I have a slightly puritanical relationship with alcohol. In my youth in Somerset, wine was a rare commodity, and the local beverage was rough cider. By rough - I mean that it was home made, and so potent that half a pint would see you knocked out for hours. It was also a man’s drink. Ladies were not expected to partake of the brew. Their tipple was either a dry sherry or half a pint of Guinness stout.

Thrown into the social code of what and where you drank was also religion. My mother and her family were Methodists, and alcohol was seen as the work of the devil. Fortunately I can get happy on water, so needing alcohol for Dutch courage or to calm my nerves has never been an issue. In fact a small amount of gin or a glass too many of red wine, sees me take to tables and sing and dance like my gipsy ancestors. So I’m careful what I wash down. Here in Portugal, I’ve grown fond of some smooth vino tinto from the Douro. Once my Portuguese improves and I can sing some sea shanty’s par excellence, I’ll up the number of glasses I consume in company!

My paternal grandparents ran the village inn, and it was here in this cosy corner of bonhomie, that I learnt about celebration and how a warm glass of liquor by a cheering fire and a piano, can take community and connection to a whole different level. The Rusty Axe was the village hub. The place to gather. To play cards or skittles and to laugh at my grandfathers jokes and risqué songs. As a child it was where I learnt about social cohesion, and what unites people.

So today, I’m raising a glass to my ancestors. Those rooted, humble, generous and creative folk who gave me such wonderful traits and characteristics, that I’ve been able to travel far and wide and still feel at home within myself. That’s what they call the Romany gene.

Cheers!!

🥂🍻🍺🥃🍷🍸🍹

Julia - a slightly tipsy pilgrim in Portugal.