I FOUND myself in a conversation the other day which raised my blood pressure slightly, I have to tell you, and I’m normally quite placid.
I was chatting about changing my British driving licence for a Portuguese one. I couldn’t have a new British one, as, of course, I don’t live there anymore.
So I had gone into the little office in our nearby town and begun the process. It seemed to take forever.
It actually took just over a year. Whilst I was waiting, I was giving a piece of paper, which acted as a sort of temporary licence. It seemed to work, as I even rented cars with it back in Blighty.
But anyway, the conversation drifted, as they sometimes do, into a different, but related, area of interest: Portuguese drivers.
It is a mystery, I confess.
The Portuguese are genuinely laid back and relaxed people as a rule. However, place almost any of them behind the wheel of almost anything, from tractor to articulated truck, and they seem to suffer a personality transplant. It’s Jekyll and Hyde, I tell you.
I had been plodding along our local main road, the Estrada nacional 17 (EN17) which is desperately in need of a resurfacing makeover and consists of just two lanes; one going towards Spain, the other towards Portugal.
I noticed a car looming up behind me in the mirror. It began as a speck in the distance and rapidly grew in size until it sat, threateningly, inches from the rear of my vehicle.
As we approached a bend, where the speed sign indicated a reduction (from 90 to 50kmph) and the road marking suggested that overtaking was banned, the car behind me lurched to the left and began to overtake.
The driver was, perhaps, about my age, and I knew him; at least, I recognised him. He has a little shop which sells insurance (I know, the irony hadn’t escaped me either!) and he is a lovely chap; calm, gentle, smiling and relaxed.
But not here. Not now.
He sat in a slightly hunched pose, hands gripping the steering wheel, leaning forward a little, as if to encourage greater things from the wheezing, rattling little hatchback it drew alongside.
He was very focused; eyes slightly bulging, sweat beading his brow and lips compressed into a thin line.
It was Mr Hyde, I assure you. As we rounded the bend, of course, a lorry was barrelling down the road towards us.
He had two choices; fall back or ‘go for it’. Of course, he went for it, didn’t he? I watched this mild-mannered bloke force a vital squirt of power from the ageing engine and he lurched across the bonnet of my car at the very last moment, simply because I had braked savagely to avoid the lorry impacting with him head-on. There was a great blaring of horn from the lorry, fading, Doppler-like, as it passed by and the little car rattled on, apparently oblivious.
I continued, quite shaken, I don’t mind admitting, and stopped at the next roadside cafe for a restorative coffee.
I drifted inside and, that’s right, there he was.
Flat cap still in place, sipping a coffee. He waved at me and wished me a ‘boa tarde’. I nodded and accepted the offer of a coffee from a friendly Dr Jekyll.