All partied out

The New Year arrived amidst fireworks and singing and the honking of horns. An hour later it arrived again, on the other side of the river. All Christmassed out, my family slept through it all and I lay in bed listening to the fireworks, too cosy and snug to want to get out of bed to take a look from our perfect viewing position in the middle of the river.

Call me a party pooper (it wouldn’t be the first time), but by December 31st I was so overdosed on seasonal cheer that I’d had enough and couldn’t rouse myself for one final bash. Peace and good will? Peace and quiet were what I craved.

We’d had six nights of social engagements in a row before Christmas well and truly got underway. A Christmas dinner for all the children, parents and teachers at the school one night, a carol service in Sanlúcar the next night, a carol service in Alcoutim the night after that. Next came the night of the girls’ Christmas recitals, followed by a gathering in the pub of all the ex-pat live-aboards, and then an invitation for mulled wine and mince pies at someone’s house.

My days were chocolate-filled, as I made batches of tiffin and rum truffles for these events. And what was I to do but lick my fingers (and the bowl) as each batch went in the fridge to chill.

The carol services were almost the undoing of me, as carol services always are. Only the sight of Christmas reunions of long lost family at international airports has a greater effect of turning me into a blubbering emotional wreck. In Sanlúcar the ex-pat, mostly British, choir set a sombre tone with their four-part harmony renditions of many well-known Christmas hymns. They were followed by the local Sanlúcar choir raising the roof, and raising the audience to its feet, with their flamenco-sounding carols, Jose-Manuel from the bar playing flamenco guitar, the mum of one of Katie’s classmates playing tambourine and Remi, who owns the local shop, making wonderful music with a glass bottle and kitchen fork! Afterwards we all retired to the parish hall to partake of a table sagging under the weight of cakes, Spanish hot chocolate, wines and liqueurs.

The next night the Spanish and British ex-pat choirs were in action again, joined by the local Alcoutim church choir, in the de-consecrated church at the top of the hill in Alcoutim. When all three choirs had completed their sets we all sang Silent Night – a verse each in Spanish, Portuguese, Dutch, German, French and English, and a final verse where everyone sang together, each in their own language. A verse in Irish probably would have been the undoing of me, but I held it together and the deep fellow-feeling carried me away to the once again heavily laden food table and the ample bottles of – what else in Portugal? – port.

Lily and Katie shone the next night as, respectively, a shepherdess and a reindeer, in their Christmas recitals. No one else’s children were cuter, more beautiful, or performed so well. Ok, so maybe they were and maybe they did, but I couldn’t take my eyes off my girls for long enough to see what any of the other kids in their classes were doing. I’m sure every other camera-wielding parent and grinning grandparent thought the same of their children.

The next evening we joined in the festivities at the Riverside, the favourite haunt of the live-aboards on the river. A Christmas party had been in full swing since 2pm, but we didn’t join it until later on. A motley gang of musicians meet here every Tuesday night to play music and they were all here on this evening with their harmonicas, violins, banjos, guitars, flutes and voices. Julian brought his recorder along and it didn’t take much persuasion for him to join in. After weeks (or a lifetime) of trying to pluck up the courage to sing in public, I finally did. And no, I wasn’t drunk. We had only arrived and I was quarter way through a bottle of weak beer. Carried away on a wave of feeling good, when someone thrust a songbook under my nose and said ‘Does anyone know how to sing this?’ I immediately replied ‘I do’, and off I went to the end of the room where the musicians had set themselves up. ‘What key will you sing it in?’ I was asked. ‘I have no idea what that means’, I replied. I tried to match their music. Too high. Lower. Lower. Lower. Too low. Ok, just right. Afterwards the musicians laughed and said that was in no key they’d ever heard before. Oops. But I sang with gusto, if perhaps not too well, ‘Dirty Old Town’ and ‘The Fields of Athenry’, duetting with Scottish Tom. I could feel the hot redness of a blush travel from my neck up my face, and I wasn’t sure what to do with my hands. Put me in front of a lecture theatre of 300 students and I’ll confidently rattle on without notes for an hour. But put me in front of 30 people I know in a bar to sing and I’m a nervous wreck. No-one booed. But then no-one asked me to sing any more either!

The next evening it was mulled wine and mince pies at the home of a couple I have only recently met. I had an interesting conversation with a British-Dutch academic-turned-novelist who was visiting the hosts for Christmas, and I pretended I was cool about the unlikely (but absolutely true) presence of another Christmas visitor (the son-in-law of the novelist) who spent part of the evening in the corner (the only place he could simultaneously pick up Wifi and power his laptop) in conversation with British astronaut Tim Peake on the International Space Station. It was as surreal as the time I was at a party in Iqaluit, Nunavut and the host received a phone call from Kevin Spacey!

Six days of social engagements. So much good cheer, good food and being a social butterfly. I thought maybe I’d peaked too soon. Maybe I’d already overdosed on all that good cheer and chocolate before the main event. Julian was in our hired car early the next morning to drive to Faro airport to collect my mother and sister from the airport, while the girls and I transferred our stuff up the hill to the apartment the girls, their granny and aunt were staying in for the next four days (Julian and I slept aboard Carina).

How lovely to see my family. We went for long walks in the sunshine, went for a glass of wine BEFORE Mass on Christmas morning (and again after), ate turkey and Christmas pudding, and when Christmas evening arrived we couldn’t drag ourselves away from the comfort of the apartment to join in the beach barbecue we’d been invited to. So the six of us cuddled up under blankets and watched Terms of Endearment and The Evening Star back-to-back amidst groans and giggles and smart-alek comments about how awfully overwrought and badly acted they were. Maybe it was the wine and the overconsumption of cheese and chocolates, but I don’t remember Terms of Endearment being this bad before.

Two days after Christmas Lily and Katie had the birthday party of one of their school friends to attend, so the festivities continued, as I stood around with the other parents, drinking, eating and feeling the force of gravity much more strongly than I did ten days earlier.

My family departed after four too-short days and we stayed berthed on the Alcoutim pontoon for one more day. But we were all ready for some peace and quiet, some calming down, some return to normal life on the other side of the festivities. We anchored a little downriver from the villages and on New Year’s Eve we went for a quiet walk and picnic south along the Spanish side of the river. We were all in bed by 10.30 (Spanish time), Christmassed-out, partied out, having had one of the most sociable, fun and action-packed Christmasses we’ve had in many a year.

Wishing you all a happy and prosperous New Year xx

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