It’s been a roller-coaster of a time. I arrived in Portugal yesterday. I hope you are sitting comfortably, as this is going to be a bit of an epic.
The last month has rivalled the intensity, challenge and madness of the visa application process, which I wrote about previously. The first priority was to sell the 'mothership' and Merc. An intensive campaign followed, which generated very little interest. I explored all routes to find a buyer, including (reluctantly) setting up a FB account, so that I could target niche groups for my specialist rig. Having spent days researching groups and posting ads, I was banned from the platform a total of three times - for posting caravan ads! It beggars belief.
I am probably on a list of ‘suspicious’ people who don’t use social media (like having a bad credit rating because you don’t use credit cards), as I was also banned from Telegram twice, after reluctantly opening an account there, to network with Portuguese groups. I managed to get back on the latter, but gave up on the former (which was utterly dysfunctional for my purposes, in any event) and a massive waste of time and effort. I suspect the poor response marked an end to the caravan buying frenzy of the last few years, now that holidaying abroad is on the cards again. Then, out of the blue, the mothership and Merc truck were sold in a matter of days, and things escalated to fever pitch.
Once a sale was agreed, a frenzy of activity took place to pack my worldly possessions into 20 large plastic boxes, and spring clean both vehicles inside and out, which involved hanging off on the top of a tall ladder in a gale to wash the mothership - not my idea of fun. I took a leap of faith that the deal would conclude, as I needed to find short term accommodation, in order to move out. It felt like an episode from ‘Challenge Anika’ (a very old British TV show). I used the tried and tested method of getting on my bike to scout the local area, knock on doors and accost a few unsuspecting dog walkers. I struck gold on the top of a Welsh hill in the Brecon Beacons. The road stopped there, literally, and the farm opened onto the moor behind, inhabited by a herd of cheeky, hairy Welsh ponies.
Having summited the hill from hell (I must have looked like an apparition in my cycling gear which was mostly ex-equestrian wear), the farmer’s wife was dragged from lambing duties, wearing mud plastered overalls, to show me the cottage. She couldn’t have been kinder and was happy for me to move in immediately with all my boxes, and re-arrange the layout to suit. Heartfelt gratitude to Hazel and the furry residents who befriended me - Taffy the sheepdog who sat outside the window while I worked away on the computer, Poppy the perfect terrier who was a spitting image of my beloved Benjamin, and two regal felines, one of whom was a dead ringer for my cat Bryngwyn. Incredible! Four legged company brought back memories of my dearly loved and lost animal family.
Back at the campsite, I packed 5 boxes at a time (the maximum I could fit into the truck) and took four loads to the farm, vacating the mothership the night before the new owner arrived for a handover. Had he let me down, I would have been up Shit Creek. But he was true to his word. An intensive day of instructions, explanations and demo’s followed, punctuated by a visit to the local town, so he could visit his bank and I could pick up a rental car. It was a great relief to be unencumbered, and free in a different way this time.
On the sheep farm, surrounded by the sounds of bleating lambs, I engineered my exit. I had been considering buying a left hand drive, medium size van to take my boxes to Portugal, either by road via France and Spain, or by ferry from Plymouth to Santander, then driving through Spain to Portugal. Having looked inside several vans at the campsite though, I realised I wouldn’t get everything in, and anything bigger would not be suitable for tiny Portuguese lanes. Even a medium size van would struggle. Also, not owning a vehicle for more than 6 months would mean I would have to pay import tax in Portugal, and tackle yet more paperwork. Import duties would not apply, however, if I bought a vehicle in the EU.
Nothing about moving to Portugal has been simple. Bureaucracy on steroids would be an understatement every step of the way, and the final phase was no exception. Whilst contemplating the prospect of a two day trip to France or Ireland to buy new wheels, I stumbled across a firm in the UK that sold left hand drive EU registered vehicles. They had one Portuguese car in stock and it was suitable. It must have had my name on it. This meant I would be able to take my most treasured possessions with me in the car and get a transport company to carry the rest. What synchronicity! One of the affirmations I recite to myself every morning is ‘gratitude for the gifts that are coming that I do not know about’. This was an example. Another affirmation I use regularly, is ‘dear spirit, tell me what I need to know, show me what I need to see, bring me what I need and want, or better’. It doesn’t mean things will be easy, but I know without a shadow of a doubt, that everything is possible…….
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NB. I post short ‘Notes’ on my life and times in between blogs, which can be found in the top navigation of my Substack. More content can be found on my website, including wonderful pictures of my travels, also information on my book, ‘The Ultimate Relationship… the one with yourself’. If you like my work, please help me to spread the word. I don't use social media and rely on word of mouth. Thank you.
Hi Fiona. I’ve just read your blog, sweet baby Jesus, You must be knackered ! 😴
Ive just sent you a small donation for a couple of beers to celebrate the start of your new life and adventures. Onwards and upwards! Take care of yourself, Andy 😊😊