The final day has a twist in its tale

After yesterday’s rain, this was a much nicer morning, but it sadly marked the start of our final full day in Portugal. Ran around doing the final bits of cleaning and packing (managed to get the wine into the case without going over the limit), and then settled down for a last coffee and a read of the Guardian on line. Here, I saw that the UK was being battered by storms (Bert, or Bart, or Blert or something), that Putin had launched an ICB at Ukraine, and that Guardiola sold the remaining millimetre of his soul to Manchester City for a further two years, during which time he can hopefully drag them from the Northwest Counties League Division 1 to the Northwest Counties League Division 2. This is why I have stopped reading newspapers and watching the news on TV.
 
I think, all things considered, that Água de Madeiros has been my favourite part of this trip, or at least the cottage has been. It has reminded me of Llangwnadl in North Wales, where I used to go on holiday as a boy – we used to stay in this lovely farm cottage called Drebach, which smelt of must and had small, dark rooms. I loved it as a kid, and have often longed to go back, and there is something about this place that brings it all back sharply into focus. Maybe, in a Proustian way, it was the must. But all good things must come to an end, so we packed, and set off for Lisbon.
 
We hadn’t got far down the road when I realised we were leaving far too early. One executive decision later, and we were going in the opposite direction towards Nazaré. We’d only been to the Sitio part before, up on the hill, and wanted to see the beach resort area, where I thought we could fight our way through the crowds and maybe have a walk along the beach. When we got there, however, there were no crowds. In fact, there was hardly anyone in sight. We parked along the main drag, got out, wandered up the strip to a small café and, there, had a nice, if somewhat overpriced, omelette and an excellent coffee. Then we wandered for a bit, saw the fishermen selling their wares on the beachfront, and wondered if we weren’t doing the wrong thing by heading back to Canada.
 
On the road again: we decided to avoid the highways this time and took all the small roads – which meant driving through small, remote villages, and seeing some spectacular countryside. Portugal really is an astonishing country. Eventually, we joined up with the highway again, and the traffic increased in volume the closer we got to Lisbon.
 
I wasn’t really looking forward to finding our hotel: I’d booked us into a Holiday Inn Express close to the airport, as it was the only place I could find that took a credit card instead of a body part, but it turned out to be a much larger distance from the airport than I imagined, on Rua da Guiné. We actually, as much by luck as design, found our way their easily, and checked in. The room, if you can call it that, was small. Very small. We’d requested a camp bed for Ottawacker Jr., and it took up the remaining floor space in the room. As such, we had a small corridor at the end of the bed, along which you could scoot to the bathroom. There was a small alcove in which our single suitcase was stored. Our remaining supplies were balanced precariously on the top of that. But we hadn’t come to Lisbon to sit in a small room at the Holiday Inn Express, so we locked the door and left. We had some plane spotting to do.
 
First, though, we had to return the car at the airport. I had miraculously avoided any dents or chips, so that went reasonably quickly. Then we handed ourselves over to Ottawacker Jr., and let him lead us to the place he had found on the web that promised the best views of planes taking off and leaving Lisbon Airport. A few people question our sanity about letting Ottawacker Jr. lead the way, especially where transit is concerned, in a foreign city. But he really is quite remarkable. Hand me a map of the Lisbon transit system, and I will sit there staring at it for 15 minutes, before beginning to trace out a route with my finger, my tongue poking helpfully from my mouth, possibly drooling. Mrs. Ottawacker is slightly better (alright, she is a lot better). But somehow, Rain Man manages to look at the map, understand it and start off using it before I have even understood what the colour codes are for. It is frankly disconcerting. I imagine this is what Mrs. Mozart must have felt like when she took young Wolfie for a stroll in the park, and he got out of his pram, crossed the road and went into the Salzburger Dom to have a play on the harpsichord. His understanding is instinctive. Mine is rather less so.
 
