Ay! Qué frío! One after another people came into María’s cafe in Vigo last night exclaiming about bow cold it was. Well, okay, it wasn’t baking hot but the temperature charts were still saying 12 degrees, which is fairly mild. Hardly the kind of temperature that has you reaching for your biggest jumper, your wooly hat and scarf and mittens. Even María was at it, expressing surprise that we ordered beer, “in spite of the cold weather”. Although that might have been because on the two previous evenings, albeit rather earlier in the evening than last night, we had ordered coffee or fruit tea infusions. Everything is relative!
This morning we walked to the bus station in the crisp, bright sunshine. One of the signs read 16 degrees. Good grief! That’s almost a balmy English summer’s day! I ended up carrying my jacket; it’s warm work pulling your suitcase through the streets of the city.
We arrived at the bus station in plenty of time for the 12.00 bus to Porto but the bus was already there and already quite full. A bit of a change from the days when it might turn up at 12.15!
We have often commented on the ability of Spanish women to talk the hind leg off a donkey but now I think the award should go to German speaking women. There were three of them, young women in their twenties, possibly German, possibly Austrian who kept up a running chat show for the hour and three quarters that the journey to the airport lasted. To be fair, one of them slept a good deal of the time and most of the talking was done by one of the other two, the third just chipping in her twopenn’orth whenever she got half a chance.
As we were waiting to board the bus a young woman arrived in a bit of a fluster, clearly on the last minute. She asked if anyone knew which side of the bus you needed to put luggage if you were going to the airport. So we put her wise. When we arrived at Porto airport, I saw this same young lady alight from the bus and stride off confidently and nonchalantly towards the entrance, only to rush back a minute or so later to scuttle round to the other side of the bus to collect her suitcase. Maybe she travels a lot on Galician trains where the PA system reminds you as you approach each station in turn not to forget your personal belongings! Imagine the consequences or realing this after the bus had set off to continue its journey to Porto city centre.
In the queue to board the plane, we were marshalling our arguments to prevent the check-in staff insisting on our hand luggage going into the hold. Just ahead of us were a couple from Liverpool, brother and sister as it turned out. They went one each side of the check-in desk. He was invited to check his hand luggage into the hold for free, and accepted, but she was not. Phil and I had the same experience but Phil turned down the offer; the big advantage of travelling hand luggage only is making a quick get-away on arrival without waiting for the suitcase from the carrousel.
Anyway, the gentlemen just ahead of us commented to his sister that his little suitcase was going in the hold for free. He was very pleased; now he did not need to hoist it up into the locker on the plane. A little miffed, his companion said she would like her bag to go in the hold as well if they were going to have to wait anyway. “Go back to the desk,” the gentleman said, “and tell them that your brother is going in the hold and that you would like to as well.” A little bit of dialogue worthy of comedy script writers. Well, we thought so anyway!
So eventually we flew back to the UK, arriving at a rather damp and distinctly cooler Liverpool. Cries of “Ay! Qué frío!” were heard from the Spanish and Portuguese descending the steps from the plane! About 5 degrees! All is relative!
Post script: the latest update on my iPad seems to have eliminated the possibility of typing upside-down question marks and exclamation marks, an essential bit of punctuation if you want to include something Spanish. It used to be so easy: simply hold your finger on the ? or ! And you got the option of an inverted version. Simply gone! I am mystified!
Friday, 10 November 2017
Thursday, 9 November 2017
Festive times are coming!
Well, everyone here seems to have agreed that summer is finally over. I swear I saw in a television news broadcast yesterday something about snow up in San Sebastián. A cold front was sweeping down, the weatherman said.
It’s funny that in English we have heat waves but cold fronts whereas in Spanish they have heat and cold waves: you can have an ola de calor and an ola de frío. Well, I find in interesting anyway.
Whatever the linguistic niceties, the colder weather - and it is all relative - temperatures are still in the low teens rather than down to 4 or 5 degrees - only the hardiest of smokers are sitting outside on the terrazas of the cafes in the evening. And the bread shop lady asked if I was not cold when I popped into the shop in my running gear this morning.
