My friend and I are planning a mid-January, five- to six-week trip down to southernmost Portugal with the two dogs, Finlay and Tilly. (Finlay is Tilly’s brother.) We thought it would be nice to travel south, trading in temps of at or below freezing to ones more, well, if not summer-like, at least spring-like.
It’s not easy to find places that take dogs, at least outside France. When she was researching places and sending out inquiry e-mails, Innis found one good possibility down in the Algarve, about 16 hours drive from where we are in the Loire-et-Indre region.
Innis told me she’d written to reassure the owner that we were just two middle-aged women with small dogs. I read that and I immediately bristled. Middle-aged? I’m not middle-aged! I’m…oh, wait. GULP. I’m 50. Well, okay, I’m 50 but I’m not fifty! And 50 is like the new 30, right?
Or maybe it just looks like 30 because I can’t seem to put my hands on those damned reading glasses I keep misplacing…