After eight years residing in the Algarve and looking back to the end of summer, I have come to the conclusion that August is my least favorite month.
I fully understand why for many tourists August is what we in the industry call “high season” and the primary time for them to show up in their bulging bikinis and safari hats. The temperatures are certainly high (sometimes low 40s or if you’re American “very hot”), but the real reason is sunshine, constant, some would say a relentless bombardment of ultraviolet and infrared radiation.
Particularly as far as British tourists are concerned, they want guaranteed sunshine—no maybes because if a holiday is supposed to be an escape, what they’re trying to avoid are rainy days. Apparently, it rains quite a bit in Great Britain as compared to the southern coast of Portugal where rain is rare. We’re much more likely to have drought and wild fires than any precipitation. This means that the Brits can wear their tank tops and sun dresses even at night (Get it?) and reportedly nothing at all at one of the nude beaches or on stag nights in Albufeira.
While good ol’Pat does perversely enjoy gauging how much longer a previously lily white English couple will stay out on their blanket before they realize that their shoulders aren’t supposed to be hot pink, I don’t appreciate when my very trendy crocs melt in the steaming sand. My lovely wife and I usually tell our friends and family, who have expressed a desire to visit Portugal and stay for free at our house, not to do so in August because it’s often 95 to 100 degrees (or if you’re not American, “too f-ing hot” as we say).
I do understand that in much of Europe, August is the traditional month set aside for vacations and has been so for decades. Also the warm months of July and August are when students are out of school, so families don’t really have a choice. This was also true for my lovely wife and I since we were teachers and also couldn’t travel except during school break. When we retired, it was a true pleasure to “go to the shore,” as we used to say in Maryland after Labor Day. Ocean City wasn’t deserted but there were hardly any young ones being washed ashore by the Atlantic waves that were usually the warmest in late September, early October. In August, sand castles get trampled by hordes of sun worshipers, who seem to think that putting their beach blanket down so it’s touching yours is a good idea because in a little while they’ll be in the shade of your umbrella.
My loyal reader may remember that I lived in Panama for 12 years before moving to Portugal and anyone reading this now might be surprised to learn that, especially in August, it is much hotter here than there. In fact, sometimes during particularly hot spells during the eighth month of the year, our lives are not unlike that period in our lives when we were involved with the COVID lockdown. We stay inside with the air con buzzing, reading books and napping and not seeing anyone because all our friends are staying inside and assembling huge jigsaw puzzles, playing video games and taking siestas. September is kinda fun because we get to see people again even though that is sometimes overrated.
My lovely wife and I are late risers, oftens as late as 10 a.m. (We’re retired, all right? We can do what we want. Just don’t call us before 10.), but by then it’s already too hot to go for a walk. Passing out on a stony trail along the cliffs just isn’t that much fun. So now what we do, is set the alarm for 6:30 and beat the heat by dragging our dog out for a walk at sunrise. But don’t worry, we’re not staying up for really long boring days. Oh no, instead we go back to bed after a nice drink of cool water and we don’t get up until maybe 11:00 a.m. (We make a point of being sure to rise and certainly shine before noon.)
Missing most of the morning means that you have less time for chores, but that has turned out to be an advantage. A trick I’ve learned year-round is that the best time to go to the grocery store, wine shop, bank, post office, Staples, or laundry is just after 2 p.m. For most of the year, most folks are just getting back from lunch and not yet going out again for a while. This leaves the local Jafers virtually deserted until about 4. For another example, I have the record for the shortest time ever spent conducting actual business at the IMT. I got a notice in the mail that I could pick up my new driver’s license at the Faro office. When I arrived at the front desk at 2:13 p.m., there was nobody in line, so I immediately handed the lady my letter. She gave me a number for station 4. When I looked up at the station 4 light my number was showing so I didn’t hesitate to report there and presented my paperwork. The attendant reached into a box and pulled out my license and I signed for it. As I was walking back to the parking lot, I looked at my phone and noted that it took less than ten minutes total. The guy in the booth at the parking lot charged me 10 cents and I was on my way. Of course in July and particularly August the 2 o’clock hour is very much in the heat of the day. Since my wife and I are not English we call ourselves “mad dogs.”