Christmas is coming on apace as well. Christmas decorations are going up in all the streets and the supermarkets are filling up with displays of turrón and polvorones and, oddly enough, boxes of Cadbury’s chocolates! It must be a dieter’s nightmare season! Temptation wherever you look!
Back in the UK, mince pies have been on sale since September and in Manchester they switched on the Christmas lights last weekend. The elegant town hall is rather tastelessly adorned once more with a huge inflatable Santa. But I suppose that if you are going to have Christmas Markets, which cover a bigger and bigger area of the city centre every year, then you need them to operate for a fair few weeks to make the effort worthwhile.
But the sun has still been shining here today and so we took a stroll along the coastal path this afternoon.
We travel back to the UK tomorrow. Time to buy a Christmas tree and start making plans
It’s funny that in English we have heat waves but cold fronts whereas in Spanish they have heat and cold waves: you can have an ola de calor and an ola de frío. Well, I find in interesting anyway.
Whatever the linguistic niceties, the colder weather - and it is all relative - temperatures are still in the low teens rather than down to 4 or 5 degrees - only the hardiest of smokers are sitting outside on the terrazas of the cafes in the evening. And the bread shop lady asked if I was not cold when I popped into the shop in my running gear this morning.
Christmas is coming on apace as well. Christmas decorations are going up in all the streets and the supermarkets are filling up with displays of turrón and polvorones and, oddly enough, boxes of Cadbury’s chocolates! It must be a dieter’s nightmare season! Temptation wherever you look!
Back in the UK, mince pies have been on sale since September and in Manchester they switched on the Christmas lights last weekend. The elegant town hall is rather tastelessly adorned once more with a huge inflatable Santa. But I suppose that if you are going to have Christmas Markets, which cover a bigger and bigger area of the city centre every year, then you need them to operate for a fair few weeks to make the effort worthwhile.
But the sun has still been shining here today and so we took a stroll along the coastal path this afternoon.
We travel back to the UK tomorrow. Time to buy a Christmas tree and start making plans
Wednesday, 8 November 2017
Surprises!
We had been in the flat in Vigo maybe no more than half an hour when there was a knock on the door? Odd! Nobody knew we were here! I opened the door to be confronted by a huge great teenage girl, a good six inches taller than I am. She smiled and told me she was collecting for the end of term party, the fiesta de fin de curso. Well, strictly speaking I suppose that fin de curso should mean end of year rather than end of term but as it’s still rather a long way from the end of the school year, I assumed she meant end of term. Either way, I had no supplies of biscuits, cakes, do-nuts, sweets or other tooth-rotting delicacies to offer so I sent her on her way!
I am always amazed when that happens. Why do adolescents here in Spain think that the whole artificial community of people who live in the block of flats, many if not most of whom have no real acquaintance with each other, might want or feel obliged to give them stuff to have a party at school? Do their parents know they do this? Maybe their parents encourage it. One of life’s minor mysteries!
Here is another: why do driving school cars in Spain sport a large L on the top? What is L supposed to mean here? Lento? It certainly doesn’t mean “learner”. Would not A for “aprendiendo” be more appropriate? It must be a bit like the international STOP sign.
In Portugal one day last week we had a choice on a dinner ticket menu between a chicken dish and something much more red meat based. The chicken came with “carril”. So I politely asked the waiter “o que è carril?” in an attempt to discover what we might end up eating. He leant in and said, “Carril, carril!” as if that provided all the explanation necessary! In for a penny, in for a pound, we went for the chicken adventure.
When it arrived it was in a mild curry sauce: carril! Obviously the word was a victim to southern british pronunciation, the one that has people drinking “caps” of tea! Very good carril it was too. So much for the Portuguese being really good at languages though!
Today we set off for Pontevedra for lunch with our friend Colin. Our timetable misinformed us and we had been led to believe there was a train from the Urzáiz station at 12.06. Except that there wasn’t any such train. The next was at 14.40. There was, however, a train at 12.10, and another at 12.20, from the other station, Guixar.
Off we went in a taxi, getting to Guixar two minutes before the 12.10 was due to leave. The queue was long so we risked getting on without tickets, as they were announcing its imminent departure. The departure took place five minutes later. We could have bought our tickets and spared ourselves the lecture we got from the grumpy old git ticket man on the train!
