Victoria's Voyage

Driving through Lincolnshire, my anticipation builds, slowly. Once the thrashing rain subsides, the greying sky morphs into something from a children’s storybook, or a particularly striking painting. I gaze up at the fluffy, cotton wool clouds, perfectly formed for maximum comfort against their stark blue backdrop. I smile, contented, knowing that I will soon be exploring amongst them myself.

That sunny then showery then sunny then showery Saturday afternoon, I would board an aeroplane again, for the first time in over a year. Whilst flying itself is to me a means to an end, the promise of touching down in new lands never quite loses its lustre. Sadly, having flown more long haul flights in recent times, I did forget exactly how subpar our country’s budget airlines are. Cramped seating, expensive extras, an onboard drinks selection almost bare. A cheap and tacky shade of yellow, like the kind you see on a Stagecoach bus. Even so, means to an end. They would still get me to Portugal, and that was what mattered.

As we took off, we sailed over a sprawling array of tents every colour of the rainbow, belonging to the thousands who had flocked to this year’s Download Festival. Overhead the sun’s rays shimmered through the hazy, oncoming clouds, like whimsical pillars of light wishing us safe travels and most likely reassuring the festival-goers that the weather didn’t have to be all bad all evening.

Our ascent continued, up, up and up into the thick of the clouds, the Earth’s surface – and the island I call home – rapidly fading to make way for that familiarly beautiful sea of blue and white. The clouds were so textured and shaded just right to look like sheets of freshly fallen snow, a sight I doubt I will ever tire of. I promised them I’d join them soon, and there I was. As the final remains of the day’s sunlight gleamed off the plane’s wing, I was well and truly ready to embrace a much-needed week away.

Eventually, the cloud began to thin more and more as we drew closer to our destination, allowing a glimpse of the rough, mountainous terrain below. In the far distance though, patches of cloud did still remain, even prettier under the soft glow of the setting sun. Then, lo and behold, an announcement that we would be landing in about 15 more minutes. Time for the first leg of adventure to truly begin.

Sailing over shallows, the water looked fairly still from on high, except for a lone speedboat returning to shore. I saw swirling mazes of life followed by the high-rise buildings of Faro, all scored by a thin veil of pinky-orange hues on the horizon. The buildings grew larger as we drifted lower and lower, until screeching to a halt on the runway to breaking that sounded like bad whalesong.

A long, winding passport control queue and short taxi journey later, I finally reached my accommodations for the night – quite possibly the nicest hostel I’ve ever had the pleasure of staying in. Casa da Madalena Backpackers Hostel is bohemian in the best of ways.

Beautifully decorated, it has a stunningly cosy and chilled out roof terrace complete with plush cushions atop wooden pallets and several hanging hammocks. The reception area supplies cheap refrigerated beer, has more seating, a full kitchen and natural stone features – all introduced to me by an incredibly friendly and welcoming host that I cannot fault in the slightest. It’s almost a shame my stay here was so short, especially as I’d be leaving before pancakes, but if I find myself in need of lodgings in Faro again, I’ll certainly be back!

Which brings us to this morning, waking from a night of surprisingly restful sleep –  considering the near deafening noise pollution – and heading for the train station towards my next destination. I must admit I was a little sad to wave the fine folk of Madalena goodbye, and I did so with an obligatory, right-of-passage wish on a shell in their personal wishing well, but at the other end of my next journey awaited family and cats – a fine alternative! If I could successfully locate the train station and board the correct train…

Locating the train station – easy. Being sure whether I was getting on the right train – less so. Though after a brief panic, a bit of confusion, I boarded, relieved as I pulled out to hear my destination on the list of stops announced over the tannoy. Portuguese trains are comfortable, and more reasonably priced than our UK counterparts too. Rushing past scrubland and trees and red-roofed houses, then the real countryside, I began to settle again, yet still counting stops to be sure I wouldn’t fall at the final hurdle.

Finally, after a last little drive down bumpy country roads, there was Nutshell Cottage standing proudly up ahead, where I was welcomed into my room by a very special guest. Home at last.