Saturday, Sept 5, 2009 Sailing on Algarve Coast

The minibus picked us up from the hotel at 9:15 and off we went to the harbor at Albufeira. The condos by the harbor were a bright complement to the sparkling sky and sea.

This was our 20' sailboat, the Amorita. There were about 17 people onboard, couples and a few families. Although there was no sightseeing "audio" a la "on your left are the magnificent...." we were regaled with Portuguese pop music. It was bright and happy music--Portuguese equivalent of Las Vegas chanteurs and chanteuses. Spoken Portuguese is difficult for me to understand. I can understand a great deal of French and some Spanish and, actually, I can recognize some written Portuguese words. But the Portuguese pronunciation was something I just couldn't recognize. Wikip

edia says it is similar to French; I didn't find it so. Still, melodies are melodies and I thoroughly enjoyed relaxing on the boat deck as we plowed through the waves listening to what I was sure, by the melody and yearning in the singer's voices, were Portuguese love songs.

As the boat chugged along the coast using its motor rather than the sails--I think that the wind wasn't strong enough for us to move along fast enough by sail power alone but I don't know why they didn't put the sails up--I was mesmerized by the cliffs and rock formations.

That one reminded me of photos I have seen of carvings along the Nile. No human hand had carved these formations though.

We passed many small beaches, some with bathers, some deserted. Some I only glimpsed through the rock formations.

The boat cruised along for about 2 hours and then we dropped anchor just off a beautiful beach. The sailors took some large bags in the dinghy over to the beach to set up the bbq. Then one came back and took us in two small groups, first into a nearby cavern to see the rock formations and then over to the beach where we jumped into the ankle-deep water and waded ashore.

We sunbathed and swam while we were waiting for the bbq. The water was cool, the sand was hot. I slathered on the suntan lotion, determined not to get a sunburn and, at the end of the day, was quite pleased that I had succeeded. I wasn't getting super brown but I also wasn't becoming a tomato.

The bbq was delicious. Grilled chicken, pork and Portuguese sardines, tomato salad, and crusty bread. They offered us as much as we could eat. I had never eaten fresh sardines before; they tasted a bit like trout but saltier. And quite yummy.

After we finished we had another hour of sunbathing until the tide started to come in, lapping at our feet and towels. There was a Finnish family nearby us, the young daughter beachcombing and finding pretty shells. Although she spoke no English, we managed to communicate our mutual interest in shells and we traded a couple back and forth. Then we saw that our sailors were packing things up so we gathered our beach towels and stuff and lined up for the dinghy ride back to the boat.

It was difficult to climb in and out of the dinghy elegantly, especially on the beach. But we didn't lose anyone and that's the main thing.

I took more photos of the rock formations along the coast as we headed. So amazing. And what a wonderful day!! We arrived back at the marina at about 4:30, were collected by the minibus and were back at our resort by 5:00 p.m. We showered off the salt water, had a light dinner and then went to karaoke night. Yes, I sang and yes, Sheila filmed me with her camera. And no, a copy of that is NOT going to appear in my blog!

Thursday Sept 3rd and Friday Sept 4th, Portugal

I am getting so far behind with my blog and the hundreds of photos that are piling up in iPhoto. This past week I have been laptop-less, sunning and funning on the Algarve Peninsula. I'll try to summarize this week and then work backwards. Sometime I might finally get all of this done :)

We left home last Thursday morning at 3:00 a.m. for a 6:00 a.m. flight from Bristol to Faro, which is the regional airport for the Algarve Peninsula. All went very well with the drive, parking, check-in, etc. Flight took off on time, smooth ride, arrived to sparkling sunshine and warmth. Which was a very welcome change from what we'd been having in England.

It was a touch confusing at the airport with 370-odd British tourists trying to find the right buses for their hotels. We finally found our bus and off we careered on a rather wild and jolting journey through Albufeira to the Alfagar Resort. First impression of Albufeira the city was that every building was white and boxlike; large buildings looked like children's building blocks, all white. Or maybe sugar cubes? But it wasn't a glamorous city; most of the buildings on the way were small businesses and many looked like they were struggling. And in a way they reminded me of Arizona and New Mexico in terms of the topography and suddenly I felt a pang of homesickness. Beautiful as England has been with its lush greenness and stone cottages, I realized that "home" is the Southwest for now and I miss it.

After about an hour we arrived at the Alfagar Resort. The Alfagar is an older resort, about 15 years old. It's built on the edge of cliffs with fabulous views of the ocean. The beach is a steep walk up and down but quite do-able. I got up every morning and headed down to the beach to do a half hour/two-mile walk every morning.

Not only was there this beautiful beach close to the resort, there were also four pools. We mainly stuck to the pool that was below our apartment.

