Portugal

W. points out the building in which Eca de Queiroz, the famous Portuguese writer, used to work. How did he end up in Newcastle?, we wonder. Was he happy here? Did he miss the cramped streets of Bairro Alto? Did his heart yearn for the fado of his homeland?

I've always feel a spiritual connection to Portugal, W. knows that. Hasn't he always seen something of Bernardo Soares, Pessoa's great creation, in me? A Soares without the intelligence or poetic ability, granted. Soares as a disgruntled ape, snuffling through Newcastle streets.

Of course, it annoyed W. that I went off to Lisbon without him. Without him, W.! And to some daft conference! I told him later of the Portuguese Professors lounging like great walruses; I told him of the European flags they had lined up in the conference hall, as though we were delegates at some European summit, but it was no good. I shouldn't have gone there without him, W. says. Without telling him, regardless of the copy of O Livro do Desassossego I brought back for him from my trip.