PORTUGAL

After struggling valiantly, gracefully and with barely a whisper of complaint through Britain's eighth-coldest January on record, last week I decided for the sake of my sanity that there was an immediate need to escape this cold, windy, miserable little pile of slush called Britain and thaw out for a weekend. (What? You didn't really believe me about the lack of complaining, did you?)

So on Monday I scanned my favourite collection of cheap travel websites, cross-referenced destinations with the 5-day weather forecast, shortlisted any places that promised both sun and a temperature at least 10 degrees warmer than London, and finally decided on a weekend break to Faro, Portugal. Five days later I awoke in the early hours to drag my self and my suitcase off to Stansted airport, visions of sunshine and sangria helping propel me into the frosty, pre-dawn darkness.

I'm very pleased to say that Portugal did not disappoint. I landed in the Algarve to be welcomed by the sun shining benevolently down from a blue, cloudless sky. I cannot over-emphasise how good it felt to be standing outside with the sun warming my pasty white face. With no gloves, no scarf, no wind whipping through three layers of clothing to turn my skin to ice, I was relaxed in a way I hadn't been for months. It wasn't hot, but it was warm. Oh, to be warm was divine. And to have 48 blissfully carefree hours ahead of me was heavenly.

I spent my first few hours in Faro wandering around the streets, along the marina and inside the old city walls, trying to get a feel for the people, place, language and culture. What usually tends to happen on these 'first-day-in-a-new-city' exploratory trips of mine is that despite my best intentions of soaking up the scenery, I inevitably end up getting so hungry that I abort my culture-soaking mission in favour of finding cheap local food for immediate consumption. So it was that I ended up at Faro's oldest cafe, sitting under the shade of a tree on the Praça Francisco Gomes, looking out over the marina, sipping an ice-cold beer and eating the tastiest paella I've ever had. Mmmmm.

In fact, that tale pretty much sums up my whole weekend in Portugal: exploring, eating and drinking. I had planned to hire a bicycle on Sunday and ride alongside the beach cycle path, but fate intervened. Fate came in the form of a misunderstanding over what time the bike would be delivered to my hotel, meaning that I got back five minutes after the woman (and the bike) had departed. She'd apparently been waiting for me for half an hour. Eeek! I felt too bad about keeping her waiting to ask her to come back again, so I was forced to spend another day loafing around drinking cheap wine and eating fantastic seafood. Hey, if fate wants me to be a lazy boozer, who am I to argue?

After what seemed like much more than 48 hours, I had to pack up and leave my retreat to head back to real life. Once we had taken off from the airport, the pilot announced - rather too cheerfully, I thought - that the current temperature in London was -1 degree Celsius. Sigh. And when I eventually emerged hours later from the subterranean underworld of commuter travel in London, it was to the questionable joy of being snowed upon. Welcome home, Frosty.