So it goes!
I am always amazed when that happens. Why do adolescents here in Spain think that the whole artificial community of people who live in the block of flats, many if not most of whom have no real acquaintance with each other, might want or feel obliged to give them stuff to have a party at school? Do their parents know they do this? Maybe their parents encourage it. One of life’s minor mysteries!
Here is another: why do driving school cars in Spain sport a large L on the top? What is L supposed to mean here? Lento? It certainly doesn’t mean “learner”. Would not A for “aprendiendo” be more appropriate? It must be a bit like the international STOP sign.
In Portugal one day last week we had a choice on a dinner ticket menu between a chicken dish and something much more red meat based. The chicken came with “carril”. So I politely asked the waiter “o que è carril?” in an attempt to discover what we might end up eating. He leant in and said, “Carril, carril!” as if that provided all the explanation necessary! In for a penny, in for a pound, we went for the chicken adventure.
When it arrived it was in a mild curry sauce: carril! Obviously the word was a victim to southern british pronunciation, the one that has people drinking “caps” of tea! Very good carril it was too. So much for the Portuguese being really good at languages though!
Today we set off for Pontevedra for lunch with our friend Colin. Our timetable misinformed us and we had been led to believe there was a train from the Urzáiz station at 12.06. Except that there wasn’t any such train. The next was at 14.40. There was, however, a train at 12.10, and another at 12.20, from the other station, Guixar.
Off we went in a taxi, getting to Guixar two minutes before the 12.10 was due to leave. The queue was long so we risked getting on without tickets, as they were announcing its imminent departure. The departure took place five minutes later. We could have bought our tickets and spared ourselves the lecture we got from the grumpy old git ticket man on the train!
So it goes!
Tuesday, 7 November 2017
Leaving Figueira.
On Sunday, while Phil was finishing off what everyone assured me was a won chess game, I went walkabout with a friend of ours, stopping for a refreshment along the way. As we strolled down one of the cobbled back streets, not too far away from the promenade, I side-stepped round what looked like a patch of blood on the pavement. Indeed, my friend assured me, it was a bloodstain.
On the Saturday evening, after he had left us, he had gone in search of a live music venue. Which he found and where he enjoyed the music. After an hour or so, in other words at about 1.30 in the morning, he had left there to go in search of another such venue when he had come across a group of young men having a fight. In fact, you could not really call it a proper fight. Four young men were kicking and beating up a fifth young man who was on the ground. and they weren't even gypsies, he said, as if that would make it more normal, just ordinary lads on a night out. What a way to have fun! He had been prepared to intervene, as were several other people, when the police turned up.
So he went on his way, found another music venue and finally made it to bed at 4.00 or 5.00 am, when others were probably considering getting up. Okay, I exaggerate but since he was due to play chess at 10.00 on Saturday morning, this did seem a little reckless. I think he went on to win his game! Late nights must suit him.
After Phil finished his game, which he drew, we went off to O Tuberão da Bebé, Bebé’s Shark, a restaurant that was recommended to us. Not only was it recommended but we had dinner tickets, a system by which the organisers of the tournament sold us tickets at a reasonable price, which could then be redeemed against a menú do día at the restaurant named on the ticket. We had a good soup to start with, followed by a choice of a pork dish or cod in cream, a speciality of Portugal not unlike fish pie, but without the mashed potato. We chose the fish, a tasty enough dish, but rather too copious. We could have done with smaller portions and maybe some salad to go with it. So it goes!
After this large lunch we might all have enjoyed a stroll along the beach, to help the digestion. I had already taken a long walk in the morning while the chess games went on but most of our party had been slaving over a hot chess board all morning. However we had been told that the prize-giving cum closing ceremony was to be at 4.00 pm so we returned to the venue and waited.
And waited and waited and waited. Eventually at around 5.00, or perhaps later, things began to happen. Speeches were made., of which we understood little. We all clapped when everyone else did. Prizes were presented. Drinks and nibbles were consumed and goodbyes were said.
On Monday morning we breakfasted early and waited for a lift to Porto, courtesy of the organiser, who felt that it was only right for him to provide such a service. How very civilised!
