Happy Birthday to you, Happy Birthday to you.....you know the rest.....Well it is my blog's first B'day and not one person has sent in comments wishin it a happy birthday, shame on you! Yup, it's a year since I headed for Barca on some mad flight of fantasy, it seems to have gone pretty quick, but at the same time the day I left Sheffield seems like ages ago (is that possible? Not sure but that's how it feels)

I'm now back in Lisbon, and in the thick of an intensive course at the school, 5 hours a day, 4 days a week with the same 2 students, who need to start work on a building contract in Ireland in 3 weeks time and up until last Wednesday couldn't speak a word of English. May sound like a bit of a nightmare, but it's not so bad and I need the cash. My Summer holidays and adventures are already fading fast, so I'd better tell you all about 'em before I forget them, nice link eh (cue hazy soft focus effect and we're back in early August)....

Well my first stop was Zambujeira do Mar for the Sudoeste music festival, I was there for 5 days in total and despite getting there a day before the festival started still a nightmare finding somewhere to pitch the tent. As a first wave had swept into the area and 'reserved' large sections of the area, by wrapping tape, string and whatever around the trees, for their mates to turn up at the last minute with a guaranteed spot. Nice for them but there was hardly an area that hadn't been 'claimed' and if there was you couldn't get to it without garrotting yourself on various bits of washing line or fishing line. Particularly hazardous when drunk trying to find your tent in the dark, for the onlooker that is - who said the Portuguese don't have a sense of humour? Having pitched the tent, I decided to walk into Zambujeira. I was pretty sure I recognised the road next to the festival site as the main road to town, so confidently strode off into the sunset. Imagine my surprise (and disappointment) after an hours walking down the same road to see a sign to the town pointing back the way I'd just come. Although it may have been the sensible option, I wasn't too keen on retracing my steps with little but the odd tree and passing car for company, so decided I'd take a detour, head to what I guessed was the coastline then follow it round til I reached the town - why not it was a beautiful evening. 2 hours later and I was on a pitch black county lane listening to wildlife (I hoped) rustling in the bushes and thinking of similar scenes from horror films. Fortunately, the seemingly inevitable and excruciating chase scene - where I ran and tripped due to looking over my shoulder, still managing to get caught by a weapon wielding guy who never even broke into a jog - never materialised. But perhaps more surprisingly I did actually make it to Zambujeira almost unscathed. I say almost as I was starting to develop blisters after more than 3 hours of walking. If that didn't deserve a beer, I'm not sure I know what does. I saw a few familiar faces from our Easter trip and didn't head back til the early hours - at least it was straight up the main road this time. It was, about an hour and a half straight up the main road to be exact, I slept well that night. 

Far removed from the rain of your average Glastonbury style mud bath, the Festival enjoyed glorious weather in a perfect setting, with a free bus to the town (and beach) during the day - what better way to refresh yourself after the night before than a nap on the beach and splash or swim in the sea. It was an impressive line-up too, with Prodigy (rolling back the years, but still amazing live - just leave the new stuff out next time eh!), Zero7 with Jose Gonzales (who also did his own set earlier in the evening), Seu Jorge, Afrika Bambaataa ( a journey through the original funk and soul breaks to electro to hip hop - stopping off to see Mr Oizo on the way and a nod to ODB as we passed  - nice touch!), Breakestra, BossAC, Marcelo D2 (Brasilian Hip-Hop with Samba influences and the best human beatbox I've ever heard), Goldfrapp (Forget the 80's revival trash and just sing the beautifully sublime 'Lovelyhead' - ok don't then) and the the awesome Daft Punk who surpassed expectations playing from some mad pyramid/ ufo type structure on stage - don't believe me? See the photos. Plus a few acts I'd not heard before but really enjoyed, Brazilian Girls, Kooks, Brakes, Macaco, Dengue Fever and a DJ duo called Dezperados. Did I miss anyone? Well a few, like Skin and Madness but who's counting (or even still reading for that matter). Hats off to Tomas who finally arrived after midnight on the last day, although he did catch Xutos and Pontapes (a kinda Portuguese Dire Straits). After the final day I was more than ready for some relaxation, but the sweltering hot bus journey to the train station, 2 hour wait for the next train and finally on to Albufeira wasn't really what I had in mind, but a necessary evil if I wanted to get to Seville as planned.

Albufeira was as nasty as Seville was beautiful, even more of a shame as you could see how nice it must have been before the Beautiful Churches and character had been crowded out by English bars and tacky shops and restaurants. After less than 24 hours there, it was a relief to be on the 4 hour coach journey to Seville. I arrived late in the afternoon and was hardly off the bus before a local old lady had decided I looked like I needed somewhere to stay - she was right, so we discussed details in what I've recently discovered is called 'Portanhol'. I'd managed to establish the place was very central, 'Mucho Fraquito' and a mere €15 for the night. At this price I wasn't about to quibble, so agreed to go see it and off we went. I was expecting it to be a spare room in her apartment, but turns out I'd got a separate apartment, below hers with my own living room, bathroom and most importantly after 6 nights in a tent, a proper bed - I'm still not quite sure what 'fraquito' means, but I didn't really care.

Seville is beautiful and seems almost untouched by modernism, retaining such character with the huge Cathedral, Churches and Palaces and the baroque houses that look like miniature fortresses packed in to the narrow winding streets which fortunately provide some forgiving shade from the fierce heat - dubbed the 'Frying pan' by the Spanish. I ambled round a few of the streets before my stomach convinced me it was time for some Tapas, and at 1-2 euros each, perhaps it's not Spanish for 'rip off' after all - the real problem I had was choosing which to have from the epic list of options. I was just getting into the swing of it when I realised they were putting the stools up on the tables around midnight. I hadn't planned on such an early night, but did manage to find an Irish bar still serving and got chatting to a Turkish guy who said he was from Switzerland with such a good Irish accent, I'd assumed he was taking the piss - apparently not but he had me fooled.