So, when he suggested that we get the bus, which he gleefully informed us would be only for 4 stops, we were happy to oblige. This, however, wasn’t the end of the adventure. Then we had to wait for the 717. So, we waited for the 717. When it came, we got on it – and then he told us that this one would be for 18 stops, and would take us all the way around the airport, as far as the Igreja de São Bartolomeu da Charneca. From there, he told us, it was just a short walk to the Estrada do Pisa Pimenta, which would afford us unparalleled views of Boing 787s landing. And taking off. Mrs. Ottawacker’s smile had become somewhat fixed at this point, as it was starting to get ready to get dark. By the time we had arrived at Charneca church, we had travelled quite a way to the north of the city, through neighbourhoods big and small, and had absolutely no idea where we were. It’s one thing to trust your 11-year-old son when you have an idea of what he is doing, it is, as I discovered, quite another to do it blindly. But, in for a penny…
 
We got off the bus, and he led us down a small path, bejewelled with dog turds, along the side of which half of Lisbon seemed to have been to participate in the municipal fly tipping competition. There were no lights along much of it, I noticed, and from the way Mrs. Ottawacker was wrinkling her nose, I was glad I had no sense of smell. Still Ottawacker Jr. led us on, undeterred, as the road turned and twisted and became a path. As we rounded a corner, I noticed, ahead of us, a warehouse, into which a gang of men were backing white vans. Very quickly. Then, one of the vans reversed very, very quickly indeed, and screeched off in the opposite direction at full pelt. I looked around; there was nobody else in sight. That was when I saw the dog running towards us; it started barking. It wasn’t a small dog. It was a sort of pit bull/German Shepherd mix. Soon, however, he stopped barking. Significantly, though, he didn’t stop running. Now, I don’t know if you have ever seen a detective show on television. Most of them start off with a murder having been committed. You find a body lying in the most unusual of places, say, beside a warehouse into which white vans have been unloading an unspecified number of containers, containing hard drugs or contraband cigarettes, or stolen Russian icons. And you wonder to yourself, why in the name of God would anyone go down there and put themselves in a position where they might be gunned down by reckless criminals with dogs. And probably machetes. And God knows what else. Well, the reason they are there is because they have followed their small son blindly so he can go plane spotting. They deserve all they get, the idiots. I mention all of this because this was what was running through my mind when I saw the dog, with its great muzzle salivating and drooling, running towards me. I briefly thought of pushing Ottawacker Jr. in front of me, but then realised that I am a better human being than that, so pushed Mrs. Ottawacker there instead. No, I didn’t. I didn’t need to, because one of the men called the dog back, and it turned on its heels sharply and went into the warehouse with the last of the vans.
 
I have to admit to not being sure about what to do next. As well as my hips were working in Portugal, I was pretty sure that I couldn’t outrun the dog, should it show its slobbering face again. Worse, I couldn’t outrun Mrs. Ottawacker or Ottawacker Jr. So, the only thing for it was to continue moving forward. On we went, me bravely in the middle, until we reached the warehouse, whose doors were now closed. As I looked to the left, I saw a lone car, some 20 metres further on, with someone sitting in it. Had he brought us to a dogging spot? Was SpotterGuide.com not the type of website I had thought it was? Making a mental note to check the parental guidance controls on his laptop as soon as we got home – if we ever got home – I also remembered the importance of not making eye contact with anyone in the car. Oh my God, what would happen if they rolled down the windows? How would I explain that to Ottawacker Jr.? Thankfully, I didn’t have to do any of that, for at that moment he shouted out, “There it is!” and we could see a small crowd of people standing in the gloaming at the end of the path. I’ve never been so glad to see a plane spotter.
 
So, off we went to the end of the path and stood and watched the planes take off and come in to land. And there we stood for more than an hour, until we were the last people there, and it was quite, quite dark. Despite his not showing the slightest inclination to leave, we gave him the five-minute warning, and eventually made our way briskly down the bejewelled side street to the church, where we found the 717 bus stop and waited 20 minutes in the chill evening air for it to come and take us back to the centre. We caught the bus to the Saldanha metro, jumped on a train and ended up at the Av. da Republica. There, on a little side street, we found a small Chinese Ramen place, went in and found ourselves to be the only customers. I had the duck; Mrs. Ottawacker the chicken; and, Ottawacker Jr. wanted chicken Fried Rice. All were exceptional – close to being the best meal of the trip.
 
Metro back to the airport; taxi back to the hotel; bed, where the squeakiness of the camp bed made for a sleepless night.