Whenever I meet new people, I always ask them why they moved to Portugal. Every story is just so fascinating and unique. I wonder what your story is and whether life in Portugal is living up to your expectations. As for me, let’s just say my life in Portugal isn’t exactly the fairytale I had envisioned!
Let me introduce myself. I’m originally from Liverpool and attended the local comprehensive school, but I never really fitted in. My father, Joe Hughes, was an ardent Liverpool FC fan and used to take me to watch home matches at Anfield. I wasn’t in the slightest bit interested in football; left to my own devices, I was much more inclined to listen to my mother Alice’s albums of Rodgers and Hammerstein musicals.
Growing up in the 1980s, I bizarrely became obsessed with the TV programme ‘Yes Minister’. I used to watch it alone as my family couldn’t understand my fascination with Jim Hacker and his entourage of manipulative advisors. My beloved sister, Carole, later gave me the DVD box set as a gift, which I still have. Looking back, I must have had the Civil Service in my DNA.
Perhaps it was that devotion to ‘Yes Minster’ – life imitating art – that helped my career reach the UK Senior Civil Service, working at the heart of government in London. I vividly remember attending an event at the Foreign and Commonwealth Office building where I ran into the then Prime Minister, Theresa May. She seemed to be in a bad mood, which I later found out was due to a heated meeting with Boris Johnson. Unsure of what to do, I ended up complimenting Theresa on her pearl necklace, since I knew she was fond of pearls.
I had always planned to emigrate to Portugal but knew that, to guarantee my post-Brexit EU residency status, I had to make the move. After many conversations with my family and close friends, with a few tears along the way, I made the decision to resign. I wanted my dream too much.
My leaving party took place in the library of 100 Parliament Street, looking out onto the House of Commons and Big Ben. The Permanent Secretary, Sir Jim Harra (not Sir Humphrey Appleby), gave the final farewell speech, and then it was over.
The next stop would be Monchique. It had been quite a journey, but I thought if I had come this far, then migrating to Portugal would be a breeze. Fools rush in.
I sold my house and car, and gave away most of my possessions. If it couldn’t fit in the back of my brother’s car, then it wasn’t coming to Portugal. The most important item was my dear dog/partner, Beagle Ben.
As we left Portsmouth, I said to my brother Tony, rather dramatically, that ‘I want to be alone’ with Ben at the back of the ship to watch the coast of dear old Blighty slowly disappear for the last time. He went to the bar, rolling his eyes.
All was going to plan, but as the moments passed and the coastline of England disappeared over the horizon, a strange thing happened – I felt nothing, but that would come soon enough.
On board the two-day crossing, I decided to embrace all the activities that the ship had to offer. There was a ‘Best doggie on board’ competition. This would clearly be Beagle Ben’s for the taking so I gave him a bath, brush and dab of aftershave. Imagine my shock when a camp crewman announced that an equally camp passenger with a Chihuahua had won first prize.
I had noticed that both men had seemed a little too close at the bar the night before. I suspected foul play. The camp crewman then awarded Beagle Ben with the ‘Loudest bark on board’ certificate. Ben could always sense a nasty queen.
We arrived in Santander and then drove to Valladolid for an overnight stay. The next morning, we set off across the plains of Spain. The heat was intense, as was the vast expanse of land. It was then that it hit me like a lightning strike. Maybe it was the long distances we were travelling or the openness of the desert-like terrain. Suddenly, I turned to Tony with a look of absolute horror and said, “What have I done? I’ve given up everything!” He turned to me and said, “Well, it’s too late now, Bro.” I thanked him for his emotional support, and we then laughed together.
After three days of travelling, and a lifetime in the making, we arrived at a long-abandoned farmhouse on the side of Foia mountain in Monchique that was to become my new home. I entered the house, exhausted but exhilarated to have finally made my Portuguese dream a reality.
The previous occupants had kindly left a house-warming gift. It was a signed copy of a book by the author Paul McKay, titled A Year in Monchique and was based on columns published in ‘The Resident’ about his, and his partner Martyn, trials and tribulations of living in the hills of Monchique. In an incredible coincidence, it was the same house where I was standing. It would now be me who would have to navigate both similar and new challenges. Welcome to ‘A Year in Monchique 2’.
By Derek Hughes OBE
|| features@portugalresident.com
Derek is a former UK Senior Civil Servant. The late Majesty Queen Elizabeth II awarded him an OBE for Customer Service and Inclusion. The latter was for championing disability equality. He now lives in Monchique and teaches at Aljezur International School.
