By David Lewis features@algarveresident.com
David Lewis lives in Praia da Luz with his wife Shirley, and two children, Ollie and Fraser. Having spent more than 25 years in the City of London, he is now Financial Services Manager with the Oceânico Group.
Route 66. The Alaska Highway. The A22 on a Sunday morning. Every red-bloodied male dreams of road trips like these.
An open top Chevy, the sun on your face, the wind in your hair (even if it does result in my comb-over fluttering about like Bobby Charlton’s mop, circa 1966) and mile upon mile of free, open road.
It’s why the legend of the road-trip lives on in some of the greatest songs of all time – Born to be Wild by Steppenwolf, Radar Love by Golden Earring, Start Me Up by the Rolling Stones – just turn up the volume, flatten the pedal and head off into the great blue yonder with a big, daft grin on your face.
It’s a bloke thing, I realise that, but we can dream, can’t we? Because that’s part of the problem. It’s usually just a dream. For most of us, a road trip is little more than half-an-hour down to Algarve Shopping, or maybe, just maybe, down to Sagres to admire the views. Hardly a real road trip – Steppenwolf would have only just finished their first verse.
No, for most of us middle-aged petrol heads, a real road trip is nothing more than one of those “10 things to do before I die” moments that we never quite get around to doing.
So, imagine how I felt when I was presented with just such an opportunity. The thing is that, for reasons I won’t bore you with now, I had to head back to the UK with my wife’s car (and no, it wasn’t so I could swap plates and bring it back into Portugal again!). Not only that, but I had to take our Cavalier King Charles spaniel, Charlie, with me. Now, if there is one thing more likely to get a bloke going than the prospect of a road trip, it’s the prospect of doing it with just his faithful companion for company. I was thrilled. I admit that I would miss the family for a few days, but the thought of the adventure that lay ahead was overwhelming.
I immediately started planning with all the usual attention to detail that we men can muster on occasions like this. I had a list of absolute essentials: a family size packet of polo mints, 24 assorted bags of crisps, five litres of fizzy drink, a European map from 1986, a satellite navigation device that I wasn’t quite sure how to operate and my iPod, full to the brim with the latest podcasts and audio novels. I had a dog carrier in the back of our family estate and about 37 assorted bags that I thought I should bring along for the ride just in case. Always be prepared was my motto. Dib, dib.
For days before the start of my road trip, I was busy planning. You could scarcely tear me away from the computer as I asked every electronic expert from Mr. Google to Mr. Michelin and even Mr. RAC, what they thought was the best way to get to my destination. I was asked whether I wanted to use or avoid toll roads, whether I wished to pass important points of historic interest or whether I wanted to go “the pretty way”. Strangely, they all seemed to involve virtually the same route so that was that.
Finally, the morning arrived when it was time to set off – it was a gloriously sunny day and, had it not been for the fact that I am a short, fat bloke, you could have mistaken me for Dennis Hopper in Easy Rider as I swaggered down to my Chevy (OK, it’s a Volvo but it felt like a Chevy).
I got Charlie loaded snuggly in the back, plugged in my iPod and started up the engine.
That was when things started to go ever so slightly wrong. First of all, the iPod wouldn’t work, so there was I with days of driving ahead, hours of Jeremy Clarkson ready to help me while away the time and complete silence.
Never one to be down-hearted, I slammed the old girl into first gear and I was off – the sun on my face, the wind in my…..OK, you get the message don’t you? Now, being the sort of bloke I am, I was anxious not to take any chances with my stock of supplies. So, I decided to pull in at the first available opportunity to buy myself a sandwich. The fact that the first available opportunity was the service station at the Lagos end of the A22, just 10 minutes into my journey is irrelevant.
I leapt out of the car, blipped the blipper to lock her up and strolled nonchalantly into the shop to choose my sandwich. I had been browsing for quite some time (well, there’s always such a choice, isn’t there?) when I became aware of an irritating blaring sound in the distance. That irritating blaring sound transpired to be my Volvo, now surrounded by a party of intrigued onlookers from a mini-bus parked next to it, as I had completely forgotten about Charlie in the back-seat who had instantly set off the car alarm. I ran out of the store to quell the racket when, of course, I immediately set off the shop alarm as I had chosen to carry my tuna sandwich with me.
Having spent a joyful 15 minutes explaining to the owner of the service station what had happened and that I wasn’t really trying to steal his sandwich, I was allowed on my way once more. I felt like Thelma and Louise.
And that’s how it all started. The dream road trip was already starting to look a bit of a disaster. I just didn’t know how bad! Next month, I’ll tell you a little more!!
