The day began hopefully, with another sun filled, cloudless sky, but doubts soon began to gnaw at me. Had Senhora Dona Linde really understood my broken Portuguese lament of "no car, you come here, Saturday, 10 o´clock. we want to see land." By 10:15 my worst fears were confirmed, no Senhora Dona Linde and a Portuguese tutor seemed an even more pressing investment. Another pitiful telephone call revealed, that our hostess for the day, was waiting at her house for us to arrive. Luckily, our 500 euro banger, bought the previous day, on the wing of a prayer, stood ready to oblige. I had given up trying to mentally log her directions, I heard Fonte do Bispo and said "15 minutes we come". I left the phone box in a sweat and worried how on earth we would find her. 'Mission impossible' I muttered as we drove off.

We drove to Fonte do Bispo and stopped at a garage. The local owner 'O Senhor Samaritan' wore a business like, somewhat stern, and slightly astonished expression, that said "now, why would I want to be doing that" when I asked him if he would telephone A Dona Linde on my behalf to ask for fresh instructions. Unfortunately, although his natural Portuguese generosity of spirit did prevail, Dona Linde was already out of her house, scanning the landscape for the lost Ingleses, as O Senhor replaced the receiver. Back to square one. He did suggest trying the Casa Linde further up the hill, but didn't think it was the Senhora Linde we were looking for. He was right. Five minutes later I was the innocent instigator of a lengthy discussion between an old guy debating furiously with his wife in the garden, as to who the other Senhora Linde could be, and where she could be found. The answer came after a flurry of exchanges between them. Down the hill, turn right and right again up the hill and when you see orange trees "you understand orange trees?" there you will find the house of Dona Linde.

Up the hill and several orange trees later, we stopped to ask another local who was perched on his tractor, toiling in the warm sun. He seemed to be telepathic. Before I managed to wind down my rickety window, without the handle falling off, he was already directing us up the hill to another entrance where an old lady stood waving. We had found Senhora Dona Linde.

Many times in the ascent that followed we wished we hadn't. But first I had to submit to a rigorous inspection by a wizened old man anxious about this would be chauffeur for his precious companion. I settled her in the passenger seat, but she waved away my attempts to fasten her seat belt No polícia here she chuckled, With hindsight, I think she wanted to be free to jump out if we hurtled over the edge. Our poor 20 year old, 500 euro banger had not been designed for the rough, rock strewn, treacherous, trouser changing ascent that followed, and the words of our trusted car salesman "okay for shopping trips" echoed in my head. Chris Bonnington yes, mountain goats decidedly but a 20 year banger with three passengers - I don't think so. Several times I considered stopping and turning back, but the thought of having to explain this in Portuguese to our innocent, well meaning guide, without offending her, stopped me.

Just as we thought we couldn't go any higher, she pointed to a house perched on the top of another cruel ascent. "That is the house. Stupendo", she exclaimed, excitedly clapping her hands together. "Yes", we whispered, in silent apprehension, "Stupendo". I worried, not for the first time, that she thought it was the house we wanted to buy and not the land, and would the land be another mountain climb away? I slipped the car into first gear and prayed that, if the engine stalled, the brakes would hold, But how would I reverse? I tried not to think about it and concentrated on my Evil Knievel attempt.

Somehow we limped to the top. Susan and our intrepid guide got out and left me to manoeuvre the car into a safe postion. One pint of sweat and a flooded carburettor later, I got out. We were both so traumatised that we just followed our guide meekly towards the house. The view was indeed stupendo and I half expected Julie Andrews to jump out. A Dona Linde began opening the doors, shutters and windows preparing the house for viewing. In sheer desperation, I realised that there was only one way to make it clear, once and for all, that it was not the house we were interested in, but the plot of land, I reached for the mobile phone, and a call to our Dutch agents, who translated our requirements to the senhora, resulted in a broad smile on our guide's face. She touched my arm sympathetically and led us to the side of the house. This frail old woman suddenly tranformed into super gran, and disappeared over the mountain edge. A work weathered hand, waving in the air, beckoning me to follow, was the only sign that she'd not simply taken flight. Did this seemingly indefatiguable Senhora, not know that this Inglês was afraid of heights. I wanted a piece of land to build a house on, not a ski slope. Once more the vision of agile mountain goats flashed across my mind, as we started to descend, past the yellow markers indicating the borders of the plot, carefully moving from side to side, amongst the eucalyptus, taking care not to slip on the loose rocks. Trying to suppress my fears, I wondered, how would the builders ever get up here? How would I fetch the bread in the morning on my bike? How would I find my way home at night without plunging to my death?

I listened with half an ear. Susan had long since collapsed into hysterics at the top of the mountain. We both knew this was not for us but we had to finish playing out this charade, so as not to offend our guide. It would soon be over. We returned to the car, relieved to be on our way down, and struggling to negotiate the raised rocks and holes in this four wheel drive test track, I heard the level voice of my wife "don't - go - so - near - the - edge. "Its okay" I breezed cheerily "its - not- okay". said the voice again with even more edge. I glanced down at the white knuckles of my wife gripping the edge of her seat and moved smartly back to the centre of the road. We said goodbye to our well meaning Donna Linde outside her house and left with an even greater determination to find our private Portuguese tutor.