Brits abroad
1 comment April 11th, 2005
Whoever said that British colonialism is dead has obviously never holidayed in Quarteira. Perhaps there has been no conquest via the customary channels of the military and political systems; but the capitulation is no less complete for having been won by the formidable combination of Sky TV and HP sauce. 
They are everywhere. Beer bellies proudly on display, milk white legs encased in socks and sandals – and that’s just the women. The cafes proudly advertise all day English breakfasts, the bars show Eastenders interspersed with Premiership matches, and the newsstands sell “today’s British papers TODAY.”
But this is no Ibiza or Faliraki, inhabited by chemically enhanced size eight club heads looking for an all night drinking fiesta. A long way from it. This is more your over fifty, why-eke-out-my-pension-in-bloody-Manchester, pint of Boddingtons and fish &chips crowd. Bless ‘em. They’ve 
finally discovered life in the sun – complete with the Daily Mail – and they’re loving it.
We got a bit of a shock when we walked in here. We were looking for a place to chill out for a few days before Gary’s brother arrives to meet us for a week’s holiday on the other side of Faro. We thought Quarteira looked a reasonable size on the map, and by report it had a good campsite, so off we went. By the time we had hit the centre of town, we were feeling a bit daunted by the endless concrete apartment blocks and high rise hotels, and had virtually resigned ourselves to leaving the next day for shores less expensive, and a more stinky-backpacker friendly atmosphere. But then we discovered mini-Blackpool, and, well, we decided to stay for a few days.
I know how bad that sounds. During our years in England we used to scoff in derision at the 
masses who left the UK for two weeks in the summer to go “abroad” to..well…the Spanish or Greek version of the UK. But after months and months of walking through France, Spain, and now Portugal, there is something weirdly comforting about sitting in a faux English bar, drinking Boddies, and reading the Sunday Times whilst occasionally tuning in to the Royal Wedding and 
the Grand National. And then going for a Full English.
It struck me, as I wandered down the Promenade with a stomach full of greasy eggs, bacon and beans, that places like this have actually become the new British seaside – scene of a million children’s childhood memories. All around me families from places in England where the accents are thick and money is tight wandered happily along the deserted beaches, kids waving their buckets and spades about as they paddled through the shallows. Dads pointed to the old Portuguese men making fishing nets, and said things like: “You see that, son? My Grandad used to make nets like that, he did. Come and watch how it’s done…” and the kids would stop and watch, fascinated, learning part of their own history on a beach thousands of miles from home.
Something in the atmosphere has that quintessentially British feel – a sort of pride in being seriously nerdy, a complete unabashed delight in the novelty of sun and sand. Beach culture has become so seriously cool in many parts of the world, all deeply funky Rip Curl designer togs and rippling pectorals, that it is rather nice to see so many people sunburned, eating ice-cream, making sandcastles and watching the sunset over a pint. It is, comfortingly, much more Famous Five than Baywatch.
In the evenings the same families buy cheap barbequed seafood from the restaurants on the Promenade, which, although obviously priced up for tourists, are still ridiculously cheap if you are used to paying for meals out in the UK. And if the kids – or, more likely, their Grandma – can’t handle all that tricky foreign food, they can tuck into a plate of steak, eggs and chips.
I realise that it is deeply uncool, and very anti-Lonely Planet to think that any of this is a good thing in any way. What about Portuguese culture? I hear you scream. How could any pleb possibly want to eat English crud when there is great, cheap local food, and a whole other culture to experience?
And I have no defence at all to offer. But if you give me a day or so, I shall go and sit in the pub and think it over whilst I enjoy a pint of Boddies, some fish and chips, read the paper and enjoy the sunset.
In a t-shirt.
Meanwhile, our campsite is lovely, and far away from the high rise outcrops on a beautiful deserted beach. Unfortunately we have been forever spoiled, as far as sea temperatures go, by living in Broome, and so neither of us have done more than dip a toe in the somewhat arctic water. But it is very peaceful to sit and watch.
We are only two days from the Spanish border here, but we will be stopped now for the best part of two weeks, in order to spend some time with Neil when he arrives. After that it is about twenty days walk to Algeciras, where we catch the ferry to Morocco. We have thoroughly enjoyed taking our time through Portugal. The coast line is beautiful, and the inland regions, particularly through Alentejo, equally so.
I am also determined to conquer my rough camping fears now after the predicted deluge of emails in response to the last post. But I have to say I am heartily grateful that there are so many of you out there who are even more terrified than me! Although most of our American readers seem convinced that Australia is awash with the most deadly array of creatures imaginable, I have to be honest here: the most deadly creature in the Australian bush is usually two legged, male, and drunk.
I shall, however, try some of the more interesting suggestions; from Elsbeth’s earplug theory (not bad) to Craig from Manhattan’s idea about the dirty socks and undies line around the tent, to my personal favourite which came via an advertisement forwarded by someone from California: an actual solar powered booby trap alarm system worked by trip wire. Except I am sure I would end up tripping it myself during a midnight loo stop. But thanks for the thought.
So I shall head back now to our little green tent, adrift as it is amongst the sea of plastic fantastic Dutch and German motorhomes littering the campsite. By the way, we are sure there is a serious swingers movement going on amongst the motorhomers. Unless there is some other excuse for midnight accordian renditions of “I just called to say I love you” en masse. Very, very scarey.