Maria Pages Dunas

Where else would you see sand drawings following each other with astonishing fluency, a couple struggling to make contact through thin drapery, a woman with the most beautiful arms (yes, really) in the world clacking castanets with astonishing virtuosity and dancing to music ranging from european jazz / new age piano to straight flamenco guitar and Arab percussion and singing that went from flamenco to pure arabian.

The arms give it away. It has to be Maria Pages. I caught Dunas at Sadlers' Wells on Friday, and was entranced, amazed and reminded that Ms Pages is one of the sexiest women alive. Oh and Sidi Larbi Cherkaoui can dance a fight between two of his shadows.  Luke Jennings' review in the Guardian is a neat description. He's missing the point when he says that Ms Pages doesn't seem to change her style to match the settings and work of Sidi Cherkaoui: she doesn't need to. Some artists don't, not many, but she is one of them. Miles didn't change much in his playing against the changing music his sidemen made either. I can tell you, the audience I saw it with were entranced.



I'm off to see the Dutch National Ballet next Friday. I'm sure they will be wonderful, but they won't be magic and they won't weave everything Pages and Cherkaoui did so seamlessly and entrancingly.

Holiday In The Algarve (5): Trains at the Praia de Barril

Portugal isn't really very wide. About two and a half hours flat out on the N125 and A22 from the west coast to the Spanish border. I took the scenic route through endless acres of orange, lemon and olive trees from Silves across to the N270 to Tavira, where I joined the N125 and turned left to the praia de Barril. The beach is across the marshlands on an island: you can walk across or you can take the train.

You have to walk across this pontoon-supported bridge to get from the mainland (you're looking at the mainland) to the train station...

Once there you can either walk or wait for the train - take the train. And click on the photograph to get the exquisite detail of those rails...

The locomotive is a little diesel dressed up to look cute...

But there's two of them, and the line has a passing loop  (which makes it an official Proper Railway)...

 ... those points don't have any levers, you just drive your train at 'em and bump 'm over to where they need to be. This trip does not happen at high speed.

 Once at the other end, everyone jumps off pretty quick and return passengers board.

While the surfer-shop guys unload the freight. You don't want to know how little strapping they used to hold those surfboards.

It's a neat little bit of entertainment for €5 the round trip, and that walk will feel way more than a kilometre when you do it under the hot midday sun.

When visiting the praia de Barril, eat first. The restaurants are ghastly. By British standards they're ghastly. I have no idea who designed the shops on the beach, but they weren't Portuguese.

Holiday In The Algarve (4): The Perfect Saturday Afternoon Beach

So after the praia de Barril, I went down the coast to Fuzeta, on the basis of Just Because. And a good thing too, because there I came across Perfect Beach Type 2. It's small...

 It's located in a small town that still has its own life...

...in this case, fishing.

 It has a couple of huts serving beer or coffee...

And on Saturday afternoon it has the chirrupy sound of people enjoying themselves.

These guys playing bowls...

 or these guys shooting the breeze about whatever it was. Local politics or business, maybe.

I'm guessing that most of those people knew each other by sight, a whole bunch had been to school together, and maybe any one of them knew the names or identities of at least another ten. It was like everybody knew everybody else knew how to behave and what they'd be doing, so no-one was surprised or upset. There's an age-related cycle of activities: in your early teens you jump off the wall into the river; later on you sit around looking cool and pretty, spinning out a Coke or an orange juice for two hours; then you hang out at one of the bars, being edgy and serious, before calming down, moving to another bar, and talking about football. Finally, you play boules or talking town politics.

Holiday In The Algarve (3): The Wild and Secluded Beach

This is a beach on the Atlantic coast of the Algarve. That's all I'm going to tell you about it. It's mine, mine, I tell you. It's my secret, my precious beach, yes, my precioussssss...

Okay. I'm calming down now. What makes a perfect beach? I discovered there are two types of perfect beach. This is type one: wild and secluded. Serious waves, pristine sand, a couple of pieces of driftwood, rocks to create sculptural interest...

a good cafe / restaurant, a long walk with the waves occasionally splashing up my legs, not many people, and did I mention clear blue skies, the silvery light on the water....

About a third of the beaches on the Atlantic coast can only be reached by dirt path through coastland like this...

Those beaches are for hard-code surfers and privacy-seekers. Plus they don't have restaurants or cafes. Never mind having one as good as this...

Don't let the appearences fool you. The Sunday I was there, they had a party of ten middle-class bikers for lunch at 2:00 pm. When I popped back for afternoon cafe com leche and cake, the bikers were suiting up to go. This is the octopus salad I had...

and I ate it looking out at seas like this...

(I've loaded the full-size file - it's worth clicking on the link and taking a look at the big picture.)

