Perhaps we have to forget. Try and pretend that this is not a holiday. It’s a big trip with lots of little trips built into it. Just accept the weather as it comes. Just like we would if we were at home . . . and not on holiday!
It’s what we do though. We’ve become born again weather fanatics. A cloistered cult. Surreptitiously following the same liturgical routine. Religiously looking. Hopeful eyes peer heavenwards. Forever checking the sky for a sign. When will the sun return?
“Blimey, it’s a bit parky out there this morning. Checked today’s weather?” – “Yeah” – “Any good? – “Well, it’s supposed to be clear until 9am, then cloud over” – “For the whole day?” – “Looks like it. Well, apart from a short spell later on – oh, hang on. No, it clears after sunset” – “What about temperatures?” – “Sixteen, rising to eighteen or nineteen by about 5pm”. – “What about tomorrow?” . . .
We wrap up. Not quite into winter woolies. Add an extra layer plus neck mufflers. Venture out on Scoot again. This time head west. Take him cross country. Heading for Ponta de Sagres. As if its not windy enough where we are! At one point the tarmac runs out. Scoots little wheels scutter down the loose track. Gets us there. Then a little further west to Cabo de Sao Vincent. It’s like a lunatic Land’s End. Coachload’s carted to this end of land lookout. A line of stalls litter one side of the road. Tourist trash on offer. In ancient times common people believed the sun sank here hissing into the ocean – ah, so that’s where it is!
Return journey takes us through Vila do Bispo. Looks like a couple of newly to be weds are enjoying their last moments of freedom . . .
The day ends with the realisation that Beastie didn’t escape from Morocco unscathed. Part of his muffler shield has taken a whack.
