We arrived in Cascais, where for the first time ever the woman in the marina didn’t laugh at Franco’s passport but actually looked at it and then him to confirm we weren’t smuggling in some other kind of angry, black dog. As if the ears weren’t big enough he now has a complex about them. Yeah. Thanks marina lady.

By the time we parked up, tidied up and went for a wander it was a lovely warm evening and we walked straight into the last night of a fiesta. The loud music, people everywhere and fairy lights, along with the warm evening made us grin like idiots. That and the palm trees… I had always said to Lee I will start to believe we have really started our travels when we saw palm trees, and here they were. Not just one from a distance but lots of them, looking all lovely and holiday like. On a side note some research from very dodgy resources say that falling coconuts kill more people a year than sharks. I would still prefer my chances sat under a palm tree than swimming with something whose sole purpose in life is to kill and reproduce.

Cascais is a coastal resort town in Portugal, just west of Lisbon. It’s known for its sandy beaches and busy marina. The old town is home to the medieval Nossa Senhora da Luz Fort and the Citadel Palace, a former royal retreat ( thanks Wiki) and it is REALLY pretty. The marina has some lovely restaurants, a well stocked little supermarket and is only a few minutes walk to the equally pretty town. It’s also a pretty expensive marina so heads up about that one. This was to be the place we jumped off for Lanzarote, but as there had been some heavy winds in the Atlantic for a few days we stayed put here for 4 days, and just relaxed a bit more and enjoyed the scenery.

On an almost daily basis Lee did his usual of unpacking the entire boat just after I had cleaned it, I gave him The Stink Eye, he eventually got the hint, tidied up and then I did it properly again after that. We needed to get some supplies in and I had seen a big Dino supermarket glowing bright green from we were moored, so on our last day I set off. I inherited from a Dad a pretty good sense of direction so was able to wind my way through various streets for 45 minutes until I stood opposite it. My inherited sense of direction hadn’t accounted for a 6 line railway station running through the middle of the town, now irritatingly separating me from the Dinosaur Hiperdino I was trying to get to. Slightly more a sweating, soggy mess than the attractive, dewy glow one always hope they have in these situations, I squelched my now yucky self another 30 minutes to the supermarket and collapsed against the very welcome, huge red trolley.

Inside it was lovely and cool so whilst fighting the urge to lie down on the tiled floor and nap, I instead contorted myself in various positions on the trolley in a vain attempt to dry off, while pushing it around.

I don’t know how many of you have visited proper, large supermarkets when abroad, but in my experience the locals use them as a sort of extended meeting place, almost like an extra large, air conditioned back garden. Every single aisle you turn down there are about 10 people chatting. At the fruit and veg aisle weighing scales they chat to the person serving them for about 20 minutes while you queue patiently behind, all the time watching others come up behind you, shove their fruit under the staff’s nose who weigh them and pass them back while you stand there like a nugget but not quite brave enough to follow suit. This is the same at the butchers and bakers.

Armed with my meal plan and shopping list I navigated my way around these human obstacles to the pet food section AKA the dodgy, tinned meat aisle. No dog chow for our Perro. Oh no. He had stopped eating dog food a few days previously and had decided that from now on all he would eat were hot dogs. Piling the tins up I felt slightly disgruntled that a bag of dry chow wouldn’t suffice, but apparently not as on my shopping list next to ‘hot dogs for Sausage’ Lee had written, ‘and don’t buy him the crap ones either’. Bloody dog. Lee obviously thinks hot dogs come in different standards of hoof, arsehole and eyebrow. I didn’t tell him any different.

A taxi drive later I arrived back at the marina and started ferrying the bags down to the boat. Not easy when you have to keep 1 eye on the bags you have had to leave unattended while wedging your butt against the heavy pontoon gate and then trying to lift as many bags through as possible to reduce the amount of trips you have to make. Once they were all safely behind the gate I started to lug them down to the boat. 3 bag runs later Lee eventually emerges from the heads all nicely showered and shaved and offers to help me. Yeah. Enough said on that one.

Despite now having enough food onboard to sink a battleship, Lee suggested we eat out. We were in Portugal! It was our last night! What were we going to eat?! Sardines of course. Bloody sardines. Good grief. After a final walk through the incredibly pretty town of Cascais we sat down and were served more famous, Portugese sardines. I don’t know. I just can’t get on with them. I know Portugese sardines are my Mum’s favourite dish in the whole world but to me it’s just like eating a mouthful of fishy flavoured bones. Paying the bill and walking back to the boat we said a fond farewell to Portugal and their sodding sardines.

The next morning we were finally leaving for the Canary Islands. What we had been planning for 2 years was finally here. Yay!!!