The price of beer…

I’m back in the UK for a few days, to see my father. He now resides in a nursing home as you know. He seems happy enough, resigned to his fate, I think. I’ve just left him, promising to come back in the morning – which is no mean feat, I can tell you.

Being in the UK, I have no transport. Dad returned his car to the lease people once he’d seen the writing on the wall (having a couple of strokes tends to do that), not that he ever let any of his boys drive his car. I think he’d seen the way we drove Mum’s. I only wrote off one of her cars, and that really wasn’t my fault… anyway, I digress.

Because of this, I have no mechanical means of getting around, and so I tend to walk everywhere. The bummer here is that the nursing home is six miles away. Yes, to see my dad it’s a round trip of twelve miles. Lovely.

Still, I’m sure it’s doing me good. However, as I leave the nursing home today, my mind wanders back to Fuzeta.

Yes, the weather has been atrocious in Portugal recently, but the day that I flew out? Well, that was the first day in a while that blue sky seemed to be winning the battle, the first day in a while that the sun was out, the first day that I felt myself overheating as I walked up to the train station to catch the train to Faro. At the time I thought that having to leave when the weather seemed to be turning was a bit of a bummer, but today I knew it to be a fact.

As I left the nursing home, it began to spit – with rain, obviously. I pulled my coat up around my neck, ruing the fact that I’d left my umbrella at home. I then pulled my gloves out of my pocket (I never go to the UK without them) and put them on. The weather app on my phone had said that it was to be eight degrees today, but that the real feel would be one degree, and it certainly wasn’t wrong – it was cold enough to freeze the balls off a brass monkey, as my dad would probably say, although not whilst in female company, obviously.

So, I started walking, praying that the heavens wouldn’t open for real. I checked my phone once more. It told me that rain would get heavy in thirty-seven minutes. Mmmm… that wasn’t good. It would take me an hour and fifteen to walk home.

I puffed out my cheeks and had a think. Well, to my mind, there was nothing for it – the pub it was, then. This would allow me to wait out the rain and message my brothers with updates from my visit. My dad certainly knows what he wants: my younger brother is to be in charge of cash analysis, my older brother is to be in charge of house clearance, and I’m to be in charge of selling the house. He obviously hasn’t considered my track record in Portugal to date…

So, I headed to the pub. I decided on The Beau Nash. Set back off the main road, down an alley. It’s a hidden gem.

I first came in here when I was maybe seventeen, eighteen years old. Back then, there was sawdust on the floor. I would be accompanied by my sixteen-year-old girlfriend. We’d sit and have a beer and do the crossword in The War Cry, the Salvation Army’s newspaper, sold to us by a uniformed lady who always came here to raise both money and recruits. It was certainly a different era back then. Nowadays, it’s not only the surroundings and ambience that have changed – the drinks have changed too. Back then I could choose between Fremlins and Flowers on the pump. Nowadays, the only real ale is Harveys, loved by so many, but anathema to my physiology unfortunately. It gives me a flush and heart palpitations, so probably best to give it a miss. Today I decided to go for keg beer, choosing Clwb Tropica from Tiny Rebel. Bloody lovely it was too, although I was a bit taken back when, after handing over a ten-pound note (yes, I’m old school, I deal in cash) I received my beer and £3.20 in change. Bloody hell… £6.80 for a pint?! Back in Fuzeta, I can buy four beers for myself and friends for €5.20! On that basis alone, I can’t ever see myself heading back to the UK.

Anyway, I sat and drank and texted – and eventually left the pub three hours later once the drumming of rain on the rooflight had dropped off to a reasonable level.

Half an hour or so later, I was home, having managed to escape the worst of the rain and having enjoyed a couple of pints at the same time. It could have been worse I suppose, and yes, maybe I’ll do the same again tomorrow.