Welcome to the Quinta

Pools of rainwater blinked at the gloomy sky. The pollution on their surfaces looked more like war paint by the moment. Maybe London would shortly be immersed and all of the cars, along with their drivers, drowned. If this were the case, then a boat offered the only way out; that’s if one happened to sail by.

My watch had stopped, its face remaining mostly hidden by condensation. Deprived of seconds, the past is all that remains. Too many opportunities had already slipped through my worn pockets. Aided by a cocktail of drugs and alcohol on top of that, I had almost given up completely. Forever was too long for a person like me. Lost in a spiritual wasteland, my soul was crying out. Frustration had ultimately forced my hand. 

I had always wanted to write, but like so many others, I had not. Most of my stumbling words and ideas had disappeared into the smoke-filled air of the city’s crowded bars. The remainder had been emitted in a stream of yellow piss. The disturbing fact was that without any sort of beginning, there could never be a completion. Success demands a start and then a rugged will to keep on going regardless of everything else. Running away from the unsatisfactory and convoluted life-style I had led was in a sense a beginning. I was going somewhere to produce my first novel. I was going to recover a sense of self. All I needed now was that promised ride out of the country. Hopefully time had not ceased its ticking. If it had, then forever really was too long for this thirty-three year old man.

         Until now, Portugal had never been of much interest. Although Lisbon and Porto were meant to be beautiful, the opposite was often stated about the Algarve. Terrorised by fat golfers swinging their clubs in various bunkers, it sounded completely unappealing, to me anyway. But another area existed. Far away from the wet dreams of diabolical developers pillaging the Iberian coast, it was instead made up of lengthy slabs of mountains and plains. Separated from Spain’s Extremadura by the river Tejo, the Alentejo was remote and out of touch with the rest of the world. How I had become aware of it was simple. Love.

Celia was employed by a company specialising in Walking Holidays and had already gone ahead in preparation for the coming season. We had hardly seen much of one another. A strange turn of events had forced her back home. I, on the other hand had ended up lodging on various floors and settees belonging to friends. Any more time apart from her would be too painful. At least this way it would be possible to see each other, if only occasionally. Celia also knew it would be a healthier environment for me to experience. A quiet enough place, it would afford me the opportunity to start something that would lead to a possible ending. With that in mind, I felt a wave of water crash over my feet.