Category: Portugal 2018

Shackled to time and with an inability to turn back the clock, even for one short second, is what makes us vulnerable and human. Sometimes the future is no place to be.

With the intention of moving on today, we rise bright and early – as usual 🙂 🙂 Perhaps we shouldn’t have. Maybe an extra twenty or thirty minutes more under the covers would have made all the difference. Or even just thirty seconds? Or just getting out of bed on the other side. Anything to create that ‘butterfly effect’. The future would have been so different – wouldn’t it? Regrets are often linked to thoughts of “if only I hadn’t done this” and “if only I’d have done that”.

The camp is at its most quiet at this time. The raucous Spaniards slumber until gone nine. By the time they’ve wiped the sleep from their eyes we’re winging it. We’ve been told about a posh camping ground near Lagos, Portugal. Aiming to get there sooner rather than later.

Turiscampo is massive. But massively popular. Not many pitches left suitable for an extended stay. Unusually, I make an executive decision. “Don’t like it – let’s move on” – BIG mistake.

As we approach our newly selected site further back down the coast at Alvor, there’s a MOHO spreadeagled across the entrance on the left. Blocking it. The site’s positioned on a bend and on the brow of a hill. I have the opportunity to park up a short distance further on. But don’t. Should have. As Mary-Ann later said “It wasn’t like you”. It would have been so easy to walk back. Instead I decide to do an about turn at the next island. Creep up behind the MOHO. Mis-read the angle of the entrance in relation to the bend and the hill. Aware of following traffic, I (that is Beastie), mount what little pavement there is in a futile attempt to leave as much room behind as possible.

Perched inside Beastie, sitting on, as Mary-Ann calls it ‘the Captain’s Seat’, you get a really fantastic view of the road ahead. What you don’t get is any sort of view of what lies in wake at five past three. i.e. slightly up and behind shoulder height. Of course why would you? There’s a blind spot. At this precise moment, in that blind spot is a traffic sign. It’s got five long horizontal signs vertically aligned on it. It’s ten feet high. My other concerns accentuate that blind spot. I go blind. (or dumb?) I don’t see it. Do get to hear it though. It judders and scrapes along the nearside of Beastie. At first I can’t comprehend what the sound is. As I turn all I can see is a metal post vigorously vibrating like some huge tuning fork, impersonating a jelly on a plate. But it’s not party time. Why’s it doing that? I look a little higher. Then everything fits into place. But not perfectly. The only other sound I hear is “Oh Brian . . . ”.

To rub salt into the wound, this site has no pitch suitable for us. (or for the MOHO in front) All too, too tiny. We’re on a hat-trick. Our ‘Last Chance Texaco’ – Salema Camping answers our call. We’re here for three nights.

It’s almost twenty-seven years since we paid our one and only previous visit to the Algarve. Laura wasn’t quite three. Gulp! We wonder if it’s as we remember.

This part Naturist site near Salema is perfectly positioned. With today’s  temperature not destined to pass the twenty mark we tog up and take Scoot out for a breath of fresh air. And mighty fresh it is. Four layers on and just about comfortable. The clearing skies not telling the whole story. Wind chill factor at over 30mph takes the edge off the beautiful scenery we scoot through.

Each little coastal town with it’s own sheltered cove, stunning cliffs and golden sands magnetically attracts the tourists – mostly Brits. A few kilometres out from Salema we stop to check Maps. A couple of walking couples are in search of the nearest supermarket. They approach expecting us to be local. “Excuse us. Can yee tell us weor the nearest supermarket is?” [why would they think a local Portuguese would understand] – the response “why aye man!” came as somewhat of a shock. But as it happened “Ah divvent knaa” left them still searching.

Salema, Burgau and Luz our first three bunny hops. The latter, no more than a conglomeration of cove facing eateries and apartments. Brimming with UK rellies. All doomed to spend the day draining their pockets. Not one on the beach. We don’t stay long enough to add to their number. Doesn’t feel like we’re ‘abroad’.

Next port of call is Lagos. This is better. This is what we remember.

Lagos town has more of an authentic vibe. We like it.  Mary-Ann is wearing her hat ‘out’ for the first time. Adds to the authentic ambiance. We enter the main square. A surprising surprise awaits. Can you guess? . . . ?

A very short potter (about) in Portimao ends our coastal day out.

