As the end of my original planned five weeks at the Ecohostel drew nearer I knew that I wasn’t ready to leave the area yet. Amagâ is a small mountain town where not a lot happens but it is one of the places on my trip that has stolen my heart.
the mountains around Amaga
Paola arranged for me to move in with a family and to teach English to the seven year old who I shall call Abra. So one weekend I moved from my shared dorm in the hostel with its cold showers and (very nice) vegetarian food to a place with a pool, my own room and massive grounds.
My routine was flexible but I began every morning with an hours walk back to the hostel so that I could continue with my Spanish lessons. Paola had replaced herself with Lu so that she herself could travel for a month and Lu from Mexico endeavoured to continue my education.
a pool with a view
I may have moved to a lovely home but this was still Colombia. Several events had the family laughing at me over and over again – from my shower which burst into flames above my head and dowsed me in thick smoke and flames, to the giant ants which set up a nest in my shoes. A dangerous spider was marching across my bedroom floor one morning – had it bitten me during the night I would have had to spend three days in hospital and the cockroaches and beetles were the two inch long variety.
these things actually manage to fly
Abra had an adorable four week old kitten which clambered everywhere and Abra just loved to kick a football around. I played handball with the sports team on one of their days out when as a group we all went for a hike into the countryside and I helped out with the basketball trainingat the town sports hall. I also taught English to a great seven year old girl (Juli) at her home and often Abra was joined by Jac – the thirteen year old daughter of the lovely Vivi who helped out at the big house.
I went out a couple of times with Mauri into the campa. Maura speaks fluent English and German as well as teaching Spanish and told me many stories and tales about the area. On one occasion we trekked slowly in the searing heat, stopping to swim in the crystal clear pool of a river which tumbled refreshingly cold down from the mountains and then we poked our head into the dark entrance of one of the (probably illegal and unregulated) coal mines. We also had a beer at a football pitch on top of the world. Up here there was a three hundred and sixty degrees panoramic view where the mountains just marched on and on in their green folds for ever and ever.
fresh cold water from the mountains
I popped in and out of Medellin and I also stayed for a while at the Ecohostel whilst Paola was away. That was challenging – not least because one of the big humpback cows got onto the land through a hole in the hedge. Me and the amazing dog Guia managed to herd it back out of the gate (four times) and stopped it doing too much damage. It was a massive animal and not very sweet tempered but I was very proud of myself that we accomplished that between us before it could eat or trample too many of the vegetables.
Before I set off on this Latin American adventure I was always nervous out by myself and I would avoid walking out in the dark or the countryside alone. But now I was walking miles and for hours down country lanes. I wouldn’t freak out when a truck or motorbike slowed to talk – in fact I was actively hitching rides from them and as for living in the middle of nowhere all by myself – some of my friends would never believe it possible.
hitching on the back when the truck is full
I met up with Diego a couple of times for English/Spanish intercambio. One night I was unable to return home to the big house because the guard dogs were roaming free during the night and the odds were high that I would get eaten if I attempted to open the gate, D’s mum insisted that I stay and she gave me dinner and then made up a bed for me in the spare room. I cannot get over the kindness and the generosity of people here in this small town. They never see anything as an unsurmountable problem and they are full of trust and sunshine.
I was invited to dinner with families when before eating I would be introduced to the neighbours and local kids would hang through the bars on the living room windows watching me eat. I will be a lot more sympathetic when I next visit a zoo and stare and watch the penguins because it is very weird to be watched and listened to while you are trying to get on with other things. Everything happens in the open here – even the Alcoholics Anonymous meetings take place with the double doors open to the street because it is so hot – and whilst everybody can see the semi-circle of people gathered I guess that it is such a small community there is no way very much can be anonymous.
these kids watched us eating for ages
Yo and his partner Joha always have an open house in the town – for people and animals. They are both involved with a local community group called Corporacion Cultural Poncherazo and Yo also organises an intercambio language group with the volunteers from the EcoHostel. People just drop in and out of their home and they seem to know EVERYBODY in the town. They are both mad keen on animals and they have adopted some of the street dogs and cats, taking them into their home at night and leaving bowls of food and water outside their door for the others. I lived with Yo and Joha for nearly two weeks at the end of my stay in Amaga and I cannot thank them enough for showing me such kindness. I was living with them close to the centre of town and I was a part of the community.
my favourite street dog, Orejas (Ears) I would adopt him if I lived in Amaga
the view from my kitchen window for a few weeks
Night life in Amagâ is low key but fun with a couple of bars and nightclubs. One rather odd place even has the mens urinal at the side of the dance floor!! There are a couple of hotels (love hotels) where people check in for the night or part night so that they can get some privacy and countless bars with some very colourful locals who are often rolling drunk but funny and harmless and spend their days in the parque or in the market.
Amaga on a sunny Sunday afternoon, complete with childrens car ride
Colombia is one of the richer countries that I have visited so far in Latin America but there are massive differences between here and my old home in the UK. For the majority of people here, their social interaction with others is of the highest priority – both for the simple act of connecting and sharing with others and also because good manners have been instilled into them from an early age. The children will just as quickly approach and ask very politely how you are, or ask where you are from, engaging in a conversation, just because they can.
just an ordinary mountain town
Shopping takes on a whole new meaning as shopkeepers serve several people at once and all contribute to a five or six way conversation about what is being bought, the price, why you want the product and the news of the day. I have finally got used to being in the middle of being served and then abandoned for another customer – but that just means that the customer to my left can start a conversation with me. I am also now used to interrupting the customer who is being served and asking the price of something and I no longer feel embarrased when the shopkeeper abandons them for me. Its just the way that it is here.
