Still scaling fences

In a flurry of feathers and light, our silver car flew south, along with a flock of other silver cars (so many of the cars in Portugal are silver), landing at the birthday destination. I'd been warned of the overcrowding of The Algarve in summer, but I'd also heard whispers of sweet, still heat. I was determined to uncrease myself on a lost beach.

A friend of mine recently returned with his girlfriend from a visit to the village in Greece where he passed the first five years of his life before his family moved to Australia. Many of the relatives who knew him when he was a tiny tot still live there and Nik's girlfriend reported to me that Nik was a changed creature during their time in the village. His usual bossy confidence was replaced by timid, little-boy mannerisms: yes, yes whatever you like Auntie Mimi, he'd say, leaning forward for his hair to be ruffled. It was as if his childhood was an old kite, long trapped in a village tree, just waiting to be reclaimed on his return.

After hearing this story I wondered if H was going to be subject to the same kind of regression once back in the arms of his mother country. But rather than reverting to a child-like demeanour, I was pleased to see that he became more like a football player - a bronzed figure, flourishing in the heat like a native plant, more confident, the kind of person who can kick goals.

As for me, I've just passed my 33rd birthday and the changes I thought would have happened by now, haven't taken place. When I was younger I thought by the time I'd reached today's height I'd certainly be wearing sensibly ironed clothes, not sitting on the ground or scaling fences, perhaps even mothering someone else. Oh yes, of course, I look after myself, I pay my way, I take myself to the doctor (perhaps more regularly than necessary) and drive a car if pushed (but due to a tendency to drift off with the pixies there is a label on me stating that this is generally not advisable). But I do wonder if I'll be forever sleeping with an overstuffed teddybear, ensnared in the transition phase.

The birthday came and went with all the usual jigs and giggles. I was still overwhelmed with childlike glee in the morning with the presentation of Les cadeaux! Les cadeaux! – a birthday kimono and books books books. Then there was a breakfast of honey toast for the honeybee, all on our balcony at the most westerly european point, overlooking a windy beach used mainly by surfing types who spent most of the day far out in the waves.

Further east along the coast between red rocks where the waters weren't as wind-whipped, I wanted to swim to the grottos in search of ghostly apparitions. The beach was splattered with people but despite the heat the water was so cold they stayed on the sands. Determined to have the birthday swim I skidaddled right in and within moments I was at home in the water, H. calmly on the shore waving to his little heroine, the only one who could brave the ice-breathing dragons of the sea.

And later that night over sangria and curls of pasta loaded with sea shells we talked of whatnots, little flowers of conversation sprouting between us. Over-drinking together, champagne and chocolate cupcakes and giddy laughing through sugary teeth into the wee smalls.