Arriving in Fogo

We came to Fogo by ferryboat late in the after noon. We drove the gremlin inland not sure what exactly we were looking for. Steven finally started to loose his sense of direction towards dinner time and we ended up passing the same house four times. The first time, a young woman was walking to the mailbox, the second time, she was examining the mail, third time, she was staring at our car questioningly, the fourth time she flagged us down and asked us if we were lost. I admitted we were and that we were looking for a pub. The girl, now introduced as Jessica, explained that there were no pubs for miles and that if we didn't have a place to stay then we could park the car and share the guest room. That night we drank some of Jessica's dad's homemade screech. I learned that is considered impolite to decline a glass of screech while Steven failed to learn what the bottom of a tumbler looks like. The next day we left after a hearty lunch we bid our new friends goodbye and made the long trip back to St. John's. We saw some fishing boats on our way down the coast, brightly painted and looking well taken care of; fishing is still important part of the culture here even if the legendary schools of cod are long gone. We arrived at the airport around seven in the evening after driving nearly non stop. We took the redeye home and slept nearly the whole way.