Jose to the rescue.

Whilst Joan and I have now been in Santa Luzia for over a fortnight we still haven’t really settled properly into village life due, in no small part, to the number of holidaying friends here during the Easter period.

It was the imminent arrival last week of two of these friends, Barney and Darren, from Leeds that sparked an amusing little incident I would like to relate to you.

As the two were staying as guests in our spare room Joan determined that the whole house and its environs should be thoroughly cleaned.  (After all everyone knows how fussy a bricklayer can be should he discover fluff balls under his bed.)

Having swept, cleaned, dusted and polished the internal rooms Tuesday was declared as the day to “sort out” the external area.  Now the greatest obstacle to this “sorting” was the inflatable dinghy given to me last October by friend and neighbour Jenny.

Knowing that I would not be around to keep an eye on the vessel I had deflated it and stowed it in the space at the bottom of the steps leading up to our little rooftop sun terrace.

It was decreed that now I would be around to make daily security inspections the boat should be reflated and moored in a suitable place on the Ria. To this end around midday I dragged the offending conveyance into our narrow cobbled street and commenced the arduous task of blowing it up using a foot pump whilst Joan busied herself sweeping and organising the yard.

I had toiled away unsupervised and in my view quite successfully at this task for some forty minutes before Joan felt the need to emerge from the house and assess the situation.

It was at this point, just as Joan was demonstrating to me a superior and more efficient way of foot pumping, that the steady westerly breeze that had blown persistently since our arrival developed into a door slamming gust.

WHAM !!  We were outside in the street with the doors and windows firmly locked against us.

For me, as you can imagine, this was more than slightly annoying and a trifle inconvenient.

For Joan however who had not yet that day acquainted herself with the hairbrush, bra less and regaled in her best Primark PJs and carpet slippers it was a major catastrophe.

Not to worry. Jenny, just a hundred yards down the street, had a key and failing that our adopted Portuguese family the Baptistas also held one.

For the dual purpose of hiding her embarrassment and retrieving the key Joan scurried off in her PJs to Jenny’s whilst I popped into Restaurant Alcatruz just opposite our house to inform them of our plight and see if anyone could contact the Baptistas. Joan quickly established that the key at Jenny’s was now unfortunately in the possession of another friend, Carole, who lives out in the sticks on the road to Cachopo and I equally quickly found that nobody in the Baptista household was answering their mobile phone.

Shouting down the street to Joan who was now directing operations from the second floor balcony of Jenny’s apartment along with Jen and her visitors Clive and Janice I informed her I would walk round to the Baptistas and retrieve our fall back key.

On arriving at the Baptistas I found father, Jose, and mother, Luisa, busy in the kitchen preparing dishes for youngest son Jose’s birthday party which we were due to attend the following day.

Neither Jose (senior) nor Luisa speak any English but I managed in my faltering Portuguese to explain that the wind had blown the door shut leaving us stranded in the street and I needed the spare key.

“Ha problema” Jose (senior) explained. The last time the key was seen it was in the possession of eldest son Berto who is currently resident in our house in Leeds.

Not to worry. Granddaughter Anna-Rachel was promptly dispatched upstairs to wake youngest son Jose (junior) on holiday at home from Leeds to celebrate his birthday.

Minutes later a bare chested and decidedly fragile looking Jose (junior) appeared and, despite having been out till the early hours of the morning celebrating with girlfriend Adriana (and smelling like a brewery in full production),  declared his willingness to come and scale the wall and restore us to our property.

Arriving back in Rua Joao Antonio Chagas ferrier  we found a small group of Portuguese diners from restaurant Alcatruz enjoying a smoke in the street and examining the now abandoned dinghy with the grandstand party of Joan, jenny, Janice and Clive watching on from down the road.

A small stepladder was produced by the owners of Alcatruz but it was evident this was not going to get Jose over the three metre high wall into our yard. Joan, some hundred yards down the street, was bellowing at me from the roof terrace to call on another neighbour, Andre, who she felt sure owned a longer ladder. Dashing to Andre’s I explained to him our predicament. This however took a little longer than it should have as in my heightened state of excitement I had reverted to my full speed broad Yorkshire accent which French speaking Andre struggled to follow.

Having made myself understood I emerged from Andre’s triumphantly toting the ladder on my shoulder to a scene that could have graced the script of any carry on film.

The group of Portuguese diners were jabbering excitedly as Jose slung a double extension ladder he had acquired from a local painter and decorator up against our wall. Luis from Alcatruz was for some reason tearing down the street with the small stepladder and Joan was loudly declaring from the roof terrace that I was too bloody late as Jose already had ladders.

Quick as a flash Jose scaled the wall, crab walked across the pitched roof and gaining the sun terrace came down and opened the door to a round of applause from the assembled Portuguese diners and other interested parties.

Restored to my domain I rewarded our young hero with a beer and jammed a screwdriver under the door to ensure no repetition of our embarrassment.

The street quickly returned to its normal sleepy quietness, Joan returned from PJ exile, Jose was restored to his family and I toddled off into the sunset to moor the little boat that started it all.

Just another day in Santa Luzia. “Noa Faz Mal”..

Joan examines the little boat that caused it all.