I am sure that I will return to Amaga and the region of Antioquia one day. In the meantime I take a little piece of it and its inhabitants away with me in my heart.
public transport mountain style
On my final bus ride out of the town I sat on the left hand side so that I could drink up the views for one last time. I had my dark sunglasses jammed on tightly and I wept a few tears at leaving. I really hope that I will be back one day.
Those words were supposed to comfort me, but I just wanted to pull the duvet tightly around me, snuggle deep into the wonderful bed and never surface again.
My adventure had begun. I had booked my coach to Heathrow and I was looking forward to my treat of a night at the Thistle Hotel where I had planned to enjoy a leisurely evening meal with a couple of glasses of wine, check out their roof terrace which overlooks the runway and Terminal 5 and experience their new Pod transfer system.
Instead of a fluttering of anticipation and excitement I began to feel quite queasy on the coach and before I even reached Heathrow, I was in the throes of a fully fledged vomiting bug. Somebody up there must have been looking out for me because at least I had one of the better coaches with a decent clean toilet. The bus deposited me at Terminal 5 and feeling dizzy and more light-headed by the minute I struggled with my backpack and my rucksack and staggered off to find to the Pod, the state-of-the-art transport system to my hotel.
the ‘station’
clean lines
I have to admit that when the hotel had phoned me to enquire whether I had heard of the Pod I thought that it was an expensive sounding gimmick, but boy, was I glad of it now. At the futuristic little station tucked away in Terminal 5 consoles rather than ticket officers waited, their screens glowing invitingly in the muted light, lined up alongside little docking stations behind a glass screen. As I followed the very simple instructions on the screen an unmanned electric cart trundled into view. Parking up next to the waiting business man standing at the next station I watched as he stepped in. My Pod was not far behind and I gratefully collapsed onto the wide seat, whilst a soothing recorded voice welcomed me to the experience and advised me to remain seated. Smoothly and almost silently we whizzed along a little roadway, up and down ramps and bridges, crossing over main roads packed with cars. The journey took just five minutes and I very quickly found myself in the car park of the Thistle. Check in was luckily speedy and hassle free, no doubt hastened by my very odd grey complexion as I just needed to get to my room and collapse in a heap.
So no nice meal or drink on the terrace. I couldn’t even take advantage of the tea and coffee making facilities in the room, but I did come very close to experiencing the on-call doctor. Luckily by four in the morning my symptoms had eased and I felt more confident about taking two consecutive flights and travelling for close on twenty four hours.
the pod
As I checked out, I was able to experience the Pod transfer system a little better. The little vehicles reminded me of some of the better bubble lifts at ski resorts, clean and nippy with stacks of room inside for up to four passengers and their bags. The station was just a short walk from the hotel reception and whilst marginally more expensive that the Heathrow Hotel Shuttle Bus, it was certainly worth the extra. I still come out in a cold sweat when I think how I was intending to catch the shuttle bus and I am not at all sure that I would have managed that journey.
Anyhow the day picked up and the adventure truly got under way.
The British Airways flight to Miami airport passed smoothly despite the American man to my left pointedly refusing to be drawn into any sort of conversation at all but he insisted on spilling over into my seat. The British man on my right did chat away but he also kept falling asleep and snuggling in against my shoulder.
Customs at Miami was more interesting. I had to go out through customs and then re-enter. It was very busy and at the head of my queue there were two men joking with each other about who was to go first. Well, the customs officer wasn’t having any nonsense at all and bounced out of his booth, got right into their faces and bawled at them, insisting that they tell him what was so funny. He really was quite menacing and was tapping his belt as if itching for them to give him an excuse for a good beating or a shooting. Torn between being nosy and trying to shrink down behind the man in front I really wished that I could have taken a photograph but that was a definite no-no. After my turn of being photographed and finger printed I automatically drifted forward to lean on the officer’s desk – and was promptly ordered in a very loud voice and in no uncertain terms to stand right back IMMEDIATELY. To lull me into a false sense of security, the official allowed the corners of his mouth to twitch in what was possibly a tiny smile, and when I responded with the same he yelled at me again – he was certainly revelling in his power and also managed to snigger at my passport photo too, but he did ‘ma’am’ me and wish me a good onward flight.
over Peru
There then followed an extremely boring seven hour wait at Miami for my next flight which would take me down to Lima in Peru. I have to admit to getting a little nervous at this stage, worrying about the imminent taxi ride and simply locating my hostel. A couple of airplanes later (they kept breaking) and three gate changes we boarded two hours late but had another uneventful five and a half hour flight to Lima. I managed to doze for most of it but woke to a magnificent sunrise whilst below the plane, the sharp jagged peaks of the Andes pierced the fluffy magicalness of the clouds, running all along the horizon on the left as far as the eye could see. I was momentarily confused as the captain announced that landing was imminent and the clouds were still far below us, but all became clear as we suddenly descended and landed in thick fog know as garua. Carmen, the dinky little Peruvian to my right explained that for much of the year. Lima is rather cruelly cloaked in a grey mist, not like any normal mist but one which bathes the city in a luminescent ghostly pale glow. It lifts briefly for a few short months during the summer and is due to do so any day now and when it does the people of Lima will rejoice
My adventure did not have the auspicious start that I had hoped and planned for but I will certainly not forget it and Sis was right – I am in the southern hemisphere, I am in South America and I can laugh about it now
Disclaimer: I received complimentary tickets for the Pod by the Thistle Hotel: but this did not, in any way influence my comments in this article, which are my own, personal views.