 

 

Perhaps we have to forget. Try and pretend that this is not a holiday. It’s a big trip with lots of little trips built into it. Just accept the weather as it comes. Just like we would if we were at home . . . and not on holiday!

It’s what we do though. We’ve become born again weather fanatics. A cloistered cult. Surreptitiously following the same liturgical routine. Religiously looking. Hopeful eyes peer heavenwards. Forever checking the sky for a sign. When will the sun return?

“Blimey, it’s a bit parky out there this morning. Checked today’s weather?” – “Yeah” – “Any good? – “Well, it’s supposed to be clear until 9am, then cloud over” – “For the whole day?” – “Looks like it. Well, apart from a short spell later on – oh, hang on. No, it clears after sunset” – “What about temperatures?” – “Sixteen, rising to eighteen or nineteen by about 5pm”. – “What about tomorrow?” . . .

We wrap up. Not quite into winter woolies. Add an extra layer plus neck mufflers. Venture out on Scoot again. This time head west. Take him cross country. Heading for Ponta de Sagres.  As if its not windy enough where we are! At one point the tarmac runs out. Scoots little wheels scutter down the loose track. Gets us there. Then a little further west to Cabo de Sao Vincent. It’s like a lunatic Land’s End. Coachload’s carted to this end of land lookout. A line of stalls litter one side of the road. Tourist trash on offer. In ancient times common people believed the sun sank here hissing into the ocean – ah, so that’s where it is!

Return journey takes us through Vila do Bispo. Looks like a couple of newly to be weds are enjoying their last moments of freedom . . .

The day ends with the realisation that Beastie didn’t escape from Morocco unscathed. Part of his muffler shield has taken a whack.

We’re still learning things. Our usual – getting to a site late in the day, is over-ruled. Brings us a welcome bonus.

It’s so easy to miss golden gems. We must have sailed past thousands by now. Beastie blinkered. Eyes focused on the next destination. Neither looking left nor right. Today we change all that. Arrive just after lunchtime at this ‘in town’ municipal site. We have the afternoon to go walkabout. See what’s on offer in Castro Verde.

It’s centred in the middle of expanses of farmland. A Salisbury Plain and more hugs every horizon. Like it’s very life depends on it. And of course it does.

Strutting proudly above the centre’s rooftops, this early twentieth century farmhouse quite a spectacle. Visions of grandeur. A grander lifestyle than the farm workers no doubt.

We pass by when it’s having its outside loo refurbished. Bit of a chilly walk at 3am we imagine.

Through the narrow streets we catch site of a windmill preparing for take off. As we approach we can hear it’s mournful moaning. Its canvas, catching and converting the invisible rush.

We get treated to a glimpse of the past. Invited in and up. A silent language of give and take in progress. Neither party privy to the others. Kindly expressions demonstrate. Words not necessary. Just as well. It’s noisy.

 

 

 

Who’s counting? Twenty-two days to go. This far south with still lots to see and do. We don’t want to aim for home yet. Quiver at the thought.

We usually listen to our evening playlists through Beastie’s speakers. A few stops ago I change all that. A couple of young campers with their tent quite close to one of his doors. When you’re outside some tracks can just sound like a ‘thump-thump-thump’. I decide to use our portable blue-tooth speaker instead. Save their angst. Position it on a box which resides on the cabin parcel shelf. The one that runs all the way around and above the windscreen and tucks in behind driver and passenger on both sides. Out of the way, but a good ‘sound’ position. Not sound enough though. Last night I forget to tidy it away. This morning neither of us notice it is still perched. An hour into our journey and I recklessly pull up sharply. Off to the side of the road. Want to take a snap. Holding true to the forces of nature it doesn’t stay put. It could have fallen anywhere. Couldn’t it? Course not. It clonks Mary-Ann right on the bridge of her nose. A Mike Tyson hammer blow completely out of the blue. Just like the air which flies in my direction. Can’t say I blame her on two counts. Ice packs keep the swelling down. No bruising – yet. But it will be a week or so before the broken skin heals. No photies till then, then.

Our one night stop becomes two. Gives us chance to see more than a fleeting glance. Evora, for a small town of about 60,000 has a lot of interest. We start with the ‘old’ Roman temple. Not much left standing, so we move on up to the church between the pillars. Seems they were expecting guests. Not quite ready for us though. Caught in the act. Smoke and mirrors have you believe the pointing is in really good nick

We move on round the back. The Chapel of Bones comes as a surprise. Its entrance motif “We bones that here are, for yours await”. A grim reminder. 5,000 monks’ skeletons cemented together. Create quite a moving scene.

