Arriving in Lisbon just after sunrise, I stride out into the mosaic streets and take in my new scene with wild eyes. I have barely slept. My skin is thick with stale sweat and spilled whisky. After a night on the train, squashed, soporific, swigging, my soul stretches in the morning light. Feeling free, I forget my hangover and congratulate myself - it is a beautiful day, and I am now over 2,000 km away from Britain.
I drop in for breakfast at a five star hotel. Stirring sugar into my espresso, I check my progress against the backdrop of whirling foam. I cannot suppress a feeling of satisfaction.
I think back on the opening move of my escape act. It could have been much worse. I was pursued, my state of critical exile was harassed, but I avoided the major pitfalls on my path and enjoyed a quick flutter through the Netherlands. Still though, it was a good decision to go south quickly.
Three days of train travel - from Cologne to Paris, to Barcelona and Madrid, and then finally onto Lisbon - now separate me from the source of my woes. Britain in the meantime has been moving ever further in the other direction. On my way here, whilst stood in a bar in Barcelona, I catch sight of a newspaper headline in Spanish - David Davis, UK Brexit Secretary, has announced that the Brexit implementation process has been agreed upon. They have taken a ‘decisive step’, yet further, along the ‘bridge to the future’.
Theresa May, earlier in the month, has already issued her warning to the City, and to the British public: ‘I want to be straight with people - because the reality is that we all need to face up to some hard facts. We are leaving the single market. Life is going to be different.’
It breaks my heart. How has it come to pass that this thing, that no one even understands, should be inexorable?
Just over half of Britain wants to be free from Europe. Just over half of Scotland wants to be in union with England, but also to stay in Europe. Ireland wants to be free from Britain, although just over half of Northern Ireland would rather be part of the UK, but would also rather stay in Europe.
That so much of our time and energy should be spent resolving 50/50 contradictions in regional devolution seems tragic. To those misty-eyed punters that took up the banner for freedom, I must protest: such a victory, that golden moment when x is replaced by y in the legislative structure, will not change your individual position within the global power hierarchy. All of the disadvantages you face in life will still be there.
I also want to be free, and that is why the game of thrones is not for me. There is no space at the centre of the battle for sovereignty, but the content of my life at least is still under my own direction. After breakfast then I go out, and Lisbon is a treat for my senses.
It is delightful to plunge into the city. It sweeps upwards from the sea in a flourish of hills, as if the waves had lapped up on the land too greedily and so turned to rock. The froth at the sea’s limit has sunk into the pavement, leaving a speckled wash of black and white stone. The variation in height holds the visitor in surprise. Up, down and around, the narrow streets secrete the Portuguese spirit - it is sweet, warm and round, and slightly mysterious.
Later, sat in my hotel, waiting for my friend from home to arrive, I eat Minerva sardine pâté on a crusty white bun and knock back hearty red wine. My friend arrives, we go out to drink caipirinhas in a whitewashed square and bemoan the state of Britain. His complaint is that with the progress of Brexit it emerges that its benefits, as envisaged by our politicians, are simply unachievable. To leave the EU, surprisingly, only means forming a new deal with our neighbours that is not as good. We move onto port. Soon we are sloshed and start talking to three women from Holland on their annual jolly. When Brexit is discussed, they look at us like lost children. They don't know why or how it happened, they don't know what it means, and no, they can't help us find our parents again.
My friend has done some research and wants to visit a ‘leather bear’ bar. He knocks on an unmarked door and we are ushered into a cavernous club bedecked with teddy bears in miniature leather jackets. The audio system blasts out euphoric techno, to which, at the bar, several burly blokes twitch and grind. We are not wearing leather, but they are. The Dutch girls piss themselves laughing. We usher ourselves back out. We find a cocktail bar - it is more cool - exoticism mixed with faded grandeur. We sit and chat it out. Love. Life. Loss. Brandy Alexanders. Gin and Tonic. Whisky.
I spend my next two days recovering from my hangover. I climb around the city doing my thing, which, to be honest, is not much - eating and drinking, writing, yoga, watching, waiting…
From Lisbon I move to Santiago de Cacém. It is another aimless jump from the city into the countryside that goes rather well. It is a simple town built around a castle and church on a hill, much of which is left more or less open to living, and as it is, it makes for one of the loveliest little communities I have been to. Beneath the hill, running along the valley to the south, orange groves and allotment plots nestle in the spaces between the ruined walls of some old estate, which then lead on into pine forests and cork tree groves. I take an unoccupied turret on the edge of the castle’s fortifications and push forwards with writing my novel. It is a satire of the modern day fight for power, and here, in splendid isolation, I assert my own freedom.
