By: Paul McKay
Teacher, Paul McKay, left London to live a self-sufficient existence in the Monchique hills with his partner Martyn. He keeps an assortment of animals and grows a variety of crops in an eco-friendly way – all on a limited income.
Monday May 14
The first half of May has whizzed past in a bit of a blur. This is my last month in the UK before returning to the Algarve, so I am desperately trying to make the most of my time in England and catch up with some old friends.
A couple of weekends ago, I visited a friend in Lincolnshire, travelling up from King’s Cross on the infamous ‘Hull trains’. King’s Cross, nowadays, seems completely bereft of cafés. If one wishes to have a cuppa, it has to be purchased from one of the many coffee kiosks and drank standing, or if one is lucky, wedged on an uncomfortable plastic bench between anxious looking northerners, surrounded by suitcases.
The only other option is a bar, which seemed to be crammed full of drunkards and had a gentleman outside dressed in a Tweety Pie outfit. I opted to leave the station (to the amazement of the northerners who clearly believed this would lead to being shot, stabbed or flashed at), and headed to one of the many coffee chains that now dot the streets of London.
It was at this point that it occurred to me that the coffee bar phenomenon has crept up on London and taken over while we weren‘t looking. Coffee bars are now as prolific in London as nail bars are in Essex (visit if you don‘t believe me). Once inside these establishments (the cafés), one is accosted by a menu board that contains in the region of 20 types of coffee drinks, none of which seems to resemble a coffee.
Some are hot, some are cold, and flotsam and jetsam appear to be de rigueur, with some harbouring strange pods in their murky depths, while others have cotton wool balls bobbing around on the surface. To make matters more confusing, all the drinks are given unpronounceable Italian names (which I’m sure are unheard of in Italy, where I remember the coffee being quite straightforward) with the description written in miniscule unintelligible script underneath.
I settled for a Mocha Bocha Machismo (or something similar sounding), which had the pallor of baby sick and was served in a bucket, sprinkled with gravy powder and tasted like dishwater. Fellow customers in London coffee bars could provide material for years of anthropological research. Broadly, they fall in to two camps, those that are desperate for a drink and would rather be anywhere other than here and those that are living the dream – believing themselves to be divinely decadent as they sip at their saucepan of ditchwater, while nibbling at a lump of sugar known as a biscotti.
Whereas the former group sit shamefacedly, huddled over their tables gulping quickly, the latter group, or the aficionados, flaunt their vice for all to see, chatting about the opera in loud voices while keeping a constant vigil to ensure they are overheard. They can be identified immediately by an eclectic array of carrier bags which surround them, all carefully chosen for the name emblazoned on the side, which they occasionally delve into to display a recent purchase to all around.
This latter group also delight in receiving calls whilst in-situ, providing an opportunity to tell other imbibers about the wonderfully self-indulgent and elegant world in which they live.
Finally out of the coffee bar and back into the Friday night chaos of King’s Cross, I prepared myself for the 60 minute journey to Grantham with another bucket of coffee, from a kiosk this time, a hundred weight of fresh fruit (to help me resist the temptation of three thousand Cornish pasty outlets), my MP3 player for music and a hefty paperback.
I noticed on the information board an asterisk instructing me to queue in queue C until the train is ready – queue C was already stretching to the far reaches of the station. As it is compulsory to reserve a seat, I couldn’t quite see the reason for queuing, so I committed the sin of talking to someone. I asked a smart businesswoman why were people queuing when we all had a seat anyway, believing I had misunderstood something. The woman was at a loss to explain the reason, saying it’s just what we do. Good to see some traditional English fetishes are alive and well in this cappuccino age.
Boarding was livened up a little when a Frappuccino-slurping commuter failed to mind the gap and dropped her blackberry (hand-held posh phone/pc thingy – not a soft fruit) on to the track below. As the English pretended not to notice, and followed the queue onto the train, said commuter could be heard to scream very softly to herself.
I intercepted and suggested she speak to a guard, who was sure to have a prongy stick to retrieve the appliance, whereupon a very fit Australian lad, not afflicted with the ‘mind your own business’ mentality of the English, swiftly lowered himself between train and tracks, retrieved lost treasure and handed it over with the style and finesse of the Milk Tray man. Maybe they’ll get married one day and have a romantic story to share with their grandchildren.
Monday May 28
Back in Portugal!!!! It’s wet…it’s cold…and it’s wonderful!
Life on the farm appears to be continuing as normal – weeds are rampant, the pigs are hungry, the geese are attacking anything that moves and the dogs are on the sofa leaving only floor space for humans.
The wet winter has ensured the garden resembles the Amazon jungle, while the lounge has the fragrance of mouldy bread as water slowly permeates the stone, leaving black spores and damp patches over interior walls.
Eggs appears to have mastered taps and now goes to extraordinary lengths to take a shower. She has mastered the art of pulling at a hose pipe until the tap is within reach, snouting the tap open and then enjoying a leisurely shower as her three remaining babies look on in admiration.
The bird terrace is a riot of confusion as young chickens chase after one-month-old ducks, all studiously avoiding the geese with their recently adopted week old chicks. Only one Guinea fowl has survived the annual mongoose onslaught and now flaps around the terrace like a demented Thatcherite, screeching at anyone who will listen.
I walked into our nearby village yesterday and popped into the café for a coffee. The customers were exactly the same as those I left five months earlier, all sitting in more or less the same places and eagerly watching the Portuguese cup final. The calendar was still showing March, three clocks all showed different times and the same two dogs ran up and down the street outside.
Since last August, I have been dieting and exercising, having lost just under 30 kilos in weight – the weight of a small pig. My arrival and new shape caused a little distraction from the football, and one person commented that he didn’t recognise me without my belly. Realising this was the only compliment I was going to receive, I sat down, ordered a (normal) coffee and looked around, comparing my recent café experiences – worlds apart does not sum up the difference.