Up and outside we catch sight of this angry guy. Can you blame him? With Portugal’s close connection you’d have thought the least he deserved was a  Brazillian.

Inside the Museo do Artesanato e do Design (MADE) we find an interesting collection of almost modern day artefacts. Each display cabinet’s contents  generously donated by an individual.  Some items dated as early as 1910. Most are from the sixties, seventies and eighties. Typewriters, TVs, telephones, calculators, cameras. All seem so ‘babyish’ in comparison to our hi-tech know it all present day gizmos. All necessary first steps though. It occurs that many of the museum pieces are younger than us. Thoughts and feelings about that don’t leave much room for nostalgia!

 

 

 

 

When we entered Portugal a week ago Beastie was guided into a ‘Peage’ (toll booth). We had no choice in the matter. He had his number plate recorded. We handed over the details from one of our plastic cards. The idea being that auto-recognition cameras (auto being an appropriate term), identify us whenever we use a toll road. We’ll no longer have to slow a journey passing through a Peage. We’ll be recognised and our card charged. Great idea. Even if we don’t use toll roads.

Our Lisbon camp is on the other side of the Targus River. The only way over is via this huge suspension bridge. (six lanes plus two train lines). Just before, a bank of Peage booths loom. The two inside lanes show a big green tick on the ground and above their booths. Traffic flows freely through these. There are queues to the remaining six booths. As we’ve already been “clocked”, so to speak, we take a green route. Assuming we’ll automatically be charged. However, once we’re past the point of no return I see a sign saying “It is illegal to cross without paying a toll”. As we enter our booth we have no opportunity to pay. No machine. No person. As we slowly move on through, the green “auto” light changes to red, but the barrier remains raised. I put my foot down. Later, Mr Google informs me that the bridge toll has been privatised.

The cloudy wet day disappears. And once plugged in on site, so do we. Scoot back down to the harbour area. It’s full of people and monuments.

Despite being able to maintain its neutrality during WW2, Portugal has since suffered many losses. Mostly during its efforts to maintain its colonial presence in Africa. Recognition of that sacrifice logged at “Overseas Monument”

The line of monuments are all in easy walking distance. We’re not sure if this bus is going to attract any customers.

Shortly afterwards it’s full. Passes us again. But not quite where we expected to see it!

 

 

 

 

 

Getting to really know someone well, takes time. It takes effort. You need to discover things about their past. Engage with their present. Learn of their plans for the future too.

I guess that’s why we, like all of the other millions of travelers head for the historic sites first. We like to get a feel for the soul of the place we’re visiting. Feel its pulse. Take its temperature. Cut through the layers, get under its skin. Examine the examinable. Find out what keeps its heart beating. All of this helps to diagnose. Reach a conclusion. However, it’s in the exchanges with the living population that reveal its true state of health. Portugal gets our thumbs up. A big green tick.

Three nights. Two days. Hardly time enough. We start with a convoluted Scoot up into the hilly area of Sintra, north west of the capitol. Eyes raised upwards towards Pena Palace. It tops one of the hills, overlooking Lisbon and its surrounds. A fairy tale Cinders’ Castle.

This hilly escarpment a mesh of one way single lanes. We and they wiggle between the tiny villages scattered throughout. The whole area teeming with tourists. All lining up to visit the area’s three palaces. As we close in on our prize, so does the weather. Low cloud and drizzle dampen our spirits. Can just about make it out. Scoot gets us right up close. He’s so park-able.

As we wander into the main square, it’s apparent we’ve been beaten to the best vantage point. We catch a couple of ‘peepers’ peeping – with welcoming smiles . . .

. . . unlike the overseeing concierge – “cheese” obviously not on his menu for today.

The castle, come palace, wouldn’t seem out of place in Portmeirion. The inner rooms all very live-able and not too OTT – (no central heating in those days)  🙂

Without Scoot on board our touring existence would often become cumbersome. Often, our camp is a little out of the way. Often, the places we want to visit are a little out of the way too. Often, buses, trains and trams not in easy reach. This site no exception. Lisbon is quite a sprawl with twenty-seven percent of Portugal’s population living within. We’re nine kilometres from today’s destination, the old town. No need to check when and where to catch a bus  – good ole Scoot! Plus no parking fees. Any small convenient space will do. Next to a wall on a pavement, just off the main drag is where we leave him.

