Will there be a drought next year? Part II

Well, I couldn’t leave it there, could I?

After one-and-three-quarter inches of rain in the morning, Nigel later told me that another two inches fell overnight. In fact, the district of Olhão suffered the most rainfall of anywhere in Portugal, apparently.

And it wasn’t just the rain, no.

Blimey, I hardly slept, what with lightning strikes every ten seconds and huge peals of thunder rolling across the sky. Along with therain hammering down onto the roof and onto the pavement below, this led to a very restless night.

I lay half-awake for most of it, and was actually wide awake from 4-5:30am, spending my time reading news items on my phone, trying to ignore the din coming from outside. I eventually fell asleep again and woke up four hours later, feeling like I’d had a few beers the night before, even though I hadn’t.

Once awake, I noticed that it sounded as though the rain had stopped. I lay there for a while and then decided to get up and check my house for damage. There was none I could find, so I carried on with my day.

I realised that I needed a few provisions, so I nipped up to the local supermarket to buy some rolls, eggs and fruit. There I found a gaggle of old ladies nattering by the door, blocking entry for anyone who wanted to go in. They were animated. Was it the new layout of the shop that was causing such concern, or the weather? I wasn’t sure. Maybe it was both.

With my best Portuguese, I said ‘Com licença…’ and they parted like the red sea, happily letting me pass whilst continuing to chat away.

I bought what I needed, wandered home, sat down and checked my phone. I had some messages. It seemed that I had been lucky, whilst others not so much:

Nigel sent me a photo of his kayak sitting on his driveway twenty metres from his swimming pool, where he’d left it floating the night before. Eh? What had happened there, then? Had some vicious wind picked it up and tossed it aside? Had rain filled the pool, creating a temporary river to run down onto the drive? Had water flowed off the hill behind his house and taken the kayak? We shall never know. Nigel didn’t know. It will always be a mystery. Suffice to say, it was bloody weird, and just another transport problem for him. His car yesterday, his kayak today…

Then Max sent me a video showing him cleaning up the terrace that sat outside his front door. It had flooded big time. Bloody hell, it doesn’t rain but it pours – literally. All I could think was:

‘Max really needs to fix that roof. It really isn’t fit for purpose anymore. Maybe he needs a hand?’

Something to discuss next time we have a beer, maybe.

Ben messaged me, too. Once again, for the second day running, water had regurgitated into his store via the drainage system. Surely a drainage system is meant to take water away, not allow it in. What a bummer. Indoor flooding is not something to be laughed at, much like a leaky roof, so I offered my assistance. It wasn’t needed, apparently. Ben told me that things were under control, which was a relief.

But the biggest bit of bad luck was something I saw whilst I was checking my phone. It referred to ‘Comboios de Portugal’, Trains of Portugal. At 6:20am this morning, a train had been leaving Fuseta station, when a boulder, presumably loosened by the rain, had hit the lead carriage, derailing it.

Blimey, a derailed train in Fuseta? I had to check this out, but only if it really wasn’t raining, obviously.

I checked the app on my phone and it told me: ‘No rain for one hundred and twenty minutes’. Did I trust it? Not really. Trust is a wonderful thing, but not when it comes to the weather app on my phone. However, I did want to see the derailment.

As for my need to see it, I’ll say it for you:

‘Blimey, nosey or what?’

But to be honest, I don’t care. I’d never seen a derailed train before, and this was as good an opportunity as I was going to get. So, I put my boots on and off I went.

I walked along the front, then up the hill to Ponte Pequeno, the footbridge that crosses the line by Fuseta-A station. From there, I could see along the track to Ponte Grande (the road bridge), and beyond that, way in the distance, a train sitting at a strange angle. There it was, the derailed train. So, it was true.

But it was too far in the distance to get a good look. I therefore backtracked around to Ponte Grande to get a better view. There were already a few locals standing on the bridge looking at the scene along the track before them, speaking in hushed tones. I’d read that there’d been no injuries, but still, it was quite a momentous thing to happen in your village, thus the hushed tones, I presumed.

