That magic oasis called Vila Senhora Da Rocha nesting on the cliffs of the Algarve. The beautifully groomed gardens that meander amongst little white buildings, or is it the buildings meandering on a sea of grass? Little round towers with their crimped pastry-like tops, somehow blend perfectly amongst the charming angularity of the villas. Pointed white chimneys punctuate a broken sky line as morning, noon and evening light changes the shadows.

The sights, the sounds, the smells of clean sheets. Orange blossom, sun on dust, ripening loquat. This quaintly charming place in Portugal percolates within the brain and gets truly under your skin. Fresh fruit. The oranges and toasted figs are to die for. Vegetables like no others, brought from the fields by small sun beaten farmers, toiling in the soil. Lettuces that remind me of the taste of home grown vegetables of childhood times harvesting our own food. From big plump red tomatoes full of juice and genuine un-tinted colour to fresh fish that were swimming in the morning only to be caught, cleaned and grilled in the evening, finally entering an eager appreciative mouth.

Cheeky, chirpy sparrows hoovering up balconies and patios whilst marauding gulls play the wind, stalling, falling off the top of thermals, screeching in like strafing war planes to snatch that last chunky crumb, upsetting the rest of bird land. The evening silhouette of billowing bushy pine trees and tall palms, some stunted looking like enormous pineapples. The Atlantic sea breeze blasts inshore, cooling my brow as the hot sun beats down warming my bones.

Green wine, red wine, old wines, red and white port. Parked Citroën C4’s, Nissan Micras, the odd Skoda Fabia. It’s March; thankfully the high rise buildings remain empty. I can breathe and feel the peaceful pace of this place. Cleaning ladies passing by, pushing ancient metal wagons, smiling, shouting bom dia, happy in the work that they have done for years. The cloudless blue sky, so high. My little piece of heaven doesn’t disappoint.

CAS