Life could be worse...

It’s Sunday, and it’s February (yes, still only February), and it’s as if someone has flicked a switch.

The sun is out and the sky is blue. The breeze is warm, and people are flocking to Fuseta as if it’s summer.

I step outside. I’m in my shorts and t-shirt. I’m wearing my cap and sunglasses. I’m heading off for a walk.

I pass the restaurants on the quayside. All of them are full, and for the first time this year, people are queuing, waiting for a table. They’re enjoying the weather. There’s a buzz in the air.

The clink of wine glasses and sounds of laughter and conversation surround me.

I walk towards the beach. People are out strolling, elderly couples are holding hands, young couples are carrying and herding young children. The bars are nicely full.

Parking spaces are once again at a premium, since the world (and its wife) seems to have decided that Fuseta is the place to be on this glorious Sunday.

I carry on walking. Cyclists pass by me and cars crawl past looking for somewhere to park. Elderly weather-beaten fishermen tend to their boats and their pots and nets.

I head towards the beach, and once I reach the boardwalk, I see that all the tables at Borda d’Agua are taken. I look towards the water. There are children playing in the sand, paddling in the sea – it’s UK half-term after all. There are couples sunbathing, families picnicking, owners walking their dogs, a couple of fishermen braving the sun, patiently waiting, rods placed firmly in their holders, rooted into the sand.

I notice that no one is swimming though. I shake my head. People really don’t know what they’re missing.

I walk on. I head towards the salinas. I pass fellow walkers. Cycling couples ring their bells as they approach from behind. Runners jog past.

Above me, sea gulls seemingly float by, calling to each other. Flamingos stroll through the shallow waters, black-winged stilts shriek around my head, egrets calmly fly away as I pass by their roosts.

It’s just such a stunning day. Too many people obviously, but then I realise:

‘Why should I have this beautiful place all to myself?’

…much as I would love that.

Ninety minutes later, I’m home, a sheen of sweat on my skin. There’s nothing for it. Others may baulk at the thought of going for a swim, but me? I can’t bloody wait.

I get changed and head down to the beach once more.

Everywhere is still busy. The sky is still blue and the sun is still warm on the skin, and of course, the sea is still free of people bar a few hardy souls paddling, not daring to go any deeper than their knees.

I drop my things on the sand and enter the water.

I don’t hesitate. Yes, it’s fresh, some would say cold, but I know that once I’m in, everything else will simply melt away: anxiety (not that I have any), problems (not that I can think of any), in fact, the whole world, aside from me and my thoughts. All that will matter will be the water supporting my body and the sky above as I lie on my back, simply appreciating.

I make my way through the clear, cool water. I watch fish swim lazily ahead of me. Once the water begins to tease my nether regions, I take the plunge and dive on in.

My eyes are open. I see bubbles pour from my hands in front of me. I see the seabed pass beneath me. I resurface and swim away from the beach, loving the coolness on my skin, feeling my body gradually acclimatise. Soon enough, I turn onto my back and simply laze, floating, eyeing the sky and the birds hovering above me, the birds which are scanning for those unaware fish here in the waters below.

Yes, this is why I came to Portugal – and it’s still only February. Bloody hell. Life could be worse.

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And today it’s pouring. C’est la vie at this time of year!