Pembroke Power Station - A Memory of Summer

Back in 19... never you mind, I spent six weeks on the construction site of Pembroke Power Station in Welsh Wales. It was on the south bank of the river River Cleddau, not far outside the town of Pembroke. It was a 2000MW oil-fired unit, with 4x500MW steam turbines, and a separate 40MW (I think) gas turnbine - aka jet engine! - unit to handle peak demand. When I was there, the first turbine was almost commissioned, while the fourth was still being constructed, so every stage of the installation and construction process was visible. I was a summer employee (no "internships" then - I was actually paid: £15 a week plus board, I believe) with the Southern Project Group (SPG), which was part of the then CEGB responsible for building power stations and the like. It was all good relevant stuff for a teenage boy doing an OND in Engineering.

During the day I would climb and crawl over open-grid flooring, accompanying one of the SPG engineers as they tested the installation of various bits of kit, armed with a device called a Megger that tested for electrical continuity and I suspect insulation leaks as well. The details are fuzzy now. Each level was referred to by its height about sea level. The highest was something like the 143 - and when you looked through the open-grid flooring, it was a long way down to the concrete floor.

I stayed in the Labour Camp, as it was known, with the luxury of my own room with sink, when the personnel officer moved me to what amounted to the officer's quarters. In the evenings I would go for walks round the country lanes, just to tire myself out, and on Saturdays I went into Tenby, more than once walking all the way. It's about two hours or so, but through some very pleasant countryside, and more than once someone would stop and give me a lift. Those were different times. I'm not sure I walked back though - I think I took a bus to Pembroke. One afternoon, an engineer decided we should walk up the chimney - there was a circular ladder running inside the four chimney pipes inside the concrete shell. It took us about an hour or so - it was eight hundred feet - and the view from the top was utterly spectacular. It felt like you could see over the horizon.

For no reason, I looked it up recently. A new one is being built on the same site. The old one was taken out of service in 1997. I have lived through the life of a power station.

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.