Flying into Madrid and with my instructions clamped tightly in my hand I negotiated passport control, the metro and the Cercanias train system to arrive at my destination for the next week . Senorio de Illescas is a dormitory town which lies bang in between Madrid and Toledo, just 35kms to either on a train or a bus and with the journey costing an amazing two and a half euros. I had discovered the family who were to be my hosts on the Workaway website – but unlike working on the farm in Portugal my remit here in Spain was to speak English. And to play with the adorable seven month old baby who I shall call Garban (Spanish for something small like a tadpole or a chickpea)
After the structure of the farm where we had a specific (though flexible) timetable to follow, here there was no such structure. The timetable was dictated by Garban, but with his ready smiles that was no hardship.
the familiar symbol of Madrid
I began writing this account of my experiences in Madrid intending it to be factual and objective but as I leave, heading south to Estepona, it is hard to remain composed.
The family that I lived with for three weeks took me into their home and into their hearts. I have met both sets of parents, brother, sister, aunts and uncles, cousins and the amazing grandmother. We have prepared meals together and swapped recipes, cycled, walked, shopped and chatted late into the night.
Dyana and Hunter have been the ultimate hosts, tour guides and friends and there were tears all around as we said our goodbyes. They have ‘met’ my parents via skype and they extended an invitation to them to visit them in Madrid which was reciprocated by my parents should Dyana and Hunter return to the UK.
Since my arrival, Garban has sprouted two new teeth, he has begun to crawl and he has started at his nursery. It was difficult to watch the anguish on Hunter’s face as he walked away from his crying son leaving him with the nursery staff, and it brought back many memories for me with my children. Perhaps if I could turn back the clock and I had the benefit of hindsight I would maybe do some things differently – but there is no point regretting what I did or didn’t do – they were the right things at the time.
tapas dish of pig’s ears
Anyway, I digress. It was easy to love Garban and I loved every minute of my time in Illescas – even when challenged to eat tripe (pigs intestines). With ten pairs of eyes watching me, and the family holding their collective breath, I struggled gamely to chew and swallow. Feeling rather like a contestant on ‘I’m a Celebrity’ I regret to say that I failed miserably, although thankfully Mario gallantly reached me with a bucket in time! I felt honoured that despite many of the family not speaking any English they included me in the family birthday celebrations and with sign language and with Dyana and Hunter translating, I felt very much a part of things.
The economic situation in Spain is bad – but Dyana (named after an actress) and Hunter (so called following his wild antics one evening when he chased a massive bug around the kitchen with a tea towel) have good jobs. Dyana was enjoying her last two weeks of her maternity leave when I rocked up at their door, and then during my third week Hunter took annual leave and stayed home while she returned to work and little Garban began his gentle introduction to the nursery.
I was impressed with Dyana and Hunter’s standard of English and also that of their brother and sister. It made me keen to persevere with my Spanish lessons. I know that my understanding did improve over the three weeks although I still lack confidence when trying to speak. Learning a language is a pleasurable pain – or should that be a painful pleasure – for people who want to be stimulated and love learning, and I know that forthcoming experiences will be greatly enhanced if I can understand and make myself understood in Spanish.
So what exactly did I get up to?
Well, no two days were ever the same.
sleepy tigers
To begin with, I usually rose at eight-ish most mornings and after breakfast I would usually entertain the baby and chat to Dyana. We would often go out for a walk or we would go to the shops. We went once to the weekly market set up in the shadow of the futuristic looking bull ring, where they sold local produce, stopping to study a pair of tigers who were sleepily sprawled out in a trailer which was parked on the street. They were not a permanent feature of the town but were part of a travelling circus which was in town. We stopped several times for beer or a coke and tapas in some bars and as the temperature was a toasty thirty degrees for the majority of my stay, I often lay in the garden on a sun lounger or I dipped in and out of the little pool.
Garban is totally doted on by his entire extended family and I never once witnessed any irritation or impatience with him. If he couldn’t sleep then not to worry, it just meant more time with him. If he refused to eat, no matter, still more time with him. Perhaps because of the devotion that he received, he had little need to cry or grumble and was ready with his smiles and cuddles. Dyana’s brother and Hunter’s sister showered him with affection and it never ceased to make me laugh when either set of grand parents arrived and the battle to cuddle and hold him began between the couples. He was so content and happy to be with me and I earned the nickname Mary Poppins.
