Portuguese Tart

A few days before we left for Portugal, our long-planned summer vacation, I was entering our passport information on our flight provider's website.  Steven and Calum were up in the Lakes on a father-son trip and I noticed something horrendous: Steven's passport had expired in June.  For the love of God.  How many incidents surrounding visas and passports can one couple go through?!  

In a fury of activity, I called every agency and institution that I could think of: surely the fact that he's a UK citizen, an EU citizen means something?  Nothing.  It means nothing.  Grrrrreat.  

We rescheduled our flights for later on the same day we were originally scheduled to leave and he got a last-minute appointment for a new passport.  All went as it was supposed to and at long last, we were away.  Phew.

We stayed in Sao Rafael, a suburb of Albufeira.  

We traveled to Albufeira central on our second night and were not fans.  We opted to rent a car (thanks to the hotel across the street that sorted us RIGHT out, the Sao Rafael Atlantico), throwing my dreams of zipping around on a scooter into the wind.  On day three, we hopped over to Portimao for some fish dinner.     

...and popcorn ;)

We walked through the darkness to this local beachfront bar for a nightcap.  What a glorious place.

The next day, after a pair of workouts, we headed to Sagres, "the end of the world" or the most westerly point in Europe.  Good shout...

The man Steven is pointing to had a cat in his arms at the water's edge.  For some time.  Naturally we coined him Mr Bigglesworth.  

On the way home, we went to Salema for some dinner.

The next day, to Lagos, our favourite city visited together thus far, by far.  

Admittedly, we do love a shameless selfie.  Why not?

The next day, the mountains of Monchique.  Breathtaking.

The site of our first (and only) Portuguese tarts:

It was here that I decided I'd pluck a "raw olive" off the tree and see what it tastes like.  I bit into it and pulled it apart, keeping all the fruit out of my mouth.  Strange...it looked more like a grape than an olive.  Perhaps it was divine intervention that a German woman approached just then and shouted, "No!  These are not for eating!  They are poison even!"  Right.  Cue the drop of the offending "olive".  Steven's reaction:

Later though, my lips swelled up and a distinct red line could be seen just above my upper lip.  Perhaps not poisonous, but certainly reactive.  (Who eats things off trees when she doesn't know what kind of food it is?!  Lesson learned.)

On our way down the mountain, we popped into Caldes de Monchique, a little resort tucked in a scorching valley along the mountainside.  Amazing.

The service was terrible, as the place was overrun with tourists and the staff couldn't keep up.  We opted to leave and stop at a restaurant that had the following criteria:

• If its only patronage was by the elderly
• If when we walked in, everyone ignored us
• If the specials on the board were all in Portuguese
• and if the beer was €1,

this was the place for us.  We found it.  We had the best salad and Peri Peri chicken EVER, left feeling like we'd finally cracked the "dining out in Portugal" riddle: eat by the roadside.

Since we only rented the car for three days, it was back to our local beach for the remainder of the holiday.  

This little bar was part of the hotel I mentioned earlier.  A wedding marched right by us as we sat here.

 Finally, Portugal.  

Lagos, we'll be back.