Our one-bedroom apartment is to the far right in this photo; second floor, just above the

arched door. The apartment was simply furnished but comfortable. It could have done with a couple of ceiling fans because the nights were so hot and there was no a/c. We spent a couple of mornings on the beach--the ocean was very swimmable with a gentle surf and the water cool but not frigid--and most afternoons at the pool. No, that's not me in the photo in the bikini. Those days are long gone for me ;)

The front of our apartment block. Bougainvillea growing around this entryway. Aah, bright sunshine, warmth, water. This week was going to be fun! The following day, Friday, we met with the tour rep and chose two excursions that would take us away from our basking by the water: a sailboat trip on Saturday along the coast and something called "Best of the West", a coach tour to four landmarks of this part of the Algarve, Lagos, Cape St. Vincent, also known as "the end of the world," Monchique, a small town in the mountains and Silves, a Moorish city.

The next post will describe and display the sailboat trip.

August 17th and 18th, on to Lancashire

I never knew either of my grandfathers very well. My maternal grandfather, Grandpa Torrance, died when I was 2 and a half. My only vague memory of my grandfather was as a figure in a large bed with a satin counterpane. I remember being brought in to sit with him after the family had dinner and his pointing to the bottom of a very large wardrobe. Inside the drawer was a teddy bear. I would hold the teddy bear and sit beside his bed. It's an odd memory; I
don't remember anything he said to me, I just remember the teddy. Many years later, I told my cousin about the memory and she gave me an old teddy bear that had belonged to her mother, my aunt. I always hoped that was the teddy bear I used to hold; he is threadbare and very hard--stuffed with straw--but he sits on the shelf above my desk.

As the years went by, my grandfather remained a mystery. He was only mentioned now and again by my mother. I knew he had joined the Spiritualist Church, that he was a quiet and rather sad man. My mother said that he had lived in Scotland and that his mother had been Belgian. I don't know why my family was so uninterested in family history. My cousin said that my maternal grandmother, who came from Ireland, said that the past was the past and the present was what was important. My paternal grandparents felt the same way. And for many years I, too, remained uninterested in even my grandparents. Until I discovered the joy of genealogy/family history about 15 years ago. I started pestering my father (my mother was long dead) about his family and slowly pieced together information about his side. But my mother's side was more difficult. Not only was my mother dead, but so was her only sibling, her sister. My cousin knew a few things and gave me what she had--obituaries and family photos.

According to my grandfather's obituary, he had been born in Renfrew, Scotland, to a Robert Torrance, in 1882. But when I searched birth records in Scotland for a Harold G. Torrance I couldn't find anything. On an impulse, I looked in the England records and I found him! It was so exciting. I was able to order his birth certificate and found that his father indeed was called Robert and his mother was Jeanne Durussel who was actually from Switzerland. As the months went by I found out that they had married in Liverpool and moved to Lancashire, ending up in a small town called Hoddlesden. Unfortunately, Jeanne died young and the children in the family worked in the cotton mill. Grandfather joined the East Lancashire Regiment and went off to South Africa to fight in the Boer War. Why he put about, once he was in Canada, that he had been born and lived in Scotland, I don't know. I've found nothing to indicate that he ever lived in Scotland. It seemed that he wanted to hide or forget something but I didn't know what.

I had lots of facts and documents but I still didn't know anything about the family itself. Despite posting on genealogy lists, I found no descendants of grandfather's brothers or sisters. I decided that I would at least visit where grandfather had been born and lived. And I also wanted to visit Preston Temple. A friend of mine who lives in Manchester kindly said that she would pick me up at Preston train station and take me around the area. We would both stay overnight at the Temple, attend a session and then she would drive me to Hoddlesden the next day.

The train ride, was as always, fun. And Sue met me at the station with a sweet hello. Off we went in her small car into the countryside around Preston as she showed me where our early Mormon missionaries had traveled.

We went to the bottom of Pendle Hill, a historic place where the founder of the Quakers, George Fox had a vision on the top of the hill of many souls coming to Christ in 1652. Almost two hundred years later, Mormon missionaries came through a nearby village, Downham, baptizing almost the entire village in the river.

Pendle Hill viewed from Downham village.

Another view.

A lovely Church of England building.

I do so love the English countryside. I have said that so many times, I wish I could find other ways of saying what this feeling is like. Like coming home. Heart tugging. Words are inadequate and now, months later as I look at these photos, it all comes back. And I wish I were there again. Sigh.

Later in the evening, we went to Preston Temple. The rooms that are available for lodgers are like university dorm rooms--hard cots but with clean linens and comfortable, clean bathrooms. Sue and I chatted for a bit but then both of us went to sleep. It was going to be an early morning.