With encouragement and plenty of hints and tips from Dyana and Hunter I set off on some mini-adventures and I explored Toledo, Madrid and Sergovia – and you will get in-depth reports from these amazing places in the future I met some lovely people including a lady from New Zealand, travellers from Colombia and Poland and of course from Madrid itself, and amazingly I also met up with friends from the UK who happened to be in the area.
the local bull ring glows under the sunset
As I now bowl south on the coach I can see an intriguing looking castle on a distant hill which is flanked by a row of old fashioned windmills. The rain that accompanied our departure from Madrid has stopped and the windmills gleam in the sun. The plains of Spain are truly enormous. Stretching for as far as the eye can see, crops and dried grasses wave golden yellow in the sun and with far away mountains propping up the sky on the horizon this is certainly no place for the agoraphobic. I have loved every place that I have visited so far on my travels and Pollyanna-like, I always try to find beauty or something of interest. Madrid felt very special to me. The centre is compact – even more compact than Lisboa and contains a diversity of sights all within walking distance to each other. The metro system is sleek, modern and inexpensive and there is a range of eating and drinking places to suit all tastes and budgets. Most importantly of all for me, it felt safe. When the lights come on at night it takes on a whole new persona but still envelops and welcomes its inhabitants.
I am very excited to be moving on and to be meeting up with friends at a wedding in Estepona but I am also very sad and truly sorry to leave an amazing family. I know that I have made some friends for life.
The following article has been updated since it was first published in October 2013. It tells the story of a week in France with seven guys on a golfing holiday. Make sure that you read to the end because I will also tell you how and why I changed my name and how that change was influenced by my friend Gary a couple of years prior to this French trip.
Gary Clements is sadly no longer with us, having suddenly passed away in 2024.
Early one morning, just a couple of days after travelling back to the UK from Portugal I was introduced to the six guys who were huddled in a driveway in the drizzle in Kent by my friend Gary. Cupping mugs of hot tea the group re-established old acquaintances with insults and jibes. They were about to set off on their annual golfing trip but this year I would be joining them. I had been kicking around at a loose end whilst waiting for my upcoming South American adventure and Gary had suggested that I might like to join the group and act as cook and cleaner for them.
I already knew four of the men and I was relieved to discover that the other three were just as nice with the same crazy sense of humour. Downing our mugs of tea we piled into three cars and we set off for Dover and the cross-channel ferry and then we drove through the foggy French countryside to the tiny hamlet of Manninghem near Montreil-sur-Mer which was about an hour’s drive from Calais. Normally the guys would choose to stay in the UK but this year was Gary’s 50th birthday and he wanted to do something a little bit different.
Gary had struck gold finding the gite that we were to rent (a gite is a French farmhouse which has been converted for tourism). Sleeping up to sixteen there was ample room for the eight of us in the rabbit warren of rooms, which included a games room with table football and a billiards table, four bathrooms, a huge kitchen and large gardens. We explored the farmhouse with much shouty-swearing as we repeatedly bashed heads and limbs on the low beams, narrow staircases and the sticking out chimney breasts.
Our not so little gite
Five of us then squashed into a car for what should have been a twenty minute jaunt to the supermarket but which turned into an epic hour and a half tour of the area because we got ourselves spectacularly lost. My sides were aching from laughing as we hurtled up French lanes only to find ourselves coming back on ourselves ten minutes later and we even ‘lost’ one of our gang who popped into a church to ask the priest for directions but disappeared for a good ten minutes ‘for a chat’! We finally found a supermarket where we bought our provisions for the week, including lots of nibbles and crates of beer and wine to keep us all going until I cooked the dinner that evening.
The next morning Tango Man produced an amazing breakfast which set the bar very high for subsequent days cooking. They then took ages loading the cars with all of the paraphernalia that goes with golf and they eventually set off to their first golf course of the week. I was disappointed to discover that there was no internet access at the farmhouse, but after tidying the farmhouse and prepping the dinner I settled down to my writing. Later in the afternoon I welcomed them back with cold beers at the ready as they hi-ho’d their way home after a long day on the greens. It only needed bluebirds and butterflies fluttering around my head to complete a scene from Snow White.
After dinner on that second evening the living room resembled a nursery school with the guys fighting and jostling for place in front of the TV because England were due to play football. If anybody dared to go and fetch another beer or pop to the loo, their seat was taken as everybody dived for better viewing positions. Eventually, fed up of being relegated to the corners, The Professor, Gary and Sneezy moved the table out of the way, picked up one of the sofas and plonked it right across the middle of the room. Now with the room bearing a loose resemblance to a cinema, they were all happy. Fast Car Driver and The Jezter cosied up in the back row and they all settled down with their beer and nibbles to jeer rowdily at the screen, breaking at half-time for snacks of cheese, crackers and more beer. The following day I set off with them on their journey to the golf course near Le Touquet. I had visited the town a couple of years before, having rented a gite in the same area one Christmas and I wanted to take another look.
Le Touquet
To the British, who are brought up on a culture of home-ownership and with a continuous supply of DIY and gardening programmes which are drip-fed to them via a plethora of television channels, many European towns may appear bland and characterless. With properties which often front straight onto pavements and windows shuttered tightly against prying eyes and either the sun or the cold, houses can appear austere and foreboding.
I am always curious (or perhaps that should be ‘downright nosy’) to know what goes on behind the facades and a quick peep or a more resourceful strain of the neck will often reveal pretty courtyards with colourful plants and tinkling fountains, ultra-modern designer kitchens or rabbit runs of corridors and polished wood or marble. Unlike the British who often feel the need to parade their accomplishments and possessions, the Europeans are generally not too concerned with displaying their homes and instead focus inwards.
