I'd been away from Cascais for two and a half years, during which time my life had changed beyond all recognition. I'd kept the three years we had spent in Portugal as a treasure in my mind, protected, as only the past can be - with all the mundane, real life edited out, and the blue skies and beautiful sunsets there in glorious abundance.
So, when I returned, my excitement was tempered with apprehension - what if it wasn't really like that, what if it had changed, what if my beautiful memories turned out to me no more than a trick of the imagination - where would I go to in my mind on cold winters days then?
I need not have worried. As the plane began its descent, swooping North over the Tejo and the Ponte 25th de Abril, across the familiar rooftops of Lisbon, I spotted the lush hills of Monsanto Park. I remembered how we used to stand at the very top and watch the planes fly low overhead, trying to guess who was in them and where they were from. And there I was, transported back into my old life, but this time not in my mind - it was all there, waiting, below me.
I asked the taxi driver to take us to Cascais via the Marginal - the main sea road from the city - rather than the motorway, so that we, sorry, I - ( my friends had no say in it at all ) could approach the town from the east and see it grow and grow in the distance. The winter at home had been long and grey, and suddenly we had emerged into a multicoloured world - the houses, the sea, the flowers, the sky - all beautiful and bright and luminous. We sped towards Cascais, past the monastary and monuments of Belem, the long surfers beach of Carcavelos, the grandeur of Estoril, until, there it was in front of me - the place I'd held dear to my heart during the intervening years. And it looked the same, exactly the same. Wonderfully the same.
Photo courtesy of Judith Dawson
There was only one thing I wanted to do, that I had to do, before I could sit and relax and enjoy, and that was to drag - sorry, show - my friends my walk - the walk I'd taken as often as i could, knowing that I would only have it for a very short time, and that I would need to imprint it on my memory to save it for the future. Would that be the same, too?
So, off we set from our hotel towards the town, in the warm Portuguese April sunshine. Down from the pink hotel onto the sea road and across the stone bridge bext to Praia Santa Marta; in the evenings in high summer you can stand on the bridge and watch the sun set over the vast ocean, framed in a triangle by the Lighthouse and the tiny beach opposite, with its little cafe nestling in the rocks. On the other side of the bridge, at high tide, the sea would sometimes turn a deep greeny blue, reflecting the overhanging conifers in the park above.
We ambled along the cobbled pavement, the new marina to the right, and the park to the left - a shady haven in the scorching heat of summer. After the rain, it is full of the rich scent of fresh herbs - in August, it emits a fog of Coconut Oil, as sunbathers douse themselves ready for a fresh foray onto the beach. In the spring, you can hear the Peacocks cry, and if they are feeling hungry, they'll wonder around the park cafe, looking for crumbs, pecking under your chairs in search of food.
Then we turn, past the old fort, and down into the centre of town towards Fishermans beach. You can walk through the old town, with its narrow cobbled streets and white and pink and yellow houses, decorated with traditional tiles and adorned with bouganveillia. But I have always been drawn to the sea, so the sea road it is. There is a view at the top, where you can see Fishermans beach, and others dotted beyond, framing the bay, boats bobbing and seagulls swooping. In the summer it is full of fishing boats and yachts, in the winter it is quieter but no less beautiful.
Speak to anyone who has visited the town - they will have a photograph of this view. This is where the coach trips stop and tip the trippers out - how many photos must I accidentally have been in - they all throng in a couple of square feet to take this snapshot of Cascais home with them. And I don't blame then - I have the same picture myself.
Continuing down the hill into the centre, we head inwards, past the Town Hall, the square in front decorated with wavy cobbles - a tribute to the sea, probably, but not good to look down at after a glass of wine, and then we turn into the Square. My Square - the place where i would sit and watch the world go by, eat, drink, linger till midnight in the warm summer's evenings, listen to the buskers, practice my Portuguese, chatter with my friends, read my book. Each moment imprinted deep into my memory, so I can call it up whenever I need it. And here I am again, the Largo Luis de Camoes - its restuarants and bars jostling for space, identified by the different colour table cloths and the uniforms of the waiters. We sit at my favourite cafe, and they begin to appear - old acquaintances, friends, and familiar faces i never knew but were part of the landscape of my daily life. They are doing the same things, being in the same place, looking the same. It feels like Brigadoon - hello, how are you, where have you been - like I've been away for 2 weeks and not 2 and a half years. I guess I look the same too, but I'm not, not the same at all. But the fact that it hasn't changed, that they appear not to havechanged is comforting - I was right, the place I held dear in my imagination is real after all.
Photo courtesy of Judith Dawson
So we eat and drink and enjoy and sit and watch, until eventually, we have to drag ourselves away. But there so much more my friends need to see: the narrow cobbled streets, my favourite pasteleria, the tiny square at the top of the hill overlooking the sea, close to the Hotel Albatroz - where once film stars of the 50's and 60's used to stay'; my friends have to try to the pasteis de natas - the best custard tarts in the world; they need to amble along the prom to Estoril, sit down again and drink some coffee - a bica or a galao, perhaps;; they need to walk barefoot along Tamariz Beach and dip their feet into the cold Atlantic, watch it smash against the rocks in the distance......
And I allow them to be bewitched like me, too. Because everyone always is. Just ask.