En route to Porto I noticed far more areas of burnt forest than I had spotted on our way to Figueira a week previously. Maybe the morning sun made it all clearer. The closer we got to Porto, the less of this we saw. There was also surprisingly little to be seen from the bus as we travelled later from Porto to Vigo. And yet we know that there were fires. Presumably just not along our bus route.
Porto was bright and sunny. We had time while waiting for the bus to go and have some lunch. Our joint memory told us of a particular restaurant that we had enjoyed in the past, somewhere close to Avenida dos Aliados. So off we went, trailing our suitcases, in search of a Proustian moment!
Almost half an hour later and after much wandering around, we found it. At least we think it was the same one: O Marinheiro, a family run restaurant where we had an excellent sopa de peixe followed by robalo, sea bass, washed down with a fine glass of wine. We even treated ourselves to icecream for dessert. And then off to catch the bus.
A fine end to another week’s adventuring!
On the Saturday evening, after he had left us, he had gone in search of a live music venue. Which he found and where he enjoyed the music. After an hour or so, in other words at about 1.30 in the morning, he had left there to go in search of another such venue when he had come across a group of young men having a fight. In fact, you could not really call it a proper fight. Four young men were kicking and beating up a fifth young man who was on the ground. and they weren't even gypsies, he said, as if that would make it more normal, just ordinary lads on a night out. What a way to have fun! He had been prepared to intervene, as were several other people, when the police turned up.
So he went on his way, found another music venue and finally made it to bed at 4.00 or 5.00 am, when others were probably considering getting up. Okay, I exaggerate but since he was due to play chess at 10.00 on Saturday morning, this did seem a little reckless. I think he went on to win his game! Late nights must suit him.
After Phil finished his game, which he drew, we went off to O Tuberão da Bebé, Bebé’s Shark, a restaurant that was recommended to us. Not only was it recommended but we had dinner tickets, a system by which the organisers of the tournament sold us tickets at a reasonable price, which could then be redeemed against a menú do día at the restaurant named on the ticket. We had a good soup to start with, followed by a choice of a pork dish or cod in cream, a speciality of Portugal not unlike fish pie, but without the mashed potato. We chose the fish, a tasty enough dish, but rather too copious. We could have done with smaller portions and maybe some salad to go with it. So it goes!
After this large lunch we might all have enjoyed a stroll along the beach, to help the digestion. I had already taken a long walk in the morning while the chess games went on but most of our party had been slaving over a hot chess board all morning. However we had been told that the prize-giving cum closing ceremony was to be at 4.00 pm so we returned to the venue and waited.And waited and waited and waited. Eventually at around 5.00, or perhaps later, things began to happen. Speeches were made., of which we understood little. We all clapped when everyone else did. Prizes were presented. Drinks and nibbles were consumed and goodbyes were said.
On Monday morning we breakfasted early and waited for a lift to Porto, courtesy of the organiser, who felt that it was only right for him to provide such a service. How very civilised!
En route to Porto I noticed far more areas of burnt forest than I had spotted on our way to Figueira a week previously. Maybe the morning sun made it all clearer. The closer we got to Porto, the less of this we saw. There was also surprisingly little to be seen from the bus as we travelled later from Porto to Vigo. And yet we know that there were fires. Presumably just not along our bus route.
Porto was bright and sunny. We had time while waiting for the bus to go and have some lunch. Our joint memory told us of a particular restaurant that we had enjoyed in the past, somewhere close to Avenida dos Aliados. So off we went, trailing our suitcases, in search of a Proustian moment!Almost half an hour later and after much wandering around, we found it. At least we think it was the same one: O Marinheiro, a family run restaurant where we had an excellent sopa de peixe followed by robalo, sea bass, washed down with a fine glass of wine. We even treated ourselves to icecream for dessert. And then off to catch the bus.
A fine end to another week’s adventuring!
Sunday, 5 November 2017
Getting things right!
On Friday evening, determined to download some photos to post on my blog, I sat down to use the laptop while Phil was playing chess. Of course, the laptop belongs to both of us but mostly I am quite happy to use my iPad and let Phil get on with stuff on the laptop. Before anyone gets all equal opps about this, I repeat that the situation suits me fine. But my iPad refuses to post pictures into the blog for me, so from time to time I have to demand my share of laptop time.
