Either the flight to Portugal took more out of me than I thought or my normally nutty dream pattern has been kicked up a notch. Somewhere within the jet-lagged haze of a nap, a distant cuckoo clock chimed fifteen, paused, and began another rhythmic announcement of an hour well past twelve. Rising to locate and silence the malfunctioning clock, following the birdcall into the bathroom, I looked out over the garden of the Casa d' Obidos manor. There's no clock in sight. It's a real cuckoo!