Le Touquet bucks the trend. Sitting on the coast to the south of Calais this town is jam-packed full of beautiful buildings. I defy you not to gasp as you approach the town along long tree-lined avenues. Tantalising glimpses of the most amazing homes can be caught between the trees, or for an even better look, get out of the car and walk. Away from the edge of the road, smaller secondary pavements weave and dodge between shrubs and trees and swoop past manicured lawns. From these inner paths you can gaze freely at verandas, swimming pools, statues and turrets. Just as you think that you have found THE dream home, an even grander property comes into view.
Even the smaller properties boast little wooden verandas or arched windows with multi-coloured shutters. On the promenade these quaint little buildings are being elbowed into the shadows by the inevitable rectangular apartment blocks, but if these bring holiday makers and money into the town we must forgive this minor intrusion…..Anyhow, the guys dropped me off on the side of the road to walk the three kilometres into the town. I felt more like Little Red Riding Hood than Snow White as I wound my way along a little path through the forest to the town whilst the lads drove onwards to their golf course.
The beach at Le Touquet
Avoiding the wolves I arrived safely at Le Touquet where I reacquainted myself with its little shops and the enormous expanse of beach where land yachts were racing around in a howling gale and then I went and found myself a bar where I ordered the first of several glasses of wine. Pleased to have found free wifi I stayed there for the rest of the afternoon writing and chatting to the barman who wanted to practice his English. Unfortunately, wine on a (mostly) empty stomach got the better of me so when I got my phone call telling me that the guys were ready to come and collect me, I had totally forgotten how to get back to the path through the forest. Luckily they finally tracked me down wandering aimlessly around the streets and they bundled me into one of the cars and we headed back home. They weren’t too hopeful of me cooking a decent evening meal but luckily I managed to amaze them by holding it together until after the meal and I vaguely remember being fleeced of my euros as they took advantage of my lack of concentration during the card game Chase the Ace. At bedtime they apparently had a debate about the best place to leave me to sleep until they decided in their wisdom to attempt to get me up the ladder to my room. They obviously suceeded because I woke the next morning in my own bed, fully clothed and sporting some impressive bruises where they had hauled my dead weight upstairs!
The bar which was a little bit too inviting!
Attempting to produce a full English breakfast for eight with a storming hang-over was not the wisest move but I made it without the vodka making a re-appearance and I quickly packed them all off out so that I could have some peace and quiet and I could go and lie down in a dark room.
This day was to be Gary’s pretend birthday (his official one was to be the following week) so I hung some balloons up and stuck some candles into some little buns on a plate. Once they had all arrived home from golf we decided to go to the local motel/pizzeria for a meal. My choice of fashion – a maxi dress and flowery baseball boots was met with complete derision by the dwarves as we set off down the road but I was pleased with my choice when we had to stumble back home along the lane in the pitch black.
The dwarfs’ final day on the green started off quite damp and drizzly. I remained home, cleaned the gite and made a warming beef stew for their dinner. The following day we set off in convoy for the ferry port and after the hour´s crossing and following a group hug we all got into our respective cars for the final leg home in the UK. I had a brilliant week with a fantastic group of blokes and I was very sorry to leave them as we said goodbye, but after just one night in Kent I would be setting off for Stanstead airport and another flight and another adventure early the following morning.
A change of name, a change of luck.
In loving memory of my friend Gary.
A couple of years previously when I was going through a really rough patch and I couldn’t face Christmas in the UK without my children in my life, I decided to head off to the French countryside. I had booked a cute little gite in the middle of nowhere but then my friend Gary asked if he could join me. I warned him that I planned to take lots of books, listen to music and eat chocolate and do little else and he said that sounded perfect. I decided that company might be fun and so a few days before Christmas we set off together. The little farmhouse that I had reserved was in a tiny hamlet with about seven houses and where the shop doubled up as a bar. During that Christmas week we did read lots of books, listened to music and ate chocolate but we also had a day out at Le Touquet and a trip over the border to Bruges in Belgium. I remember navigating us back through a snow storm and that evening, chatting to Gary about setting up a new phone account but needing a new name for my account.
A day trip to Bruges
The reason for the name change was because I had been on the receiving end of some bad stalking and harassment but I wanted to go back online, this time anonymously so as not to invite attention from my narcissistic ex. Sitting in comfy chairs in front of the log burner Gary and I joked around with my name but nothing really sounded good. I then matched Jane to his surname which was Clements and bingo, it just sounded right. Hmmm, Jane Clements. Can I please adopt your name, I asked. Yes, of course you can use it, replied Gary and that was when Jane Clements was born. By the time that my divorce was official and my solicitor asked if I would like to revert to my family name I opted to continue with Clements. I had married at the tender age of twenty and going backwards to my family name seemed to be going back to a time when I was naive and innocent. I had been through so much and I had grown so much stronger whilst I had been referring to myself as Jane Clements that I decided to keep it and I changed it officially by deed poll.
Gary – such a kind man
On that Christmas morning we woke to a fairytale picture outside the windows. During the night, soft snow had fallen and had blanketed the countryside. The church bells rang out as the snow sparkled in the morning light and we prepared to cook our Christmas dinner in the cosy warmth of our little French farmhouse.
