Day Four. The end of the road. 

Squeezed out from between two articulated lorries and hit the road by seven thirty.  Beautiful weather, beautiful scenery. 

The idea is that we drive to a village just south of Òbidos, called Olho Marinho, and when we get there we phone a chap called Pierre, who we've never met but is friends with a woman called Steph, who we've also never met. Pierre's father has a farm and on his farm he has some... PIGS eee iy eee iy ohh haha, sorry. On his farm he has some cottages, two to be precise, both of which are empty and would be suitable for animals and have somewhere to park a caravan. We've kind of arranged, through texting Steph, to arrive at about mid-day.

Turns out we've done better than expected and we find ourselves driving into the sleepy little village at about 10am. We pull over and I'm just dialling Pierre's number when a car pulls up along side us and toots. 

'I see ze Ingeesh caravan I seenk maybe thees ees ze one. Follow me,' he says. 

The cottage is perfect for what we need until we buy our own place - two bedrooms, fully enclosed and gated little garden, private yard for the caravan and little patio facing the setting sun. 

Pierre's mother was there when we arrived, cleaning. She can't speak English but she loves dogs, and fell in love with little Gwilym, our playful Jack Russell.

I'm trying to learn Portuguese, but the pronunciation is difficult. 

'Se chama 'Gwilym'' I said. 

'Ah... Bulla' she said, patting Gwilym on the head. 

'Gwilym'

'Bulla'

'GWI-LYM'

'BULL-AHH'

'Gwii-lumm' I over-articulated. 

'Boooo-laaahhh' she over-articulated back.

She walked off laughing, Bulla skipping about at her heals. I guess Welsh pronunciation is tricky too. 

Walked the dogs on the beach at Gronho, on the south side of the lagoon - so lovely to see them charging about, having been cooped up for 3 days - before stocking up on essentials (wine and beer). 

Had a minor heart attack when we got back to discover Titty and Fat Babs were missing - eventually discovered them sleeping in a drawer that they'd managed to climb into through the back. 

Sat on our little patio listening to Gwilym setting off the village doggy telegraph and got tipsy on Vinho Verde. 

Well, pissed actually. But we felt like we deserved it.