It was my birthday, and we had dad staying with us, so we thought we would book a traditional Sunday roast - more for dad than us. An advert in The Portugal News for a Sunday roast at 8 euros 50 had caught my attention a week earlier.

We rang to book our table and get directions. Delighted with progress so far we set off with directions, mobile phone and original ad. We reached the centre of São Brás, but where now? Round and round we went realizing that São Bras is a lot bigger than we thought.

Returning to the one place we were certain to find again, the Intermarché supermarket. We rang again to clarify the directions we had been given. Return to the main road, there's a fork in the road, is it right? , or left? - it's very difficult to direct you - he said - just head for the hotel.

Some help that was.

Returning to the main Faro road we headed off again, on our third attempt to reach the other side of São Brás, we stopped at a deserted garage, with an even more deserted cafe/bar on the forecourt. Just as we were giving up hope, and wondering what we had in the fridge for lunch. We saw two car owners feverishly washing their cars. I got out, left the engine running as I didn't think it would take long. I stood around, not wanting to appear rude. As one drove off, I thought maybe he hadn't seen me, but the locals have this knack of avoiding contact with the estrangeiros. It is sometimes more obvious than others, the strong body language displayed - back facing you, even if the body has to contort unnaturally, eyes averted or not acknowledging your presence, hoping you will go away. With this in mind, I moved closer to the remaining man, even though this risked a soaking from the powerful spray of water. Far enough, I thought, when I could feel a light spattering of water. The minute he stops I'll pounce.

Just then, my partner in life and love, Susan, shouted and beckoned me away from my vantage point. My patience was wearing thin. When I approached the car, she was pointing to a mechanic working at the back of the garage. He saw me approach, and flashed his gleaming white teeth with a broad smile, all the whiter due to his oily face. I breathed a sigh of relief, falas Inglês? não, he replied, but nevertheless seemed keen to help. He spoke slowly, this obviously wasn't the first time he had given directions.

We were a long way from where we should be with only 10 minutes to go to our lunch booking, but this is Portugal. At 1:30pm we pulled into a deserted car park, the sign on the building indicating the correct place. We were in the right place at the right time. As we walked along the paved, moss filled area, passed the dirty pool, and the patio area which hadn't been swept for many months, we wondered what had we let ourselves in for, and the cold meat and salad in the fridge seemed very inviting. On entering the annex identified as restaurant/bar, a depressing picture lay before us. Two tables laid for lunch, well at least we weren't dining alone. Our host greeted us.

Well you found it then, yorkshire puddings are in the oven, can I get you a drink? We sat down not quite believing our eyes. Jolly Santa Clauses smiling up from the table cloth and from the napkins inside the wine glasses. A solitary Xmas decoration was hanging from the wall, next to a poster advertising a car boot sale in September 2004. We ordered a bottle of wine, none of the usual niceties, white or red, house wine okay sir? A few moments later a wine cooler appeared with a bottle of chilled white table wine.

The other two diners moved from the bar to their table. a sure sign lunch was ready. Sure enough the cold roast beef, yorkshire puddings, not the well risen, crisp yorkshire puddings, but a flat soggy variety and the beautiful roast potatoes were served with a platter of fresh vegetables and a boat of rather watery gravy. Dad's portion was too big, so the share out began, slices of meat to me, and roast potatoes to Susan. everyone was finally happy.