So on Friday evening, I did just that and I was being clever, checking ways to highlight a whole bunch of photos and download them all at once, when everything went haywire. Goodness knows what combination of keys I pressed but the whole screen turned upside down. I tried the undo key - to no avail. I tried various combinations of key controls - still to no avail. I even turned the damn thing off completely and rebooted, hoping it would go back to a default setting. Still to no avail. I completed my tasks using the upside down screen. How talented am I? And then I switched the thing off and waited until the chess match was over.
It turned out that I had accidentally put the laptop into tablet mode. That laptop is too clever for its own good. You can switch to tablet mode, fold the screen over, ignore the keyboard and use the touchscreen. We NEVER do that. Even Phil had to hunt for instructions to get it back to ordinary laptop mode.
As I said, too clever by half! I shall stick to my iPad! Except that, as the chess tournament comes to an end, I wanted to add a picture of the venue. Here it is:-
I have come across another odd use of English here in Portugal. A furniture shop advertises a service they call “room staging”. What does that mean? It is not a term I have come across in use in England.
The French Académie have been getting a little stressed about their language too. I spent many years as a Modern Foreign Languages teacher explaining to recalcitrant, or possibly just dim, students, that the gender business in French and Spanish has nothing to do with sex. It’s purely a linguistic convention that says that some words are masculine and others feminine. Okay, it’s a little anomalous that you can have 999 women and 1 man in a group and you have to refer to them using a masculine plural pronoun but is it really worth getting worked up about?
Now it seems that politicians are beginning to address crowds as “Chers français at chères françaises” to placate the equal opportunities folk, instead of the old use of just “Chers français”. My sister told me some time ago about receiving letters from her children’s school addressed to “Queridos padres y queridas madres”: whereas in the past it was understood that “padres” covered both parents! And I have been known to grumble at the use of actors i stead of actresses. The gender-specific “actress”is deemed to be demeaning! No! I would never have wanted anyone to refer to me as a school master!
Well, the French are jumping on that same bandwagon and trying to invent a way of writing dual-gender terms.instead of “étudiants at étudiantes”, some people want to write “étudiant.e.s” and to refer to mixed groups of actors as “acteur.trice.es”. Goodness only knows how anyone is supposed to pronounce such terminology. Political correctness gone mad! Again! The Académie is having none of it.
And while I am getting indignant about stuff, here’s another matter. Facebook is full of reminders that November 11, Remembrance Day, is approaching. Some are reminding us to buy our poppies from a legitimate source and to avoid accidentally supporting a right wing nasty group. All well and good. Then yesterday I found this:-
“It's 99 years ago today that Wilfred Owen was killed on 4th November 1918. Could he have known that he would not last the War? He was killed exactly a week before it ended, and his mother received the fateful telegram on Armistice Day.”
Nothing at all wrong with that, you might say. Unfortunately it went on:
“Tea towel available here: bit.ly/2hGiKnP”.
Somehow that seemed wrong!
So on Friday evening, I did just that and I was being clever, checking ways to highlight a whole bunch of photos and download them all at once, when everything went haywire. Goodness knows what combination of keys I pressed but the whole screen turned upside down. I tried the undo key - to no avail. I tried various combinations of key controls - still to no avail. I even turned the damn thing off completely and rebooted, hoping it would go back to a default setting. Still to no avail. I completed my tasks using the upside down screen. How talented am I? And then I switched the thing off and waited until the chess match was over.
It turned out that I had accidentally put the laptop into tablet mode. That laptop is too clever for its own good. You can switch to tablet mode, fold the screen over, ignore the keyboard and use the touchscreen. We NEVER do that. Even Phil had to hunt for instructions to get it back to ordinary laptop mode.
As I said, too clever by half! I shall stick to my iPad! Except that, as the chess tournament comes to an end, I wanted to add a picture of the venue. Here it is:-
I have come across another odd use of English here in Portugal. A furniture shop advertises a service they call “room staging”. What does that mean? It is not a term I have come across in use in England.