I decided that I still didn’t have a great view, and that I wanted to get closer still, but I felt that I needed a bit of a walk first. I’d been stuck indoors for two days due to the rain, after all. So, I headed up the road towards Estrada Bias Do Sul, the lane that would take me in the direction of Olhão.

Just as I was about to turn down the lane, something made me check my phone one last time, and there it was – rain starting in twenty-one minutes. Bollocks. So much for the weather app and so much for managing a longer walk. I decided not to risk it, and instead headed straight for the track that led down from Escola João Lúcio – the secondary school – around the back of Fuseta, across the railway track (close to where the train was derailed), coming out not far from the infants’ school.

Halfway down the track, I began to think that I had made a mistake. The rain had taken its toll on the track’s surface, with stones and sand having been dislodged, deep ruts having appeared, and large puddles having formed.

As I progressed down the path, the puddles seemed to be getting bigger until I came across one that completely blocked my path. Fortunately, there was a decent verge, so I was able to get by. But then – bloody hell – I came to a puddle that I thought was going to beat me.

This puddle filled the track ahead for maybe twenty feet. On each side was a derelict wall, constructed from random boulders. Where these boulders hadn’t already fallen, they seemed to be perched precariously on top of one another. On one side of the puddle, there was no verge at all. On the other was a muddy, slippery, angled verge of maybe three inches width. To make matters worse, protecting the adjacent walls were banks of cacti, sitting just beyond. Spine-covered leaves were ready to pierce any hand that should stray too close to a supporting boulder. As I said, bloody hell.

I suppose I could have simply walked through the puddle, even though I didn’t know how deep it was. But when I looked down at my feet, I just thought:

‘No way, I can’t do that to my boots.’

Yes, I had new boots on. I certainly didn’t want to christen them with a soaking. There was nothing for it, I had to risk the three-inch verge.

I carefully placed my foot onto it and was on my way, one small step at a time, holding the wall where it seemed strong enough, wary of the threat from the numerous cactus plants. I edged my way along. At one point, my foot slipped and skimmed the surface of the water. Luckily, I was next to a decent bit of wall and managed to stop my foot from being immersed completely. I did receive a couple of scratches from a cactus, but nothing to write home about.

Eventually, I was through and breathed a sigh of relief. Now I just had to hope that I didn’t come across any more puddles like that, or, God forbid, a puddle that was worse. I really didn’t want to have to retrace my steps.

Fortunately, I didn’t. Soon enough, I found myself passing the back of the Igreja Nossa Senhora da Conceição – the church – and approaching the railway line.

There were a number of people at the crossing wearing hi-vis jackets, but not seemingly doing very much. There were also a couple of policemen, just standing on the tracks, chatting. They were there to keep the crowds back, I suppose, but seeing as I was the only voyeur (at that time, anyway), they really didn’t have much to do.

I crossed the line slowly, taking in the fact that it was the front carriage that had been derailed and not the one behind. I also noticed that it had been derailed in a very confined area, with a rock face on one side and a block of apartments on the other. There would be no room for a crane, and anyway, the newly installed electric lines would have made the use of a crane so much more difficult. I presumed that they would have some sort of vehicle that would come along the track to resolve the issue, but I didn’t hang around to find out.

Once on the other side of the track, I headed down the road, just as two mini-buses carrying more personnel appeared. They were all wearing hi-vis, too. What were they all going to do? Were they going to man-handle the train back onto the line?! I really didn’t think that would work, so yes, really, what were they all going to do? I had no idea, but it was the weekend. It would be good for overtime, I presumed. Silver linings and all that.

I wandered home, thinking to myself:

‘Well, there’ll be no trains for a while.’

Then I thought:

‘I’d better hurry up and get home before it rains.’

I was wrong on both accounts: the line was clear the next day, with trains running as normal, and it didn’t rain either. In fact, the sun came out.

Believe me, never trust a bloody weather app on your phone…