So we start with the past. Long, long ago. Spend an hour or so inside the Archeological Museum. It’s actually housed within part of the old Jerónimos Monastery – our next port of call. We skip the hour long queue having bought a combo ticket – sometimes we do do our homework.

After lunch we lurch and linger into the old town. Interconnected praças around every corner. Praça do Rossio our favourite.

The main pedestrian artery awash with eateries and street artists. All ticking along nicely. Some amusingly strange . . .

. . . others just brilliantly entertaining.

Then before we know it it’s time to head back to Scoot. A cheery wave from the future bids us farewell . . .

Upping sticks like a couple of nomadic Roma becomes second nature when you’re away from your permanent residence for so long. A slick routine develops. No need for check lists. Designated his and her territories. Each with their own set of ‘stuff’ to see to before take off. It’s the same when we come into land.

So yesterday and today sees us heading north. We’re on our way home. Sort of. Just a small distance of around two thousand kilometres or so to negotiate. T-minus sixteen. Porto, our last big city, is going to get turned over tomorrow. Our journey here interrupted with a one nighter at São Pedro de Moel.

The rolling countryside is very English like. If it wasn’t for the occasional olive grove and driving on the right,  we could almost be back home. Portuguese drivers are the most courteous and patient we’ve come across. If you dare to just glance at a pedestrian crossing they immediately slow down to let you cross. They expect and anticipate. Very few in any sort of rush. Hardly a horn heard. It’s refreshingly calm. Tail-gating a thing of the past. Town and village speed limits adhered to virtually everywhere we’ve traveled.

The very brisk cold northerly deters us and most from venturing down to sea level. Both end of day walks end sooner than planned. Sunny but cooool.

So today’s short blog is due to the things we haven’t done. Although we did manage to take a photo of each other taking a photo.

Sad? These were the highlights . . .

 

 

 

 

 

You get what you pay for. A well known saying that rings true for most of us. Pay next to nothing, then you expect to receive next to nothing. Pay more, then you expect more. It’s all about getting the right amount of value for the money you dish out.

Our day starts with a forty-five minute ride into Porto, on a forty-five foot long bus. We didn’t expect the journey to include an ‘adventure’ section all to itself. A small village is entered. A few people need to be picked up. Like most villages in Portugal there’s no tarmac. Only small very uneven cobbles. These help to calm the traffic – usually. Opposing terraced houses, at the most no more than a foot wider than the bus, create a claustrophobic chasm of tiny runs. Their closeness accentuates the bus’s speed and sound as it ricochets off the walls. The bus cavorts and clatters through. Hardly any sign of hesitation as the driver maneuvers his ‘Beastie” around every twist, turn and right angle. Like a blind-folded mouse in a cheese run he’s all instinct. His wing mirrors acting as his cat’s whiskers. He is the ‘cat’s whiskers’. Our central raised position gives us a perfect view. The visual, sound & movement not dissimilar to being aboard a virtual simulator. The locals totally unaware. Engage in casual conversation. The visitors don’t. They’re all on edge. Tense. Unbelieving eyes widen. Mouths gape and gasp. Hands grip. Knuckles whiten. I’m impressed – taking notes. Should have been taking a video. Too late, we’re through.

Then before we know it we’re ambling towards our first ‘must see’. The São Bento railway station. It’s entrance hall beautifully tiled with past times.

A guided tour of the rather splendid Palácio da Bolsa gets us clicking again. It’s the old Stock Exchange. This ‘Arab Room’, the so called highlight, is still used to entertain famous and important visitors to Porto.

These were my highlight though

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

You can’t really go to Porto without sampling some of their world famous ports. Can you? Oh yes you can! We don’t indulge. Not really our cup of tea. Plenty to chose from though.

Instead we take the cable car up to the top of the gorge and the spectacular iron bridge. Amble along its levels.

Our pigeon post rewards us with a pigeon’s eye view. We take aim of a different kind. Reminds us a little of Venice – without the huge spoiling liners spoiling our line of vision.