The other reason that August is not my favorite time of year is that it is the most crowded season, by far. To be honest, we’re spoiled. My idea of a traffic jam in these parts is three cars trying to meld at a roundabout (circle if you’re American). Towns like Faro and Portimão do have rush hours, but nothing unbearable. My point of reference is the Capital Beltway, a three-lane parking lot that encircles Washington, D.C, where I’ve spent endless hours trying to go around in a circle. The Long Island Expressway, which isn’t, is another example of real, spirit-crushing mostly stop-and-some-go traffic. I’ve also spent hours trying to get out of sight of Heathrow Airport in jolly-old congested London.
And that’s one of the reasons many of us moved to Portugal—for a less stressful existence. And even in August, I’ve never experienced anything remotely like the L.A. Freeway. So I guess that makes the N125, “the road of death,” not so bad by international comparison, but still the worst local driving experience in August. When you’re not used to it any more, a relatively busy A22 can seem quite hectic with Mercedes mostly feeling obligated to pass at 140 to 160 kilometers per hour (If you’re American that means “fast.”) In stark contrast, I can recall travelling along the A22 in February without encountering another car in either direction for miles—so lonely in fact, that my lovely wife started to change radio stations in case we missed the announcement of the end of the world or WWIII because it was broadcast in Portuguese.
I do wonder what the traffic will be like when tolls are no longer being charged starting in January, which up until then seemed to keep many thrifty Toms, Dicks and Harrys on less speedy but also less costly thoroughfares.
What can be worse than anywhere else that I know about in August is parking. I can recall recently having picked up a visiting couple at the airport and taking them over to nearby Faro Island for a seaside welcome lunch. It seemed like a good idea, especially if we could find a nice umbrella to sit under. Well, we never did because we couldn’t find a parking place, and I mean on the entire island, much less near the bistro we had in mind. We drove slowly behind some other cars that were conducting a similar search from one end of the island to the other and back twice and eventually gave up as did several of our fellow travellers and simply retreated back across the single-lane bridge when it was our turn.
Talking about being spoiled, I’ve shown up at one of our favorite restaurants, just on the spur of the moment, you know, and being told by my buddy/pal/friend/matri de/owner that there are no tables available. I needed a reservation—ah August. Don’t get me wrong—I’m glad our local restaurants are doing a strong business because that means they’re actually making a living and might be able to stay open year-round with less shouted conversation and more space between tables during the winter.
I don’t mind children and understand their necessity to keep the species going and it’s nice to see kids learning how to behave in civilized society. My pet peeve however is a particular brand of parent that seems to be completely oblivious to their child running through the tables, emitting shrill little screams as they cause the hard-working waitress to do a pirouette while balancing two canecas and three huge gin and tonics on her tray. These moms and dads seem to be taking the attitude that they’re “on vacation too” and “let the kids have some fun”, bothering all the other patrons, with whom they’re not making eye contact.
To be honest even August isn’t always that bad; I mean it’s not “hell.” It does cool down after sunset often with a refreshing breeze. It can be fun watching for the Perseid meteor showers across a usually clear night sky. The point is that there are more ideal months to be on your roof-top terrace gazing out toward the horizon. This year for example, it was almost as if the powers-that-be threw a switch on August 31 and the temperature dropped 10 degrees. There will still be clear blue skies dotted with fair-weather clouds during the day and evenings out dining al fresco in a jacket or light sweater. If you remember this past year, January was warm and absolutely gorgeous, while March was cooler and wetter than usual, so you never know. If you have a choice, there are better times to visit than the “dog days,” but if you don’t have a choice either because you live here or you still have children in school, just remember to have plenty of sunscreen on hand.
By Pat the Expat
|| features@algarveresident.com
For the previous 10 years, Pat lived in Panama which used to be rated above Portugal as a top retirement destination (but not any more), where he wrote a column for a tourist publication.
