Exquisite Lisbon Choral Singing Holiday

Name: Exquisite Lisbon Choral Singing Holiday
Start: 2025-08-25T17:00:00+01:00
End: 2025-08-30T10:00:00+01:00
Location: Pátio do Tijolo

Schedule

Mon, 25 Aug, 2025 at 05:00 pm to Sat, 30 Aug, 2025 at 10:00 am

UTC+01:00

Location

Pátio do Tijolo | Lisbon, LI

Luxury Choral Holiday in Lisbon, Portugal.
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Conductor: Robert Dean
Small group - 22
£ 2420 - based on 2 sharing
£ 480 - single supplement
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25 August - 30 August, 2025
Obrigado
As my train pulled into Lisbon station, I felt quite the tingle of excitement. The weather was glorious, and the journey from Porto had been as smooth as silk. I’d had no sweaty changes to negotiate, a comfy carriage to recline into, and a very smiley guy with a trolley of goodies who’d come by frequently to refill my coffee cup. From time to time, he lingered, peering into my laptop as I (and he) enjoyed the motor racing I’d managed to tap into using the Comboios de Portugal onboard Wi-Fi. I angled the screen towards him, and he smiled back at me while repeating the word ‘obrigado’, meaning ‘thank you’. It was a word I’d already looked up and instantly forgotten the day before, so I was pleased with myself that I’d recognised it and logged it back into the memory bank.
Many would find a trolley guy leaning over the back of one’s armchair and gawking unabashed into one’s laptop a tad uncomfortable. However, his interest in my interest made me feel – what’s the word – less sad. Motor racing is a bit like trainspotting. It’s a pastime that can only be accepted when you’re among other anoraks doing the same thing. Failing that, one must hide from society, and however excited you may feel about the race before or after, never, under any circumstances, tell a soul about it. Not even your other half. Especially not your other half!
The trolley guy and I had bonded. He was my new anorak buddy. He’d made me feel accepted in the carriage, and as I pulled into the final terminus, I had an extra spring of self-confidence in my step. Obrigado Trolley-guy!
I was determined to use some of my newfound lingo and, this time, use it within earshot. Témi would have been reciting passages of Portuguese by now, so I had something to prove. ‘Come on, Mills, you can do this’, I whispered, encouraging myself with even more fixity of purpose. ‘Obrigado, obrigado, obrigado, obrigado…’
The gate clicked and opened, and I ventured into a large, light-filled paradise of glass and lush, big-leafed plants. ‘Blimey, this looks rather nice’, I thought. The Patio gleamed in the sun across the courtyard and beckoned me in as if I were a particularly enthusiastic Magpie.
The building was all wood, glass and soft concrete. Part art gallery and part Philip Johnson masterpiece, it nestled itself within its environment, seeming to float on stilts which lifted it up towards the skyline and beyond.
‘Wowzers’, I thought, ‘flirty or what?’. I was eager to check in, so I scampered up the stairs (ignoring the lift) like a new puppy chasing after its favourite toy. ‘Obrigado, obrigado, obrigado, obrigado…’ even with all the excitement, I hadn’t relinquished my mantra that continued to buzz around my brain. ‘Témi is going to be so proud’, I purred. I’d probably found the sexiest Singing Holidays accommodation in Lisbon, and by the time I returned home, I’d be practically fluent in Portuguese.
I confidently strutted up to the reception desk. ‘Boa tarde, já fez reserva?’ percussed the receptionist with a voice like a snare drum. I looked at her blankly. She smiled warmly. ‘Are you Mr. Mills?’. ‘Yes’, I said sheepishly. ‘Welcome to Patio do Tijolo’. ‘Oh, thank you’, I said, ‘or should I say…’ suddenly, the bottom fell out of my world. My mind, a bubbling cistern of knowledge beforehand, had just been consigned to Planet Flush. Where was my mantra? Was it desperado, desperado, desperado? It certainly felt desperado. Avocado? No, you idiot, of course it wasn’t ‘avocado’. Incommunicado? Pertinent but wrong again. Damn it.
‘Obrigado?’ prompted the receptionist. ‘Yes’, I said. ‘Obrigado. Very good. What a relief.’ In my mind’s eye, I could see Témi looking at me with the sort of genuine sympathy that comes with a huge side order of ‘Oh dear!’
The memory bank may have failed me, but Patio do Tijolo hadn’t. My room was the epitome of comfort. Lovely bed, fabulous bathroom, and a private, outside seating area to either enjoy the lush planting and quiet, open space or take in the cityscape views of Lisbon as far as the Ponte 25 de Abril bridge that spans the Tagus River. Spectacular.
The following day, I was up, bright and breezy and sitting on the balcony of the Patio’s sun-drenched breakfast room. Sipping freshly squeezed orange juice and eyeing up all the local foodie delights before me, I paused momentarily to breathe in the space and all it had to offer. Peace, light, calm, class, beautiful views, lovely people… As they say themselves, ‘It’s a secret treasure, a home from home’. It really is, although it’s nothing like my home – unfortunately. What it is is a perfect place for a classical choral singing holiday. Obrigado Patio do Tijolo.
I was going to see two boutique accommodations in the centre of town. The first one, and where I was staying that night, was called Patio do Tijolo. Like the place itself, its online presence was a bit under the radar. It was a little secret that didn’t shout too much. It only teases you online, flirts with the occasional image, and lets others who had stayed before do the talking.
I’d ordered a Bolt taxi from the station, and we’d arrived at the location of Patio do Tijolo within 20 minutes. ‘Up there’, said the very amiable taxi driver. I peered up the street but saw nothing that would indicate a hotel. ‘OK’, I said quizzically. I crept out of the car like a man leaving the comfort of his safety blanket and waved goodbye to my driver. ‘Obrigado!’ I shouted back to him as he pulled away. ‘I should have used that in the car’, I thought to myself. My one Portuguese word was now destined to echo through the back streets of an unknown location in Lisbon, never to rest in the earholes of an approving local.
I quickly swiped open Google Translate just to check again that I’d remembered it correctly. Google pinged back at me with a virtual slap on the back. Feeling pleased and mildly amazed by my linguistic recall, I sauntered confidently up one of the charming whitewashed and tiled streets, hoping to stumble upon my secret lodging.
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