I have a family kitchen away from home, at the local - typical Portuguese restaurant across the street. It’s run by locals for locals, with a daily 8 euro menu. Not only is the food scrumptious and service excellent, but the bonhomie of the place is like the best type of family gathering every day.

I know it well, and more importantly they know me. From Tiago who is front of house, to his parents and wife who are in the kitchen. In the school holidays, the kids help out too. Alfredo the five year old is one cute kid.

So with the road menders and electricians, interspersed with the music shop salesman and a sixth form tutor of literature, I share human stories of what we did at the weekend, the politics of corruption and which bands or football teams are playing locally.

Most people have their set chair at a set table. More from habit than rules. When I first frequented the joint, when my spoken Portuguese was NADA, I sat wherever there was a free space. As time passed and they got to consider me a regular, I now always sit at the table bottom left - by the stairs to the bathroom in what I call cosy corner. Each table seats four people, and it really is intimate.

My companion at that table is Senor Antonio. A retired policeman, who once walked the beat in my neighbourhood. He’s in his eighties and still looks upright and serious, with nut brown eyes and a thin moustache. His countenance is more French, but his verbal delivery very much Portuguese. As time has passed, and my ability to communicate in Portuguese has improved - I can understand a few smutty jokes now - myself and Senor Antonio have become very easy in one another’s company. We look happy to see one another, and the exchange of sharing food together brightens up our days.

I recently learnt that Senor Antonio is widowed and lives alone, so his daily trip to the restaurant will be an important activity to keep social connection and dispel loneliness. When I see him now - as I observe his aging and the latent vulnerability - I give him a hug and a kiss on the head. As a mother would do to a child. Such small gestures keep our hearts warm and open. Abundance is never a bag of gold, it’s the giving and receiving of joy between human beings. We will all one day be Senor Antonio.

Julia - a neighbourhood pilgrim in Portugal.