Prologue
Hello again, I hope this column finds you well. Since writing ‘A Year in Monchique 2’, I’ve often been approached with two recurring questions. The first: “Those things didn’t really happen, did they?” To this, I always respond truthfully: “Indeed, they did!” The second: “Why did you stop telling the story?” To which I reply, with a quip, “Because there are only twelve months in a year.” At the encouragement of Inês Lopes, editor at ‘The Resident’, I began considering a return to writing. Then one evening at a local bar near Monchique, a fellow patron named Matt — who has since become a friend — told me, “You should continue the story, because surely more things have happened since, haven’t they?” I laughed and assured him, “Absolutely, they have!” And just like that, Matt changed my mind. So, here we go again, welcome to ‘A Year in Monchique 3’.
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It’s said that life is fundamentally about embracing new experiences, which is undoubtedly true. However, perhaps it’s also about ‘Letting go?’ Letting go of your childhood and leaving the family home. Letting go of a friendship or a relationship that no longer works for either of you. For many readers of this publication, letting go may have even greater significance: letting go of your country.
Back to Portugal. I woke up on a crisp winter mountain morning in Monchique, looked out of the farmhouse window to see the land covered with a light frost, creating an eerily still atmosphere. That peace was soon disturbed because, unfortunately, the ‘B’ word was back: ‘Brexit’. The Withdrawal Agreement had just been agreed upon between the EU and the then Prime Minister Boris ‘Charlatan’ Johnson. The transitional period for the UK to leave the EU was to end on December 31, 2020. So, I had one year to make my life in Portugal official.
That day, I made my way to the ‘Câmara Municipal de Monchique’ to apply for residency. Upon arrival, I was directed to a team that would assist me, and the form-filling process began. One of the questions asked, unexpectedly, was for my parents’ names, which I found both welcoming and warm because it reflected an important Portuguese value: family.
With the paperwork done, the officials handed over my Portuguese Residency Certificate, and it felt like I was holding a ‘Golden Ticket’, just like from ‘Charlie and the Chocolate Factory’. With that thought in my mind, I made my way down the cobbled streets of old Monchique to ‘The Chocolate Shop’ and purchased a few bags of handmade sweets, and then returned to the Câmara to offer these as a gift to express my gratitude to the people who had helped make my dream come true.
On my way through the narrow lanes, I passed by the Catholic church, and the open door beckoned me inside. I don’t know why, but I kneeled on a pew, made a few private prayers for my family, and lit a candle. I guess, as the saying goes, ‘Once a Catholic, always a Catholic’. But believe me, I’m a very lapsed Catholic, and I’ve embraced every lapsed experience with joy!
The weekend arrived, and it was time for the theatre darling! My friends Jenny and Karen had invited my neighbours, Phil and Geri, and me to their amateur dramatics group’s production of ‘The Wizard of Oz’. My friend Caroline also joined us, who, in a quirk of fate, had been asked to serve behind the bar. You may recall that Caroline likes to start on the sauce early, so putting her behind the bar soon began to feel like a production of ‘One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest!’
The curtain rose, and I became strangely drawn to the ‘Scarecrow’, which was unusual for me, as I’m usually drawn to a bit of brawn. But like most men, he slipped through my fingers like straw. The show’s revelation was the ‘Lion’, who wasn’t so much the ‘Cowardly Lion’ as the ‘Camp Lion’. It was practically, ‘Carry On Up the Yellow Brick Road!’ The cast was fabulous and deserved their standing ovation, and it felt good to be back at the theatre.
The following week, it was time to return to the paperwork. I already held my Taxpayer Identification Number (NIF), as that’s the starting point for living in Portugal. I also had my Social Security Identification Number (NISS) through my employment contract. Next on the list was a National Health Service Number (Número de Utente).
So, I made my way to the Health Centre (Centro de Saúde), where things became a little complicated and tense regarding the UK S1 form. I won’t go into the details here, but the receptionist said something that unnerved me. The next day, I returned with additional paperwork and shared my personal circumstances — how I was alone in a foreign country. The lady apologised and reassured me, saying, “Portugal will always be here for you.” Her words touched me deeply.
Later that week, it was time to tackle the final task on the ‘To-do list’: obtaining a Portuguese driving licence. The surge in demand caused by Brexit meant my friends and I had abandoned hopes of securing an appointment at the IMT office in Faro. Instead, we managed to book appointments in Beja. As we left the fertile land of Monchique and passed the village of Alferce, the landscape shifted dramatically to a rocky, desolate terrain, reminiscent of a moonscape. However, upon entering the Alentejo, the scenery softened into rolling expanses of vineyards. Leafless winter vines, revealing their bare wood, stretched endlessly across the horizon.
Upon arriving in Beja, everything seemed to be going smoothly — until the most unexpected thing happened. The administrator reached out to take my UK driving licence from my hands. In that moment, I found myself unable to ‘let go’. She said firmly, “You must give us your driving licence,” and, reluctantly, I complied. We returned to Monchique in the cold, silent darkness of the night.
Christmas Day arrived, and unlike any Christmas before, I found myself apart from my family. I had chosen to spend the holiday alone in my new home, almost as if to underline the changes I’d made in my life. My brother, Tony, was the first to call, wishing me a Merry Christmas. Soon after, my parents, Joe and Alice, my sister Carole, and her partner Robert, video-called me. Surrounded by twinkling decorations, they began singing Christmas songs. Although their intention was to lift my Yuletide spirits, their well-meaning efforts only deepened my sense of sadness. I went along with their festivities, but the truth is, I’d never felt more alone. I won’t lie to you, I shed a few quiet tears.
To lift my spirits, Beagle Ben and I wandered through the local forest paths, soaking in the tranquillity and allowing the gift of silence to restore us. Back at the farmhouse, I confronted the task of preparing Christmas lunch for the first time — a daunting milestone. I use the word ‘cook’ loosely, as most of the ingredients were ready-made from the British Supermarket in Portimão. As the gravy bubbled and delicious aromas filled the air, Beagle Ben began to howl in anticipation. My mother had always included Ben in Christmas lunch, and it felt comforting to continue that tradition.
After lunch, I was at a loose end about what to do next. Then, I suddenly remembered that ‘Last Christmas’ when my parents had joined me in Portugal for the festive season, my mother had brought with her a gift, the DVD of ‘The Wizard of Oz’, which I quickly located from my DVD movie collection (yes, I still have DVDs!) I settled on the sofa with Beagle Ben (Toto) by my side to watch this classic movie, which had been a Christmas family tradition for decades.
As the movie drew to a close, the famous scene flickered on the screen, where Dorothy taps her heels together three times and says, ‘There’s no place like home.’ At that moment, I considered trying this myself, but unfortunately, I didn’t have a pair of ruby slippers in the farmhouse. One for the shopping list!
Darkness closed in over the mountain, and I decided to have an early night and pondered what this challenging day had truly been about and what I had actually been trying to prove. The answer was clear: I wanted to spend this special day alone in my new country, and by doing so, I had finally ‘let go’ of my old country. Yet, that same day, something else had become clear: that even from the distance of another country, my family and I would never ‘let go’ of each other.
