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.
Delícias do Mar … No matter how you say it, you just can’t help conjuring up a picture of a sparkling sea, a table overlooking a white-sanded beach while a glorious red sun slowly sizzles into the horizon, a smorgasbord of freshly caught fish, lobster and prawn arranged tantalisingly in front of you, drizzles of ice cold moisture running down each tasty morsel.
The reality of the A22 version of the Delícias do Mar sandwich is, of course, slightly different..
Those of you who read last month’s article will know that this was the start of a glorious adventure. My family had headed back to the UK in the comfort of a bmibaby jet while I had the task of safely escorting my wife’s car, our Cavalier King Charles Spaniel (named, originally, Charlie) and 37 assorted bin bags full of family detritus to our new home.
The journey was scheduled to take four days. Why so long, I hear you cry? Well, I had, of course, employed my usually impeccable timing to decide to travel during the one month when most of the ferries took their own, well-deserved, break. So, my journey would take me through Portugal, up through bits of Spain before emerging into the cultural utopia that is France. Caen would be my destination, with a ferry across to Portsmouth my ultimate goal.
One of the biggest problems I thought I would face was finding suitable accommodation – not for me, you understand, but I suspected that finding hotels that would take Charlie was going to be a bit more difficult. Actually, for those of you thinking of travelling with your own canine companion, could I heartily recommend a website that I came across called dogfriendly.com? This is a smashing wee site which, while obviously originating in the US, also carries a fair plethora of information about Europe.
Quickly researching my likely route, it seemed to me that there were so many hotels willing and able to accommodate my pet pooch that there was no need to book in advance. It would all work perfectly. Except in Portugal.
I had decided to start my journey quite gently, setting off in the early afternoon from Luz with the intention of arriving “somewhere north of Lisbon” around tea time. That would get me past the city before rush-hour the next day. The first leg of the journey was as smooth as silk and I soon found myself on the north side of Lisbon, at which point I started to look for a suitable hotel.
The first one I approached was lovely. A nice little place with the most friendly and helpful staff – and a strict policy of no dogs. On I trudged, certain that the next hostelry would greet us with open arms. They didn’t. Neither, in fact, did the next one, nor the next.
By the time midnight came, we were at the Spanish border. Just before the border was a small town, quiet and deserted at this time of night and with no-one around to ask for directions or help. There was, however, a small, flickering neon sign that read “otel”. Now, either I had inadvertently wandered onto the set of “‘Allo, ‘Allo” or this was my final throw of the dice when it came to getting somewhere other than the front seat of the Volvo to sleep for the night.
I could have kissed the small, ever-so-slightly alarmed old chap behind the reception desk when he told me we could have a room for the evening.
With a good night’s sleep behind us, Charlie and I set off the next morning with renewed energy and a lightened heart.
To be honest, from that night onwards, my friends at dogfriendly.com were true to their word. Hotels were relatively easy to find and we pretty much got a decent night’s sleep each evening. Aside, that is, from Charlie’s endearing habit of wanting to be taken out for a walk at varying times between 2am and 4am, just to make sure I didn’t make myself too comfortable.
And so, three days after setting off, we arrived at Caen. I had booked the ferry for 8am the next morning and was delighted when we arrived at our hotel in mid-afternoon the day before. The hotel was a little way from the ferry terminal but I reckoned that, with an early night, and the exciting prospect of seeing my family again the next day, I’d have little trouble waking up in time. And so it proved. By 5.30 the next morning, I was up, showered and ready to go.
Arriving at the ferry terminal at 6.30am, I fixed Charlie’s lead and we virtually bounced with enthusiasm to the customs desk to present Charlie’s credentials. Now, as you may know, to take a dog back into the UK, you need to have obtained certain stamps in its doggy passport. Thankfully, I had thought of this and, with the help of our ever-so-friendly vet back in Portugal, had obtained the necessary accreditation. As the official perused my impeccable documentation, I was slowly eyeing up the freshly baked croissants in the café next door.
“Non! Theez eez not acceptable,” a voice woke me from my day-dream.
“Excuse me?” I asked, certain that I had misheard.
“Theez eez not acceptable,” she repeated. “Theez stamp, eet says that ze vet inspected your animal (note: Excuse me again, my animal? This is Charlie you’re talking about! My third child and erstwhile road trip companion. Do you mind?), eet says that ze vet inspected your animal at 10am yesterday morning?”
I blinked perhaps a little more nervously than I ought to have done. “That….that’s correct”, I replied.
Now, those of you that have done this will know that, before taking an animal out of the country, you need to get a stamp which must be dated within 24 hours of departure. As I had three days of driving ahead of me, of course, that would be impossible so a “friendly” vet had made a slight “error” with the date in Charlie’s passport.
“That’s correct”, I went on. “Yesterday. At 10am.”
“Then eet eez not acceptable” the custom official repeated. “Zee stamp must be between 24 and 48 hours before departure. Your ferry is at 8am which means zat zee stamp is two hours too early!”
My heart fell. My dog and I had endured three days of driving, across three countries, only to be told, at the final moment, that we were two hours too soon. Surely there is something you can do, I pleaded?
“Non,” she replied with a smile. “Once, I rejected a cat because it was 15 minutes too soon!” I swore that her eye twinkled with delight as she said it.
“So… so what can I do??” I asked, in my most pathetically pleading tone.
“I can book you on zee next ferry,” she retorted. “Eet eez at 4pm.” she screamed with delight.
So, Charlie and I spent a delightful last leg of our journey ambling up and down the ferry port at Caen for a little over nine hours. Believe me, I would rather have watched the entire series of Eldorado back to back. The Road to Hell? Caen did its best not to disappoint.
Finally, the ferry arrived and we made our way back to the UK. Sad to leave Portugal. Sad to leave the many true friends we made there. Never more happy to see my family. And determined, next time, to fly.