This young lad and his mate, put on a show. They make quite a splash. Over in a flash. It’s going to be a long walk back up. I’m holding his towel . . .

We amble down, quay side. Stop off at the “Beef and Wine” river-side restaurant. We fancy a bit of upmarket faire. Waiters wearing black dicky-bows and also, as we soon discover, dick-heads. (That’s not totally fair) Order taken. “Two roast beef salads, please”. The first waiter brings us some ‘arty-farty’ bread and butter to keep us amused. That’s because, as we’re informed they’re both made in house. Golly-gee. Thirty-five minutes later and we’re still waiting. We know this because Mary-Ann’s keeping an eye on things.

Eventually, the roast beef salads arrive. Or rather, two dinner plates piled high with chopped lettuce; two cherry tomatoes halved – delicately placed on the quarters; four shaver-foil thin slices of cucumber; garnished with five thumb-nail size slices of beef Carpaccio, that look as if they’ve been hammered past the point of no return. Teetering on transparent. Even Giuseppe couldn’t have got them this thin. We ‘tuck in’. (that’s a joke – well, that’s not really a joke, because the joke is on the plates – or is it on us?) It doesn’t take long before I’m teetering too. I see through their plate of Emperor’s Clothes, disguised as daylight robbery. I go and have words. I’m not a complainer. This is against my grain. I’m that mad. But keep calm. The plates are apologetically removed. A waitress assures us that within ten minutes we will be presented with two fabulous roast beef salads and not salads with roast beef. They arrive. What’s changed? Gone are the cherry tomatoes. Replaced with two halves of one large slice. Gone are the slithers of beef – that’s because we’d eaten them before complaining 🙂 😉 – (a ploy I can now recommend) replaced with seven of the same. Topped with their piece de resistance. Their ‘wow’ factor extraordinaire – four micro thin melba toasts – positioned to hide their chef’s lack of finesse.

We cough up 27.50 euros. Leave with our heads held higher. At least two inches higher.

In spite of our lunch time fiasco we love Porto. A steep city, steeped in history and culture. A place you can really take your time ambling around with lots to explore. But don’t, under any circumstances – dare to walk too slowly . . .

They say that travel by air is most prone to accident just after take off and when coming into land. In between, once you’re up and above the clouds all is good.

It’s a bit like that for us too. Although no chance of Beastie falling out of the sky. Many sites, especially those based in town are often in the weirdest of places. Missy leads us into streets and back-alleys that we would never usually venture down. Standard procedure for take off is overseen by Mrs S. Ensuring we clear all ground based obstacles and assisting and aiding any navigational  miscommunications. Once on the open road we switch into auto-pilot mode.

Today is no different. Later we’re crossing borders again. We haven’t really given Portugal our best shot. With less than two weeks in this beautiful country, it’s probably fair to say it hasn’t given us its best shot either. Time now dictates our movements. We continue north and back into Spain. But not before Portugal gives us something to remember her by.

With yesterday’s ‘adventure’ ride into Porto still fresh in our minds we should have realised immediately that Missy’s instruction to “Turn Right” was not right. Mary-Ann checks the virtual map on her lap. Seems it is right. Even though we’re now bouncing into a village on cobbles. Missy is like our Nanny. We rely on her for our every move. She blinks, we blink. She laughs, we laugh. She leads, we follow. She’s turning us into quite a Nanny-State.

Everyone needs a catch-phrase, don’t they? Something that they get known for. Mine is fast becoming “I say old chap. Pardon me, but surely there’s been some mistake old boy” (I’m paraphrasing here).  The wider than we need street, soon narrows into a narrower than we need street. The virtual map encourages us forwards. Now we have no choice. Hope for the best. Fear the worse. Worse it is. The village street runs out. We end up at a cross roads. Beastie is brought to a halt. We’re in a bit of a pickle. Going crackers. “I say old boy. Pass the port”

At this point our options are:

1. Continue forwards across a cabbage patch.
2. Turn left into a newly seeded field.
3. Turn right down a dirt track.
4. Do a 180 before anyone notices.

We opt for number four of course. Our lucky number! We exit the village with no harm done to man, woman or Beastie. Vow never again to go anywhere near a cobbled street in Portugal.

Our Spanish over-nighter at Baiona-a-Guarda is pitch perfect. Manicured and maintained. An Atlantic view. A glass of sangria. A sunny spot.

It even has its own small private beach.