A couple of years later when planning his annual golf trip with his friends, Gary hoped to emulate some of that time and instead of booking their usual week in the UK he persuaded his friends to join him in France to celebrate his 50th birthday. I had just resigned from my job and I knew that I would be at a loose end that week so I offered to join them and to cook and to clean whilst they went out and had fun on the golf courses. That is how I ended up in France with six men and how I ended up with my surname of Clements.
I believe that many people come into your life for a reason and/or for a lesson. I hardly knew Gary when he first rocked up at my house for a short stay at the suggestion of a mutual friend who knew that I was struggling and who thought that a visitor would help me to focus. I had just had an emotional breakdown and I had also moved into a new apartment and I was finding it tricky to move forwards. It was a perceptive suggestion and very well timed and Gary and I became firm friends over the years. I would often visit him and his beloved cats whilst I was passing through the UK and I used to tease him about his often gloomy outlook on life. It was with immense shock and sadness that I learnt of his sudden passing just earlier this year because we had been chatting about him coming out to visit in Spain this summer; as lessons go it was a hard reminder that things should never be put off because we just never know what is around the corner.
After saying our goodbyes at Lisbon airport, I set off on the next leg of my adventure. I was to look after a house in the Catalan mountains. After a long day’s travel and a detour via a supermarket courtesy of Ruth who was a friend of my friends and who had very kindly picked me up from the train station, I arrived at my destination. I settled in with my shopping and I prepared for a three week stay on my own.
The owners of the house were my very good friends Julie and Phil and they had gone back to the UK for the summer. They had generously offered me sanctuary in their beautiful finca in the Catalan mountains but it was a long way from anywhere. The old me used to be afraid of being out in the dark or of being out in the countryside by myself. I liked people and street lights and noise around me., it made me feel safe, so I wasn’t at all sure how I would cope with living in such a remote place and I was very apprehensive as I locked up the shutters for that first night alone. I chattered away, busy trying to convince myself that I was way too far out of the village for any trouble makers to wander my way and I also reminded myself that an extremely small proportion of females who live alone come to a sticky end!
all alone
Luckily, after spending most of the day travelling, sleep came quickly and before I knew it, it was morning. Over the next couple of days I was a little jumpy if I heard a car or a tractor approaching but very soon I adapted and I embraced the remoteness of the area. The day came when I had to leave the mountain to buy some fresh food. I had to get down to the village and civilization before I turned into a gibbering idiot. You can only talk to yourself for so long before you get frustrated at the lack of response, but I had a dilemma.
I had a stallion of a Land Rover at my disposal, but there were problems. It looked enormous and very solid like a tank and I had never driven it before. I also had to drive it down a scary, steep, rough mountain track with plenty of hairpin bends and steep drops with no crash barriers – and most of all with my very real fear of heights.
But the new adventurous me couldn´t be stopped now so I set off to walk down to the bottom. It took me over an hour and I stopped frequently to check the bends and the width of the track. All well and good but it took me a lot longer to hike back up in the sun. I then started the Land Rover and I set off very slowly. I stopped at each bend, put the handbrake on and talked myself through the process. I love to drive but I was terrified of the steep mountain sides. After more than half an hour I arrived at the bottom where I promptly burst into tears of relief. Going back up was a lot easier, and now, years on, my personal record is eight and a half minutes top to bottom and the track holds no fear for me.
During that summer time in my friends’ beautiful house I worked on some online courses and I obtained a higher level TEFL (Teaching English as a Foreign Language) qualification. I did some gardening and I harvested and bottled the tomato crop as it ripened. I went to the beach a couple of times and I spent some time in the little village at the bottom of the mountain. One highlight was attending a local fiesta when the entire population of the village gathered to celebrate a saint’s day. Trestle tables were placed under trees strewn with fairy lights alongside the river and we danced into the night. I swam daily in the pool and every morning I woke with a massive grin as I realised how lucky I was.
There was just one day of rain in those three weeks. The heat at night was suffocating but I do like to be warm so that didn’t bother me too much. With zero light pollution I would lay down on a sunbed and watch shooting stars pepper the sky for several evenings as I was treated to jaw-dropping displays from the annual Perseids meteor shower. It was magical.
simply stunning
The sunsets and the views were spectacular and due to the ever changing light, I found myself constantly amazed at how the perspective of the mountains altered. Some days they loomed forbiddingly over me with their peaks lost in swirling cloud and at other times they leant back into the horizon and my valley appeared to open up. The palette of colours changed from monochrome as all colour was bleached out of the landscape, through lilacs and pinks to the richest of reds and terracotta as the sun set.
Up in the clear air the insects seemed louder (they were certainly larger), the flowers brighter and the bird life more exotic. I was captivated by a pair of eagles which would hitch a ride on the thermals each day and soar high above me. There were the European bee eaters which would tumble noisily around the sky and the humming bird moths with their dusky pink and brown bodies and their long beak-like tongues which probed for nectar in the flowers. The snake was an occasional interesting visitor as was the tiny little mouse which staggered out from under the washing machine one day and of course, there were countless little geckos which darted everywhere.