The French Académie have been getting a little stressed about their language too. I spent many years as a Modern Foreign Languages teacher explaining to recalcitrant, or possibly just dim, students, that the gender business in French and Spanish has nothing to do with sex. It’s purely a linguistic convention that says that some words are masculine and others feminine. Okay, it’s a little anomalous that you can have 999 women and 1 man in a group and you have to refer to them using a masculine plural pronoun but is it really worth getting worked up about?
Now it seems that politicians are beginning to address crowds as “Chers français at chères françaises” to placate the equal opportunities folk, instead of the old use of just “Chers français”. My sister told me some time ago about receiving letters from her children’s school addressed to “Queridos padres y queridas madres”: whereas in the past it was understood that “padres” covered both parents! And I have been known to grumble at the use of actors i stead of actresses. The gender-specific “actress”is deemed to be demeaning! No! I would never have wanted anyone to refer to me as a school master!
Well, the French are jumping on that same bandwagon and trying to invent a way of writing dual-gender terms.instead of “étudiants at étudiantes”, some people want to write “étudiant.e.s” and to refer to mixed groups of actors as “acteur.trice.es”. Goodness only knows how anyone is supposed to pronounce such terminology. Political correctness gone mad! Again! The Académie is having none of it.
And while I am getting indignant about stuff, here’s another matter. Facebook is full of reminders that November 11, Remembrance Day, is approaching. Some are reminding us to buy our poppies from a legitimate source and to avoid accidentally supporting a right wing nasty group. All well and good. Then yesterday I found this:-
“It's 99 years ago today that Wilfred Owen was killed on 4th November 1918. Could he have known that he would not last the War? He was killed exactly a week before it ended, and his mother received the fateful telegram on Armistice Day.”
Nothing at all wrong with that, you might say. Unfortunately it went on:
“Tea towel available here: bit.ly/2hGiKnP”.
Somehow that seemed wrong!
Saturday, 4 November 2017
Weathering the tournament.
There are two very small Chinese boys playing in the chess tournament here. Brothers, they look as though they are no more than six or seven years old. The organiser of the tournament assures me that they are older, probably nine and ten. However, because they are of very slight build they look considerably younger.
Parents of other, older children ruffle their hair as they pass, in that continental European way that accepts that children belong to everyone and deserve love from us all. Not the British way at all. No doubt somebody would be asking for parental permission before any hair ruffling could take place.
Apparently their parents have brought them from Lisbon to spend the week playing in the tournament here. The organiser questions their readiness to play a tournament like this one, which has some very strong players. He says that they are losing just about every game and he usually finds one or other of them, if not both, being comforted by their mother at the end of the evening as they dissolve into floods of tears. Is this part if some rigourous training routine to toughen them up for future tournaments? If so, there is clearly some way to go.
Perhaps Phil should consider himself fortunate not to have had to play either of these small boys. At least one of his opponents was not a great deal older. That young boy’s English was impressively good. Something must be going right in the Portuguese education system.
As the week has progressed, the fine and sunny weather of earlier in the week has disappeared and we have regressed into more normal November weather: wet and blustery and a little on the cold side. It’s just as well I managed walks out to the lighthouse and along the beach on finer days. Here are some photos to remind me of the blue skies of just a few days ago:-
Parents of other, older children ruffle their hair as they pass, in that continental European way that accepts that children belong to everyone and deserve love from us all. Not the British way at all. No doubt somebody would be asking for parental permission before any hair ruffling could take place.
Apparently their parents have brought them from Lisbon to spend the week playing in the tournament here. The organiser questions their readiness to play a tournament like this one, which has some very strong players. He says that they are losing just about every game and he usually finds one or other of them, if not both, being comforted by their mother at the end of the evening as they dissolve into floods of tears. Is this part if some rigourous training routine to toughen them up for future tournaments? If so, there is clearly some way to go.
Perhaps Phil should consider himself fortunate not to have had to play either of these small boys. At least one of his opponents was not a great deal older. That young boy’s English was impressively good. Something must be going right in the Portuguese education system.