Holiday In The Algarve (2): That's A Lot of Entertainment for Fifty Euros

Okay. I locked my keys in the boot of my rental car. On the westbound side of the A22 at the Lagos service station. That was me. I was That Guy.

I am getting a smartphone next time round. This is because someone had one and looked up Budget's number with it. Thank you very much sir. I got a number for their operations people and after a call in simple English to them, I had call from someone at the local Budget office in Lagos. Fifteen minutes after that, a rental rep was with me and after looking at the car - which was securely locked and window-closed - decided it needed a replacement key. The spare keys for Budget's cars are held in their Lisbon office. Mine would be down the next morning. In the meantime they let me take another car and I kinda got on with my day. Did I mention that all the personal clutter I needed was in the boot? No. Okay. It was.

The next morning, I met them at the service station, bright and early about 09:45. The Budget rep had the key, slid it into the lock, turned, and .... nothing. After a few more tries and phone calls they found out that, actually, there was a problem with the tumbler: it was busted. Mmmm. Time to call the professionals. Twenty minutes later, the Man With the Motorway Service Van arrives. There's some discussion, much arranging of coat hangers, and then he produced two small inflatable air bags, an old glove and a screwrdriver.

Put the glove over the gap between the door and the roof at the corner, and slide the screwdriver down gently no more than a couple of millimeters. In the tiny gap thus created, insert the edge of the first air bag as far as it will go. Pump up the airbag. In the larger gap thus created, slide in the next airbag and pump that up. In the even larger gap thus created, shuffle more of the first air bag in and pump it up again. You will now have a surprisingly large gap between the door and the bodywork through which you can put those coat hangers and attempt to poke or pull something. Oh, and no dents or scratched paintwork.

You don't want to be trying to prod at buttons with a coat hanger. It's one of those fiddly, muscle-control things that makes an on-looker feel twitchy. Eventually the two of them managed to pull the door handle up and presto! We're in! Key in ignition...vrooom. Boot open and we're all on our way. It cost me fifty euros for cash - but then there was an ATM in the service station - and for my money that was a lot of entertainment for fifty euros.

What struck me was that the Budget rep knew the supervisor of the motorway service station, so there was no problem about leaving the car there overnight. He had been to school with the man who owned the company that came along to break in to the car. What's that like? To work somewhere you've been to schoool with the guy who does this and the gal who does that? I don't think I have ever met another graduate of Exeter University since I left, let alone anyone from my many schools and colleges.

Now for the endoresement. If you're going to Portugal, rent Budget. They were utterly helpful, didn't once look at me like I was some kind of idiot, and didn't mention extra charges for their service. And quick. They were quick.

Holiday In The Algarve (1)

The holiday was eight days in the Algarve, on the south-west tip of Portugal. BA scheduled flight from Gatwick to Faro, rental car (Budget) from Faro to Silves. Clothes, books, Bose headphones, laptop, camera and other junk packed into one piece of hand luggage and a small courier bag. I stayed outside Silves in a village called Santo Estevao - turn left briskly across the N124 up a single-lane track just before a fairly blind corner - in a farmhouse run by Les and Mary Cave, who were excellent hosts. The room looked like this...

and the views from my window and breakfast table looked like this...

I had a minor adventure (positive spin time) which is the subject of another post, and then spent most of the time on various beaches. I went to Praia de Luz, because it was a name I knew and on the south coast, but I stayed there long enough to a) walk around, b) buy some water, bread and cheese from a supermarket, c) get an espresso in a beach-front cafe, d) leave. It's where the crowds go.

It was week two of an official heatwave, which I brought back with me to the UK (did you believe the Easter weekend?), and the sun down there is hot enough to tan you pretty thoroughly without too many hours in it. Various other posts about beaches, food and other stuff will follow.

Christopher Christian - R.I.P.

My friend Chris Christian died on Easter Saturday. He had been suffering from the complications of a cancer that was first diagnosed and treated in late 2003, and for which he had been taking various drugs and chemotherapy since.

I met Chris through a university friend, when he was living in the same flat in St Margarets, in south-west London, as my friend's older brother. Chris was tall, slim, with a beard and a slightly wicked smile. He was into trains, buses and many other things nerdy, and oddly into jazz-funk-and-soul. He made a number of trips to India to travel on its railways, and when younger and single was not averse to a weekend of track-bashing. I had no idea there were people who hung around military airports monitoring the flights in and out and publishing the results until one dinner party in the mid-80's.

He had a long career as a chartered company secretary in the bluest of blue-chip companies, and as the lawyers moved into the company secretary's role, Chris studied for and passed a law degree at evening college. Like everyone else, he suffered a short period of redundancy in the nineties before joining EMI, where he stayed until the end.

Chris is survived by his wife Sandra and son Peter. Everyone who knew him will miss him.