I needed this time to recharge my batteries because soon I would be heading back to Portugal where I would join my family in a hotel for a holiday, but this alone time was giving me space to think. I was learning that it was permissible to move on and that I had a choice to put my past behind me. I knew that I could and must allow myself to grieve and I must search for a deeper meaning in order to understand the events that had brought me to this point in my life. This would subsequently take many years but my time in the mountains was very definitely the starting point.
I met a kindred spirit who kindly took me to the beach one day and we talked for hours about our similar life paths. I didn´t know it then, but that was the true beginning of my healing process as Debs and I shared stories and I was able to begin to process what I had been through. I met some amazing people during those three weeks – some of whom I know that I will be friends with for ever, and I will be eternally grateful for the opportunity to stay in that house in the mountains.
Moving on – back to Portugal
After my three weeks in the Catalan mountains and the start of what was to prove to be my regenerative process I flew back into Lisboa airport and then took the bus to the railway station. I was glad that my rucksack weighed considerably less than that first day a few weeks previously as it was a very hot day.
The train to Cascais followed the coast out of Lisboa, passing the now deserted wasteland where the Optimus Alive Festival had been held a few weeks previously, and the track skirted the beaches which were still packed with holiday makers at 6pm. Cascias is just forty five minutes from Lisboa on the train and my dad was at the station to greet me and show me the way to our hotel.
Situated at the top of the town, the Hotel Cidadela was more than adequate for our family holiday. It was quiet and informal with plenty of sunbeds around the large pool and the rooms were spacious and clean. Over the next week I understood why my parents continued to return to Cascais which is a lovely seaside resort with a very similar feel and atmosphere to Lagos in the south of the country which I had loved. The town was hosting its summer festival while we were there, so every evening we were treated to several musical bands or singers on the large stage in the main square and on Sunday we watched a religious parade through the town and of course the wine was VERY cheap and VERY drinkable.
One of the benefits of joining the oldies was that over the years they had done their homework and they had found some real gems of places to eat. That week was to prove a gastronomic delight. We usually ate out at small unassuming back-street restaurants that were patronized mainly by the Portuguese and which specialised in local, traditional dishes. Fish was plentiful and fresh, beef stews were served in dinky little saucepans and we often ended the meal with a complimentary ginja liqueur.
We ate at a Brazilian restaurant one evening when waiters circulated among the diners carrying long skewers loaded with different types of meat. They would come over to your table if you tipped your indicator over to green (these were little wooden blocks with one end painted red for ‘hold fire for five minutes’ and green for ‘feed me now’). This was a great system because you could continue with the task of eating and you didn’t have to worry about getting anybody´s attention.
think that our favourite restaurant of all was the Melody Bar in Cascais which looked like a cheap cafe from the outside but the food, service and friendly atmosphere were quite special and it won a landslide vote when we were deciding where to go for our last evening.
Late one night when my sister and I were evicted from a bar at 2am (because it was closing time and not because of our behaviour) she wondered aloud where we could go next. Some guys overheard us and told us that nowhere else would officially be open BUT we could go with them to a small, unadvertised bar if we liked. We decided that if things turned out dodgy we could run faster than any of them so we decided to risk it and followed them out into the deserted night.
Several streets away from the main square we came to an unmarked wooden door and after knocking for some time it was opened by a mountain of a man. Stairs led up and noise and cigarette smoke billowed down. My sister went up to check it out while I stood guard outside, but it was fine. The bar was packed with people and it was obviously THE place to be. The atmosphere upstairs was loud and smoky but friendly. Dumpy bottles of beer were delivered to the tables in large metal buckets filled with ice which had bottle openers attached by a chain. We know that it was a good night because we didn’t get back to our hotel until 5.30am!
We all had a day trip into Lisboa and we covered different areas to that which I had explored with my friend just few weeks previously.. My parents knew Lisboa and they took me and my sister to some great places. We lunched in The Cervejaria da Trindade which was the city’s oldest beer hall that was situated on the site of an old monastery where I had cod cooked in a salt jacket and we had a drink in what I think is the oldest bar- the Brasileira Cafe. We visited the Mercado da Ribeira (market), rode the Elevador/Ascensor Da Bica (funicular), the bottom of which was tucked in behind a little doorway and which clattered woodenly up the incredibly steep hillside and then walking higher up we were treated to a dazzling display of wealth inside the church of San Roque. The side chapels were all decorated with gold and silver or perhaps gold leaf which shining out from the gloom was quite a surprise. We rode the rattling trams up and down the winding narrow streets and we explored the plazas and bars before heading back to our hotel in Cascais on the train late in the evening.
Our journey back to the airport was in a stretch Mercedes, driven very sedately by an eighty year old gentleman. He told us that he was the oldest cabbie in Lisbon. I guess he is probably the oldest cabbie in Portugal, but he must also be one of the most travelled and had been to more than forty five countries in the world. At that point in time I couldn’t even dream of equalling that number of countries but as the next few years were to show, I would do so and more. We all caught our plane back to the UK by the skin of our teeth due to delays at passport control. They were closing the gate and I had one foot inside the plane and one outside whilst my family hurtled along the long corridors to reach me. I very nearly boarded alone. On an an extremely tight schedule I couldn’t afford to miss my flight but I reckon my dad was secretly disappointed that they made it as it would have given him the excuse to stay on another few days. They were only heading for home but I was on my way to Kent because two days later I was off to France.