As the week has progressed, the fine and sunny weather of earlier in the week has disappeared and we have regressed into more normal November weather: wet and blustery and a little on the cold side. It’s just as well I managed walks out to the lighthouse and along the beach on finer days. Here are some photos to remind me of the blue skies of just a few days ago:-
And later in the week:-
My favourite graffiti girl:-
And the sign outside Fifty's Tavern:-
Friday, 3 November 2017
Out and about in the world.
The beach here at Figueira da Foz is well provided with boardwalks. The beach is extensive and I imagine that in summer the sand gets very hot so the boardwalks are very necessary. In the evening they are eerily lit from underneath. Anyone arriving here for the first time after dark must seriously wonder what it is all all about.
As well as the boardwalks there is a dual path, one half for walkers and one one for cyclists, stretching from the end of the beach where the causeway to the lighthouse begins all the way along to nearby Buarcos. Both are generally well used.
Running along the path this morning I spotted a couple pushing what looked like an oversized baby-buggy. As I got closer I saw that instead of an oversized baby, the buggy contained a large black Labrador dog. Presumably the dog has some problem with its legs but the owners still take it for walks along the beach path. Excellent idea! I have seen people using actual baby buggies to carry smaller dogs such as Pomeranians but never a specialised one for larger dogs.
In general the Portuguese are pretty good at learning foreign languages, well English at any rate. This is often explained as being the result of watching foreign films in the original version with Portuguese subtitles, rather than dubbed into the local language, which is what happens in Spain. Good at speaking they may be but they are as bad as the English in the mis-use of apostrophes. We have seen the “Gin’s and cocktails” bar and the “Fifty’s Tavern”, to name but a couple.
As a rule, however, their use of English is accurate, even idiomatic. And then I picked up a leaflet for the gum at the hotel next door. It advertises itself as a “Fitting Point”. Oh dear, yet another misused ...ing!
Out in the wider world, I see that the sexual harassment accusations continue apace. Now it is Dustin Hoffman’s turn. Who will be next? It begins to sound as though more than half of the MPs in Westminster have a dodgy past. Parliament always seemed a bastion of male privilege but really, all this sexist stuff is rather over the top. Did they ever think about the job instead of watching and lording it over the few females who worked there?
And some joker cancelled Donald Trumps Twitter account. He was a Twitter employee on the last day of his job with them and as a parting shot he closed down the president’s account. The blackout may have only lasted a little over ten minutes but, oh, how satisfying it must have been to feel that power!
As well as the boardwalks there is a dual path, one half for walkers and one one for cyclists, stretching from the end of the beach where the causeway to the lighthouse begins all the way along to nearby Buarcos. Both are generally well used.
Running along the path this morning I spotted a couple pushing what looked like an oversized baby-buggy. As I got closer I saw that instead of an oversized baby, the buggy contained a large black Labrador dog. Presumably the dog has some problem with its legs but the owners still take it for walks along the beach path. Excellent idea! I have seen people using actual baby buggies to carry smaller dogs such as Pomeranians but never a specialised one for larger dogs.
In general the Portuguese are pretty good at learning foreign languages, well English at any rate. This is often explained as being the result of watching foreign films in the original version with Portuguese subtitles, rather than dubbed into the local language, which is what happens in Spain. Good at speaking they may be but they are as bad as the English in the mis-use of apostrophes. We have seen the “Gin’s and cocktails” bar and the “Fifty’s Tavern”, to name but a couple.
As a rule, however, their use of English is accurate, even idiomatic. And then I picked up a leaflet for the gum at the hotel next door. It advertises itself as a “Fitting Point”. Oh dear, yet another misused ...ing!
Out in the wider world, I see that the sexual harassment accusations continue apace. Now it is Dustin Hoffman’s turn. Who will be next? It begins to sound as though more than half of the MPs in Westminster have a dodgy past. Parliament always seemed a bastion of male privilege but really, all this sexist stuff is rather over the top. Did they ever think about the job instead of watching and lording it over the few females who worked there?
And some joker cancelled Donald Trumps Twitter account. He was a Twitter employee on the last day of his job with them and as a parting shot he closed down the president’s account. The blackout may have only lasted a little over ten minutes but, oh, how satisfying it must have been to feel that power!
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