I delve deeper into the countryside at Rio de Moinhos. A week here costs me less than a day in London’s gutters. It is true, to a degree, I do miss some of the comforts of urban living but overall, because outside is paradisal, I am inclined to consider such things trivial, if not necessary as the accompanying conditions of rural peace.
My landlord and lady, a Lithuanian and a Peruvian, keep seven guinea pigs. They had bought two for the Peruvian to spit roast and eat but, on hearing their cute chirrup, could not bring themselves to carry out the execution. Now they nurse their colds with salt and hot beer. I decide to leave them to it and head out into the countryside. I wander along the course of a meandering river that drifts beyonds its banks and floods the fields with blue. Cranes in flying saucer nests survey the rippling surface, occasionally swooping down to fish for their families. Storks are restored to their rightful place, watching over the water’s edge for a fair catch, not carrying off babies. I escape under a fence, it will not happen again, and wander away, up into the hills and the endless depth of cork trees. I find a nice tree to shade myself under and sit down to write. A stone martin creeps out of the bushes to check on me. Lying in such an uncontested patch of forest, it is impossible not to recognise the absence of industry, impossible not to be soothed by the bit of space I have found. Quiet, soft, clean, I soon fall asleep in the sandy soil.
I awake in the early evening, still alone amongst the corks, with tree shadow now stretching far into the forest dusk and the light only glitter between the shimmer of the leaves. I decide to find the perfect tree for climbing, and choose one on the slopes back down that leans out into the air, its side stepped with knobbles of branch and bark. Sitting up it, feeling young and triumphant, I relax in the vantage of the treetops. I renew my vows. One day I will advance the forest kingdom.
I spend my evening drinking with my hosts. They are proud of their ecological lifestyles, simple and sustainable as they are. They don't go out into the countryside very often but they take good care of the garden. They pick their own olives and oranges from the village trees. They make their own furniture from tree stumps and sections of log. Their house, handmade, is beautiful, and feels quite at home with the countryside that furnishes it. Sitting on the step, smoking and drinking, fireflies light up portions of the night, dancing together in a communal glow. Bats dart through the darkness, flitting past the heads of homebound farmers, returning from a beer with the old boys that keep sentry at the local bar.
My days I spend exploring the cork groves, stopping to write wherever nature provides a rare spot, a bower with a particular carpet of flowers, a tree with a nice straight back to lean against. After a while sitting in silence, searching for something with my pen, the wildlife of the forest begins to overlook my presence and makes its way out into the world. I am content with the company of bird and bee, but soon I hear a rustle in the undergrowth. Holding David Attenborough in my mind, I go to investigate, edging towards the shaking shrubs with trepidation. A wild boar rises from its shelter of twig and leaf. It stares at me and then charges off into the distance. My heart beats with excitement, and gratitude that it did not run at me. I note, the most grizzly of beasts are often just as scared as you are.
One day I wander out too far, a good 30 km, and can go no further after arriving at Torrrão. I am the only tourist here. I celebrate with a feast. Bring me the best your town can offer. Plate after plate, bottle after bottle, dining, lunching, drinking. Why shouldn’t it last forever? I could buy a house right here right now with what little money I have… Really it is only the temptations of India and China that stop me from staying forever.
I resolve to push forwards once more and head south to the Algarve, first to Tavira. I make my way through the town, not long before the fall of midnight, looking for a hotel. I find a large facility for British tourists. In the morning I hold back my smile as I stand in the midst of disgruntled holiday makers jostling for their place before the breakfast buffet. Plates are charged with baked beans and scrambled eggs. Bacon rashers are dealt out, bottles of HP sauce are shaken and cups of tea are stirred. Breakfast finished, morning communion takes place around the pool. Faces turn up to the sky, desperate to absorb some warmth and shake off the winter before the afternoon round of golf.
Tavira is anyway another lovely town, and is only slightly tarnished by the low-cost flight building boom. Stopping for coffee, I am surprised by a French journalist that presents me with a cartoon of myself, drawn just the moment before. I smile as she walks away, and am touched, but I cannot interpret what it means. Is it possible that my complaint has been heard? Is there hope that Theresa May will see the madness for what it really is, before it is too late?
Finally, I move to Monte Gordo, a small town with a beautiful beach, which I anyway remember well, for reading poetry on a rooftop, and for deciding to write this series of articles. I am now only a few miles from Spain.