12 months ago, I started counting the days until I returned to the one place in the world that I would happily call my home. The place where, for so many years, I have dithered about permanently leaving the UK for, The Algarve. It may well happen.
I spent 12.5 hours getting here. There are only 2 direct flights a year from Jersey to Faro in May and October, thanks to Estrela Travel which around 2 hours, 20 minutes. The rest of the time we have to travel via Gatwick when, several hours after leaving Jersey and finally in the air again heading for Faro, the Captain kindly announces that we are just flying over the Channel Islands.
I don’t normally have a problem with hanging around the departure lounges of major airports. I get a real buzz from traveling, finding the mass of multicultural humanity mesmerizing. This time, the buzz was less effervescent, because I was traveling with a chest infection.
After 5 days in bed and no obvious signs of improvement, I gritted my teeth and set off with my backpack and Mr Mucus clasped to my chest.
If I had asked my doctor for advice after his antibiotics had failed, it would have been a waste of time. Honking like a goose when I talked, with an impressive crackly cough and a rattling chest, he would have grounded me for sure. But nothing was going to stop me. The lure of the sun and the craving for natural vitamin C was overwhelming. And the 12.5 hours getting here? It was worth every minute. It’s currently 7.30p.m. and it’s 28C.