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that was the local emblem. We both agreed that painted black with scarlet plumage and vividly painted hearts and flowers all over it, it was the epitome of bad taste but unbelievably splendid. I knew that it was going to grace my dressing-table for years to come, mystifying my friends and relations. Let them wonder. I didn’t care. Whenever I saw it I would remember Jonathan, for that reason alone it was priceless.
    In the next few days, fortified by innumerable bags of sugared almonds, lots of cream filled pastries and the delicious local wine, we visited Braga, peeping into the dark and forbidding cathedral and quickly out again, the National Park, an area of mountains and lakes, vying with rushing rivers and vast forests of pine. The guidebook said that the area abounded in deer, wolves, martens, badgers and wild boar. I could well believe it. The upper flanks of the mountains were so vast and desolate that it wouldn’t have surprised me to find even bears. We did see some wolves. But they were safely behind a high barrier of wire netting in a large tree filled compound. They looked just as mean and nasty as I expected them to. In a far flung pousada, we ate tiny pieces of unnamed fish deliciously fried in batter and served with rice and fresh lettuce, squeezing great wedges of lemon over the whole. The bread was butterless but still warm from the oven, the wine unnamed and cheaper than mineral water. It also had a pretty devastating effect and we spent the rest of the afternoon laying on a river bank, bare feet dangling into icy water, alternately talking and laughing and kissing. Another day we set out for Chaves. A small town scores of miles from even the nearest village, by the time we reached it, passing through country that changed dramatically from mountainous to endless stretches of peat and heather reminiscent of Scotland, it was already tea-time. Exhausted, and dreading the thought of the night drive back on a road fit only for four legged animals, we hastily found a cafe and revived ourselves with coffee. Not the coffee of the hotel but strong, dark liquid that came in thimble size cups. Then came the moment that made the whole long journey worthwhile. As we began to see what Chaves had to offer, and on first sight it seemed to have very little, we looked into the first of a street of shops. The whole window was taken up with only one article. A huge dinner service priced at a thousand escudos and depicting scenes of Stratford-On-Avon, Ann Hathaway’s Cottage and the Globe Theatre, the names all written in English! It was too much.
    â€˜You mean I’ve fought my way all those miles into this barren hinterland, ruining my car, and all for the sake of the chance to buy a Willie Shakespeare dinner set I would get any day in Woolwich market!’ Jonathan said indignantly.
    Oblivious of the curious stares of the local inhabitants, we laughed our way up the dusty street, looking in vain for any sight that might justify our journey. There wasn’t one, so we returned to the Lamborgini, Jonathan gritting his teeth manfully as his precious car bounced once more onto the pot-holed road. I slept most of the way back. A deep, dreamless sleep, that left me feeling I had regained the mental peace which I had been seeking so long.
    The days slipped by. Friday, the day Jonathan was leaving to visit his friend in Vigo rapidly approached and still nothing was said between us of the future. The Thursday night as I brushed my hair and sprayed on my perfume, my heart felt tight within my chest. Although the moment at Valenca had never been repeated, it had happened. I had seen the expression in his eyes. I knew it was more than a holiday romance. What could Jonathan’s wife possibly have done that had left such an obviously strong and self sufficient man too frightened to love again. I paused as I put in a pearl earring. Perhaps the answer was that he still loved her. It was a chilling thought.
    For me,