in Portugal and my plans for the day. My father was a World War II aficionado and asked me to keep an eye out for anything of maritime history. I found myself imagining the possibility of salvaging some wartime memorabilia.

Having met at the agreed location, Marcelino, Beagle Ben, and I set off towards the beach. It turned out to be less of a walk and more of an obstacle course — along narrow clifftops, a steep descent down a rocky crag, and a crawl through sandstone tunnels that did little for my composure. I eventually emerged, only to find myself confronted by a woman in her birthday bathing suit!

It turned out that Marcelino had neglected to mention we’d be visiting a nudist beach, which, I have to admit, isn’t exactly my cup of tea. Beagle Ben, however, was instantly intrigued! Now, I’m no oil painting, but I do find myself wondering why nudist beaches rarely seem to attract the cover-model type, in fact quite the opposite. And honestly, is anyone truly eager for that much visual honesty?

Marcelino explained that the left side of the beach was popular with straight bathers, while the right side tended to attract a gay crowd. As for the middle of the beach, I couldn’t help but think whether that was the designated area for the people whom I refer to as ‘The confused’.

Having claimed the spot on ‘our side’ of the beach, I asked Marcelino, “So, where exactly is this submarine?” He pointed out to sea and declared, “There it is, over there!” Yet, no matter how intently I scanned the horizon, I could see no vessel. Not a periscope, not even a ripple of a suspicious-looking wave. Eventually, by carefully following the trajectory of Marcelino’s finger, I realised the truth: this was not a World War II submarine. It was, in fact, a rock. A rock that, from a generous angle, bore a passing resemblance to a submarine. Ships ahoy, it was most certainly not!

Knowing there was no salvage operation to be mounted, we resigned ourselves to our modest patch of sand and the far more dependable pleasure of sunshine. At that precise moment, a fellow beachgoer appeared, looming above and blotting out the sun. He launched into rapid stream of French, none of which I understood, though the patronising tone was unmistakable, in that particular way some French people sometimes have.

As he worked himself into greater agitation and realised that I spoke English, he snapped and said, “Zis… how you say… is a nudist beach, oui?” “Yes,” I replied, “I had gathered that.” “Zen why, Monsieur, are you not… ‘ow you say… completely nude, eh?” There are moments in life when you can choose between diplomacy and mischief. I, as ever, chose the latter. “Because,” I said, “I wouldn’t want to make you feel inferior.” He then turned on his heels and sloped away, allowing sunlight to flood back. Beagle Ben grumbled as he went; he could always sense a nasty queen.

Later that evening, Beagle Ben and I were back on the mountain, relaxing at the farmhouse and recovering from the day’s visual experiences, when the telephone rang. It was my father. “Did you see the World War II submarine out at sea today?” he asked, with evident anticipation. “No,” I replied. Then, sensing the faint but unmistakable note of disappointment at the other end of the line, I added cryptically, “But I did spot a few torpedo-shaped objects on the beach!”

Also Read Derek Hughes article A Year in Monchique 3 – Animal Farm – April 2021