Albufeira in the southern Algarve is more or less a cliche, one of those tourist resorts you see on postcards. There are lots of things for the kids to do, yet mummy and daddy can still get pished and look respectable.
Albufeira was funny. It wasn’t funny in a Jerry Lewis sense or a so-weird-it’s-funny sense. I found it amusing because it’s exactly how I pictured the standard ‘Brits abroad’ retreat. And boy was there a retreat (more on that shortly).
The early flight in and subsequent shuttle from Faro to our cheeky hotel (the Muthu Oura Praia) was the only experience one could deem as ‘fresh’. Booze-free, I envisaged the adventures ahead, and the accompanying snappage.
It kind of descended into carnage shortly afterwards, the sweet taste of Mateus hitting my lips like the forbidden fruit in the garden. It’s not a complete blur from here on in, but days and events I find hard to place linearly. They blend into one another, a jigsaw narrative the result. I was truly reeking on this holiday.
So much time was spent on here and so much gibberish chat the result. The Balcony is the trip’s ‘Constant’ and centrepiece. It’s suprising how much fun doing nothing can be. I even took a snap of a mop because I thought I was being arty.
Hordes of British tourists making a racket and just generally annoying everyone, cops breaking up a brawl by firing rubber bullets and unleashing the batons. From a distance I thought it was Isis. I panicked, bolted into someone’s garden and fell on their rabbit hutch. I arrived back to the hotel four hours later, still steaming, for a nightmarish sleep involving all manner of weaponry. This is the news item here:
Is this Vin Diesel? He was in the hotel pool area trying to troubleshoot a malfunctioning umbrella. The Fast and the Furious: Brolly Bantz (2017).
A truly silly little trip this was. Next time I’m wearing a bodycam to piece together a more coherent picture.