The next morning we went to the Temple and afterward I took some photos of the grounds.

Sue, standing by the front entrance.

Looking up at the angel Moroni.

After we went to the Temple, we wandered around Preston, visiting the sites that are important to our church history.

The River Ribble.

We also stopped into St. Wilfrid's Catholic Church in Preston. It is the oldest Catholic church in Preston, completed in 1793 with some modifications in the late 1800s. A lot of very beautiful carving, as you can see.

After visiting St. Wilfrid's, Sue drove me to Hoddlesden, to the Rosins Inn, which would be my "home" for the next two nights.

Friday into Saturday, August 28th and 29th

My goodness it's quarter to two and I've just got home from a night out at the pubs! I haven't been out this late since dh's Christmas party in Las Vegas two years ago. But I had such a good time. I sang along with the band at one pub--but not on stage--and danced too. And when the band finished in that pub we went over to another one, called The Somerset and Dorset--and watched folks do karaoke. Almost all of the songs were from the 70s and 80s. When everyone joined in on songs like Sometimes When We Touch, Maggie May and He Ain't Heavy, I did too. Brought back a lot of happy memories.

Speaking of memories, I had a very special package arrive in the mail this morning. Through posting my family tree on ancestry.com I'd received an e-mail from a cousin of a cousin on my Campbell side. He wrote me that he'd inherited this cousin's letters that her father--one of my great uncles--had sent from France during WWI. My great uncle died just three weeks short of the end of the war in 1918. In fact, I hadn't even known about him until 2001 when we went to Scotland on a holiday and found the family headstone in Dundee Cemetery that listed him as having died in France. Anyway, this cousin offered to mail me copies of the letters as well as copies of photographs of him, his wife and baby daughter. True to his word, he did so and I received them this morning.

The letters from my great uncle to his wife were so touching that I cried. Although he says several times he hopes the war ends soon--the letters were written at the end of 1917 so the end was almost in sight--most of the letters describe his love and concern for his wife and daughter and good wishes for the folks back home. He signed the letters with hugs and kisses and I am left with the impression of a very loving and kind husband and father. His wife never remarried although she survived him by almost 60 years. Included in the papers was a copy of a letter that his CO had sent his widow describing my great uncle as one of the best men he had ever known and how he would never forget him. My great uncle didn't die of wounds, ironically he died of bronchopneumonia. He was in the Labour Corps of the Seaforth Highlanders. He would have been involved in road/railway building and repair, moving ammunitions, possibly loading and unloading trains, and other non-combat duties. I've only picked that up this afternoon and I now have more to read about as a result of this amazing summer.

August 13th, Cleve Abbey

I spent most of the week after I returned from the Highlands walking Sheila's dogs and pottering around Burnham. But one day I did decide to visit an old abbey that was a short bus ride away. Cleve is an old Cistercian abbey with some of the buildings dating from the 13th century, others from the 15th. According to advertisements, it is supposedly has the most complete and unaltered monastic buildings from that era in all of England; a fairly impressive claim considering all of the buildings that exist in England.

I did enjoy the Abbey very much. It was a warm, sunny day. The kind of day that inspired Browning to write "Oh to be in England...." This was the England of my memories, the gentleness, the dreaminess. Where I live in the southwest US is beautiful too but it's a huge, yawning beauty rather than a cosy blanket kind. Perhaps it's because I am not as familiar with the legends of the Southwest as I am of all of the English stories--or perhaps there is something in my DNA that calls me back to England. I really don't know what it is but all I know is that wherever I go in England I feel at "home."

Anyway, back to the Abbey:

This is the entryway to the Abbey grounds. In the 13th century, this would have been where the poor would come for alms.

The interior courtyard where the monks would have walked and a view of the cloisters.

I look at these old walls and think about the masons centuries ago who created these walls. Did they think of the past and the future as we do? Did they wonder how long their work would last? Did they take as much pride in their work as we are in awe of what they did?

The monks' dormitory.

Even monks like a bit of decoration; these tiles and others like them were found near where the monks would have had their beds. Not beside every bed though so either only certain monks could have decorations or perhaps other monks chose decorations that were less permanent?

The day room where they would copy out manuscripts.

The refectory.

Staircase leading to the refectory.

The refectory ceiling, another amazing piece of craftsmanship.

Looking out on the peaceful countryside.

The back of the Abbey.

In a tent outside of the Abbey, there was a display of more of the 13th century tiles that had been uncovered last century. Archaeologists are trying to prevent them from degrading; they've discovered that uncovering them has actually harmed the tiles and they are trying to figure out the best temperature and environment to keep them at so as to stop them from crumbling away.

After leaving the Abbey, I walked along the road beside this river to a farm where I had cake and a drink before heading back to Sheila's house.