Oh take me back to Turimetta
To the sanctuary of sea and stone.
Let’s play together at Turimetta,
Unlock those secrets yet unknown.
Take me back to Turimetta
To marvel at the moon and stars.
Let’s return again to Turimetta
For a hot stone massage.
I miss our time at Turimetta
In sunshine, rain or stormy weather.
When troubles fade away
And the song of life fills our day.
As we play.
So take me back to Turimetta
To gaze at the rocks of ambiguity.
Let’s go together to Turimetta,
We’ll drift on down the magic river out to sea.
We forget the future at Turimetta,
Where imagination roams free.
The moment is ours to keep forever,
Remember that day at Turimetta?
Oh take me back to Turimetta
To that sanctuary of sea and stone.
Let’s bathe together at Turimetta
And feel the pure love between us show.
As we grow.
Up until recently, one of the best kept secrets in the Algarve was the labyrinthine network of cross country dirt trails, navigable only by expert local insiders, hardcore off roaders, and experienced hikers in search of that exclusive scenic hideaway, far far away from the well trodden tourist path.
Although relatively new on the Algarve adventure scene, Bulldog Buggies are quickly rising through the ranks of what are considered to be the most unique attractions in the entire south end of Portugal, granting access to anyone looking for an altogether different type of tour experience.
Can you imagine winding perilously up and down steep hill slopes and valley contours layered with a blanket of thick dust and loose scree, traversing rough terrain partially sculpted out of rocky (and wet) riverbeds, on foot, in the searing heat of the sun, with perhaps (if you are lucky) a vague idea of where you might be going?
Under the twisted, knot-riddled arms of this hundred year old cypress, two young lovers used to convene everyday for lunch, a habitual pastime that lasted about ten years. During this glorious decade they became as much a part of life in the park as the great tree itself. They were in tune with the rhythm of that small, square oasis of green, and when they sat together on the shiny wood panelled bench, enjoying cool relief in the shade from the dazzling sub-tropical sun, it was as if the encroaching noise and hubbub from the undulating streets of Lisbon evaporated. Príncipe Real became their personal garden of Eden where everything was just as it should be.
While Maria knitted blankets and weaved garments for long, hot hours in the co-op at the bottom of the hill, José worked as a pastry chef at a small café on the corner by the park, and each morning he would prepare something new and enticing for their lunch date. José was a gifted baker to say the least, but the food he prepared for Maria was created with an unparalleled level of passion that brought his talent to new heights.
A new masterpiece was conceived at the dawn of each new day – such as folded petals of pastry formed into a natural looking rose as delicate as Maria’s elegant hands, or a saucy filling of candied berries that oozed with gloss once the crisp shell was broken – so many marvels, never to be repeated, a unique art inspired wholly by and dedicated to his one true love and muse, Maria.
On the other hand, Maria thought of her work as a bore, a neverending repetition of the same stitches, the same patterns and the same styles, year in, year out, effortlessly dictated by tradition, something the old donas at the co-op just couldn’t seem to see beyond. She envied the free expression that José could enjoy from his work.
“But Maria”, he would remind, “I still have to bake ten dozen of each and every pastry in the shop, piles and piles of croissants and custard tarts, before I can even practice making something new, which I can only do for you”.
Maria wouldn’t feed his foolishness though, for she too loved him with every fibre of her being, even if he were to become deaf and mute and couldn’t manage to break an egg let alone concoct some intricate work of culinary art. She loved his person, not his performance. “You shouldn’t do it just for me José, you must bake for yourself, simply because it’s your passion”.
In José’s mind though, Maria was the singular catalyst of his artistic expression and as his love for her grew and grew, so did the ferocity with which he applied himself to his baking, expecting more and more from himself until his customers became quite astounded at his unrivalled workmanship, doubtful that one man could produce so much in just a few short hours.
But José had a magic secret that nobody knew, a special talent he had discovered only when he first fell in love with Maria. In a small kitchen at the back of the pastelaria where he worked, he suddenly found that he was able to slow down time, simply by wishing it so, and once he had finished his work in time for the café to open, he could easily whip up a compact triage of sponge cakes, arranged in three tiers and topped with a different flavoured cream and an assortment of exotic fruit, in a matter of mere seconds.
It wasn’t until Maria and José’s ten year anniversary, when they were to meet, as they usually did, under that old cypress at Príncipe Real Garden that time actually ceased to exist for José, but on this occasion without the effect of his mysterious mental influence.
There once was a town high up in the mountains and in it lived a thousand people. The people were decent, hard-working folk who lived entirely by the clock, ever watchful and mindful of what they should be doing at certain hours of the day in accordance with the town’s strict customs. One of these prescribed that children, teenagers and even young adults were to be seen and heard at all times. This was to safeguard against them venturing up the treacherous peaks surrounding Lost Canyon, which was strictly prohibited because everyone who had done so vanished when they reached the other side, never to be seen or heard from again.
Lost Canyon terrified the locals. Mothers, fathers and grandparents in particular were constantly filled with dread, and each had their own negative expectations and wild imaginings of what terrors might await their children, who were very curious to know the truth about it all.
Lanzarote can easily be described as a desert island. With palm trees sparsely dotted along its shores and a vast expanse of barren volcanic terrain stretching inland, there is no mode of transportation more fitting to this setting than to hitch a ride on a camel (or to be exact, a dromedary, which is very similar but has only one hump).
His mind was in the zone. He felt ready to go with the gentle ebb and flow, so he played with the tide much like a child, if only to experience that sweet joy of feeling at home alone…