Portugal probably represented the most harmonious period in the early relationship between my brother and I: we literally had no one else. We formed clubs with only two members (The Asterix Club), wrote fantasy game-book stories for each other, learnt karate together. There was quite simply nothing else to do. And once when my brother was being picked on by a local Portuguese boy at the karate school, I wrenched the local boy off and proceeded to pick on him instead.
Things deteriorated back in Britain, back in Weston; old jealousies concerning friends reasserted themselves, only with more fervour, since we were both going through that tedious phase known as adolescence. My brother insisted on having the last word, and regarding my brother as being argumentative for the sake of being argumentative, and thus irrational, I wouldn't let him. I couldn't see the point in all the arguments, and thought that my brother must surely see reason, so couldn't understand why he was being so stubborn. Eventually we resorted to violence and for an argument and reason forgotten, I threw my brother, freshly out of a shower and naked, down the stairs. He caught himself on the way down.
This situation improved dramatically when I when off to university in Wales; during the first holiday back, over Christmas, a much more relaxed pair of brothers talked to each other, and my brother showed me some poetry he'd written. He's embarrassed by that poetry now, saying that they're juvenile love-poems. But it meant a great deal to me.