Is that really an Elvis impersonator singing in the bar?

Well it probably was. It went on long after we went to bed and we dropped off to his dulcet tones - ballads preferred to Jailhouse Rock. It sounded as bad as you might expect from the Algarve's most under appreciated Elvis wannabe. Beyond Camping Ria Formosa's surreal enclave we had a good day, it was only when we returned to the site that life reverted to being peculiar.

We planned an escape to the beach. This part of the coast is protected. Ria Formosa Natural Park runs west from Faro covering the estuarine coastline of salt flats and tidal inlets most of the way to the Spanish border. Consequently the area is less developed than the coves and cliffs typical of the central Algarve. The beach at Cabanas is situated on one of the string of sand and salt marsh islets that shelter the small fishing portsfrom the Atlantic's swell. Consequently the beaches are as undeveloped as you are likely to find in southwest Europe.

To get to the beach you have to catch a small ferry from the Cabanas promenade. It only seats about half a dozen people at a time, trundling to and fro across the narrow channel. There is something ancient, mythic almost, about swapping a few coins for a boat crossing. Admittedly, to be a truly elemental experience we should have been rowed across. Perhaps even Charon these days has an outboard, Mercury coming to the aid of Hades' guardian! Our ferryman really looked the part, tall and skinny with a tawny sun-wrinkled face, Gill got a real hero shot, a bit of a silhouette, but that simply added to the epic effect.

We spent an hour or so being beach bums. Gill finished re-reading Eric Ambler's 'Mask of Demetrius' and declared it brilliant. I messed about in the pounding surf, attempting to swim, but mainly got up-ended. The water was exceptionally warm considering it is November in less than a week's time. Generally it has been a very warm, calm October. It's the lack of wind as much as the high temperatures that makes the sea comfortable to swim in I think.

Stored in the Moho garage is my two decade old bodyboard. I am trying to build up my confidence to re-launch myself into the Atlantic surf. Two problems, firstly, even the forty something me was pretty crap at bodyboarding; secondly, the sixty something me has a much stronger sense of mortality and self-preservation. Younger me launched himself into the crashing waves with the thought, 'I might be scared, but probably I won't drown'. Today I am likely to suspect the opposite. But if the worst happens I do have trisuit, so as a victim of extreme sports at least I would look the part.

Days are getting shorter. It was a little after five by the time we got back, already shadows had lengthened and the light was golden. By the time Gill had prepared the veg and I had fired-up the outside cooker the sun was setting. We finished grilling the chicken in semi-darkness and grumbling about needing a better outside light. At this time in the evening there can be a lovely convivial hubbub in campsites, especially in southern countries. What we realised tonight that this impression is created largely because we are foreigners. Unable to understand a word of what is being said around us we interpret the resultant murmur as a sign of conviviality.

Here at Camping Ria Formosa we are in a British enclave, Autotrails, Swifts and Baileys surround us. The big difference is we can actually understand the ambient social hubbub. Most of it is complete bollocks and some, like the nervous amused shrieking, quite annoying. I am not saying that my fellow countrymen (the drivel is predominantly coming from the men) are more prone to talking bollocks than other nationalities, simply that our myth about convivial continentals may be the result of being unable to understand them.

One exception which proved our prejudice was the chap from Barnsley or Doncaster. He bored for Yorkshire by repeating three times within ten minutes to various long suffering victims an entirely facile anecdote about how you can make budget Aperol Spritz by using the cheap knock-off orange vermouth from Aldi and substituting cava (carevair) for prosecco... If Mr Higginbotham had been Italian I would have taken him as a bit of a raconteur based entirely on the fact I could not understand a word he said. We've decided to move on tomorrow to an inland site where the chances are we will revert to being foreigners basking in happy ignorance of everything that is going on around us.