When there is no surf you must drive a lengthy switchback guaranteed carsick trajectory to a terrible spot called ‘Chickens’. On that north side I forgot what side of the road and reverted to the British left.

I narrowly swerved to avoid an oncoming car, full of three big bruisers, who turned around and chased after me. I pulled over and one grabbed me out the car by the scruff of my neck, but instantly let go when I pleaded for mercy in English. A look of understanding came over his pugilistic face, then a smile. ‘Ah this ain’t so bad…’ I thought.

The sun was even poking cautiously out. I took out my board, waxed it in the sun. The board? Yeah, bit of a favourite, as it happens, the magic 6’2”, kind of the best board ever type deal. I brought it all the way back from Australia, where I’d had it custom built by one of that great surfing nation’s most prominent shapers. Then the sun went, wind came and I decided against paddling out. I took a quick slash, got back in the car and drove off, leaving my board on the wall. It was a few hours before I’d done the car sick drive back to Jardim do Mar, then back to Chickens. Do you reckon the 6’2” was still there?

The morning of my departure was heralded by a strange sound in the predawn. The roar of surf! A fresh, groomed west swell heaved down the points in glorious early morning sunshine. So glassy that sunlight sparkles danced on the majestic lifting swell lines as they refracted into one of the most scenic set ups in surfing. Did I wax my other board, my as yet unsurfed 6’8”? Alas, I had to leave for the airport just before mid tide, around the very time the tide got low enough to render the points surfable. I pulled over above town on that little lay-by where everyone takes the lineup shots and watched pretty much the first good set of the winter break.

Then I turned around, got back in my little car and drove off without looking in the rearview mirror.