I believe that the hotel that we stayed in is now an apartment block but internet searches show that the Melody Bar is still there.
This article was written whilst I was in Portugal right at the very beginning of my travel adventures and it was an occasional reoccurring theme over the next few years – thanks in part to the emotional baggage that I was dragging along with me.
Are all of your friends just like you? Are they of a similar age? Do they all work in the same occupation or come from the same social background? Can you ever be too old for them?
When I was studying for my degree in my forties I was repeatedly told that I was wasting both my time and my money and that there was no point in continuing to study as I was too old to change things.
Once I holidayed with a friend who just happened to be twenty years younger than me and I was informed that this was classic behaviour for somebody having a mid-life crisis!!
Whilst I was married I was often told by my husband that I should act my age – however I couldn’t actually win as I would either be castigated for acting too childishly (e.g. having fun) or if I were being too serious I was acting too old. Part of my nomadic journey was to discover my own identity which had been manipulated for too many years.
So here were were in Portugal and we were chatting to an elderly gentleman whom we had met in the bar which we had adopted as our local in the Algarve during our work exchange. This man explained that he would be going out for dinner that evening to a small bar/restaurant in the next village. Nothing fancy but the food was usually very good, and then he said that if we would like to join him he would pick us up in his car about seven’ish.
We said that would love to accompany our new friend to dinner, despite only meeting him a couple of hours ago; we were after all already sat in his kitchen at this point, drinking wine and sharing an amazing sheep’s cheese with him. As one of the parameters of my trip was to have fun and to just bounce and go with the flow it didn’t seem an odd request at all and I certainly didn´t have to think twice before accepting his invitation.
Prior to this moment in his kitchen we had seen Keith in our local bar in Bensafrim a couple of times. A smart gentleman, obviously well liked among the locals, he would come and sat at a table on the terrace in the afternoon to read his kindle whilst he drank a coffee and one of those ubiquitous tumblers of red wine. We already knew that he was English and then earlier that afternoon he opened up a bit more to us.
It turned out that he was an ex-policeman who had moved out to Portugal with his wife some years previously, but sadly she had since passed away. Despite suggestions from his children to return home to the UK, he had declined and he chose to remain in the village where they had made some good friends. Keith has a good social life which included both Portuguese and British friends and he was one of those people that you just ‘click’ with; so earlier when he had asked if we would like to leave the bar and go and see his home and join him for some more wine it didn’t seem strange at all. We settled our respective bar bills and we wandered over to his beautiful home with him which was a blend of English and Portuguese styles.
What was surprising was that it turned out that Keith knew the family of one of my friends who lived back in the UK. Who needs further proof of the Six Degrees of Separation theory? It is a very small world indeed. My travels were always full of coincidences and connections like this one.
Anyway, later that evening we wandered down to the junction at the bottom of the hill to meet Keith who rolled up in his smart cabriolet sports car and with the top down we cruised to the next village. At the Caramba restaurant and bar I had a lovely grilled swordfish and my friend had beef stew. After being plied with complimentary drinks by Marco the waiter we decided that the night was still young so Keith drove us to the home of a couple of his friends where more wine was quaffed. Following that, Keith drove us home the long way, stopping off on the cliff road to show us the views of Lagos and the coastline by night before leaving us in the lane close to our farm.
It had been a lovely, impromptu, fun night out but something that Keith had said was bothering me. He had asked us a couple of times during the evening whether it was cool to be seen out with him. I had been very quick to reassure him that we loved his company; he was full of fun and very interesting. I worried on his behalf that he was worried about us wanting to spend time with him (are you keeping up with this?) My friend Chris, who is always very insightful, pointed out to me that I was the same and that I often worried about whether my younger friends really did like my company, due to the head-worms that had been planted in my brain over the years. Chris asked was Keith’s age was ever something that I had considered before agreeing to go out with him that evening. I replied of course not, it had never even crossed my mind. So, Chris continued, you should stop tormenting yourself with self-doubt when you go out with your friends who are quite a few years younger than you. They don’t see an older woman; they see someone whose company they enjoy.
If you enjoy somebody’s company and get on well then it doesn’t matter how old or young they are. One lady who I really admire is in her seventies. She has led the kind of life that I would like to have led, but what is amazing is that she is still doing it. She taught English as a foreign language in Kuwait after the first Gulf War, visited deepest, darkest Africa by herself and she still travels to some amazing places and refuses to slow down. She is a professional house-sitter moving to new places for weeks at a time, is interesting, funny and well-informed. If I achieve half of what she has achieved in her life I would be very happy.
Keith – you asked us if it was cool to be out with you. It was VERY cool to be out with somebody who is eighty one years young and hats off to you and to everybody who refuses to let life slow them down. I hope that I can be as friendly, outgoing, interesting and just as nice as you are for a very long time yet.
If you enjoy someone’s company and get on well, it doesn’t matter what age they are. Life is far too short. We owe it to ourselves to enjoy every minute.
Rewriting this article has made me smile! Over the following decade I met and travelled with people of all ages. I was dragged out partying in Rio de Janeiro with a group of twenty year olds, and many times during the fiestas in Spain I am amongst the last ones standing as the party and the music winds down and the sun rises over the mountains. I am convinced that my attitude has kept me young both in body and soul; to the extent that my partner is quite a few years younger than me!
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