Lisbon 2014 Pt. 1
It started well. Jabba the First Minister and the Nippy Sweety Lady had been put back in their box (if only temporarily) so at least we'd be using the return portion of the flight ticket. Well, five of us would. Mr Scott had decided that he would push on after the Tour, to the wilds of continental Africa, never one to give up a five star junket key speaking opportunity, and to avoid the cumbersome porterage fee's, had decided to hire clubs at our destination. Mr Stanger also partook of this option, not to save on excess baggage charges but by way of habit, having discovered that an obscenely expensive, small overnight bag was all he could normally fit into an Italian thoroughbred mid-life crisis (there's a euphemism somewhere in there, I'm sure)
Charged up with a brace of excessively priced, in-flight beverages, we flew through the early morning clouds and were, in no time at all it seemed, decanted into the golfing mecca that is Estoril. Some more reasoably priced beers later and it was off to the driving range, for most to ease off those cramped muscles and hone their tried and tested swings. For Mr Ham, to polish up on the Z-position driving address (he never did full explain what it was, mumbling something about an article in Marketing Weekly). For Mr Graham, to find anything that resembled a swing - hiting the ball would have been a bonus.
With the benefit of hindsight, Mr Graham should, at this point, have retired gracelessly to the clubhouse, thus avoiding the confusingly painful next four hours, but optimism prevailed - until the seventh hole. I'm informed by my colleagues that the round continued to be 'quite tough' and that the course 'opened up' and 'flattened out', though I was less convinced by the sweating brows, hunched shoulders and stories of being hauled up a mountain from the 16th green to the 17th tee by a passing farmers tractor and trailer. I think there were more beers, but I'm not sure
A quick pit-stop at the hotel to freshen up was all that was required before a charge to our (pre-booked, to avoid endlessly traipsing about looking for what might, or might not be, a good restaurant, only to end up back at the one we started at, which in the intervening period has become fully booked, Mr Bell) first destination - a most excellent steak house by the name of Restaurante la Brasserie De L’Entrecoted which serves mostly thinly sliced, barely dead cow, in a fantastic sauce of something or other, comprising lots of secret stuff (though I'm sure it's vaguely Bearnaise-ish) accompanied by a fullsome red who's name eludes me, but I remember Mr Scott taking a picture of the beverage in question (and more beer), followed by a confusing taxi ride which felt strangely downhill and to the right, though Dickson The Navigator insisted it was mostly up, and to the left. Which it must have been, as we eventually arrived in Bairro Alto
