A quick deviation of sorts ...
My father was not a high ranking British officer, but his work in World War Two’s latter stages had some importance. This meant he travelled between Washington, Lisbon and London, not by convoy, but by the most luxurious airplane of its time.
This was the British version of the PanAm Clipper mentioned in my previous post, a plane with individual berths, small dining area and lounge. As tens of thousands of servicemen crammed into troopships for a weary Atlantic crossing of a fortnight or more, a fortunate few took three to four days to make the journey. So few that the ‘Short Snorter’ became a tradition.
This is a ‘Short Snorter’ from one of my father’s trips, a bank note signed by all the plane’s privileged passengers.
In Washington, Dad ...
... and Mum - then engaged - would prepare. British rationing limited eggs to one a week, so American eggs would be welcome at father’s family home in London.
His account reads: ' … as an experiment, a dozen eggs which Patsie (my mother) had most carefully wrapped in cotton wool, etc., and finally sealed with scotch tape into waxed paper'.
The eggs and Dad would drive to Baltimore, board a BOAC flying boat, then fly via Bermuda to Lisbon. We shall see what happened to the eggs in a future post. For now, to my second stop in the Azores, São Miguel, which Dad spotted soon after waking in his comfy BOAC berth:
‘As I stood there shaving, the steward put his head in and said the plane was approaching the Azores, and that we should soon be passing over the island of San Miguel (sic) … I stood at the window lathering my face and thus I caught my first glimpse of the Azores. We were flying at about 5000 to 6000 feet, and we could see details of the island. We passed along the side of the island, about half a mile out to sea. I saw no signs of any town or city, but I was most impressed with the way every possible square yard of ground had been cultivated. Every ledge of the cliffsides (sic) even appeared to be bearing some sort of crop.
We were about ten minutes or a quarter of an hour passing the island. It was a perfect day; the sea appeared to be calm, although even the greatest waves would seem flattened out from such a height. And thus I had my first, and probably last, sight of the islands ...'
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Dad, indeed, never returned to São Miguel. However, for me, it’s been a welcome break on a number of Atlantic crossings. One goal today in Ponta Delgada, São Miguel’s largest town, is architecture from the time of Portuguese fascism.
Under the dictatorship (of which more in my next post), public works were symbols of state power, in effect, instruments of propaganda. So, noteworthy here are two unusual buildings. The structure above and below, the port’s customs office, is brutal and intimidating.
Some brief sunshine and flowers don’t improve what is a really ugly building.
The other structure is a crude attempt at a curious moderne.
That said, I quite like the swirly gates.
The regime’s architectural efforts sometimes mixed traditional Portuguese styles with streamlined deco. I hope to show you examples when I arrive in Lisbon.
Democracy brings its usual - and, in this case - cheerful chaos ...
... opposition, although an independent Azores seems a bit of a stretch ...
... and raft of competing media. I was struck by this newsagent’s display. Rare now to see people pausing to study printed - printed! - publications. I watch for some minutes and the readers are all elderly.
Nearby, a work crew’s busy ...
... well, some are busy (wonderful face!) ...
... laying one of those decorative pavements for which Portugal is well known.
Cement would be quicker and cheaper, but a tradition lost.
At the local branch of Portugal’s most famous bookstore, Bertrand Livreiros, I buy the trip’s first souvenir - ‘Do not leave for tomorrow the book you can read today’ …
… spot a reminder of the thousands from the then impoverished Azores who emigrated to Canada, some of whom have returned ...
... admire Casa Brasil’s parrot ...
... snap a selfie ...
... and pass a remarkably cheerful, late season swimmer on my way back to the dock. Coming up, Lisbon and more on Dad’s wartime egg mission.
