And so to Portugal for a few days; home to Ronaldo, grilled sardines and ceramics. And Port, obviously. The sun shone for the whole week and everywhere was within walking distance. The resort even had an escalator that took you down to the beach in the morning - and back up again before the intense heat of the midday sun (unless you were a mad dog or an Englishman) - how lazy is that? The beer, always Super Bock (pictured above), was served chilled and hit the spot day or night; warm dark ale just doesn't cut it when the temperature is permanently scorchio. Seven whole days later and I returned with three abiding memories. In no particular order:
Marradas (Portugese bull-running) video clips - who needs MTV when images of rampaging bulls being chased through narrow Mediterranean streets complements any pop tune you care to mention?
Close-up magic - more on this later I promise. Suffice it to say that I have seen the Devil at work - I was more than a little worried when a total stranger could see inside my head.
And then there's this beautiful, clingy song that, as soon as I heard once, I knew would live with me forever. I only wished I'd written it.