Silver tops still wandering

Not all things work out quite as you think they will when you are on a travelling adventure to places new. People around me are forever rolling their eyes when I once again share my thoughts about knowledge and ‘the knowing’. I will say it again, for those who are unitiated to this particular piece of ‘Pam Logic’. It is a great thing to know that you ‘don’t know’. Ultimately fixable by finding out. The real problems begin with the not even knowing that you don’t know. Hence the arrogance of thinking you know when quite clearly, you do not. As adeptly demonstrated repeatedly through history and time by politicians, academics, scientists, theologians and so many more of our learned brethren.

Just don’t get me started!

The photograph at the top of this piece signifies man and machine. These two co-exist in a symbiotic relationship. I have maintained for many years that if you choose to marry a ‘petrol head’ you would be well served to have minimal miles on your clock for your year, a good set of feet, be able to do nought to fast walk in under 5 seconds, run well on cheap fuel for many miles and keep your paint work AKA skin in good order. Oh and maintain your servicing records.

This is all lovingly done to said blue car. So yesterday when we bade a sad farewell to our lovely hosts and their adorable rescue dog Dee, we had of course planned a stress free journey for all. Imagine my fellow travellers’ utter joy as the car slips along smooth roads, idling at a comfortable three thousand revs, merely sipping at the fuel with up in the fifty something miles to the gallon, air conditioning keeping all aboard cool, spotify playing summer songs and wonderful vistas all around us as we journey under alluring blue skies through the mountains. The driver could be heard purring ever so contentedly just above a rendition of Summer Breeeze by the Isley Brothers. Perfect.

So why on earth did we go off piste? I can only surmise that complacency got a hold of us, or perhaps too much sun on our nappers. Either way a very poor decision was made.

We looked at the map, an actual map, not Mrs Googles’ adaptation and condensed version that shines our from the dashboard, all knowing with its blue arrow and lines, but an actual road atlas map. There we spotted an alternative route up the coast on the N109. Diverting to drive along the coast has worked very well for us in he past. We have enjoyed lunches in quirky places with cheeky chilled whites, mussles and sea breezes.

I guess our luck ran out. Do not never ever take yourself willingly off the A1 to Porto, pay the tolls and rejoice at the engineering fete that this road is. Wallow in the smooth surface, the white lines, the information boards that mean nothing to us, the organised way in which fellow drivers abide by the rules. All such things so much taken for granted until, yes, you guessed it, the N109. Do not go there my friends!

There are no coastal cafes or restaurants for a nice lunch. When we did divert to a town it could have been French, it was so ‘closed’. I am sorry to report that the state of the road was unimagineable with pot holes, sinks that were well and truly sank, road edges just not there, half hearted repairs, subsidence and random dollops of tarmac. The ensuing slalom this necesitates for all concerned on both sides of the road, resulted in ‘The Mister’ shouting a lot as he ‘felt’ every bump, every tyre scuff and ‘bangbang’ as we toiled along. Hungry and hot, because to add insult to injury, the air conditioning failed. Oh perfect joy.

Porto has yet to bring us something goodly, apart fom our digs. The man and machine are currently at a garage, being ‘re gassed’. For some reason all I can imagine for this…is this

But then I did spend a lot of the seventies behind various bars.

I am rambling now. This is because stroppy hip had a hissy fit yesterday, after the walking to find food. It was necessary to break out the ‘big guns’. So my musings and ‘wordling’ can be blamed on Tramadol. I shall resume when order has returned…