Difficult to say at which number, but the overnight beach parking at Praia Boca do Rio is certainly up there with the most delightful places we have ever stayed on our travels. Sitting on some drizzly January afternoon in the Pennines it will come to mind and I will re-read this and perhaps scroll through the clutch of photos that never made it onto the blog.
A couple of posts ago I mentioned 'the nearby faraway'. Boca do Rio is the epitome of this idea. The beach car park is at the back of a small cove protected on each side by sandstone cliffs, a mixture of buff coloured rocks and liverish red. A stream flows into the sea - the 'boca' presumably. Its dry estuary, a greyish scrubland, is full of little birds, some brightly coloured others black and white, like lapwings but smaller. Among all the hopping and fluttering a single white egret stood stock still in the shallows.
It feels very peaceful and remote, though in fact it is less than 20 kilometres from the Lagos and manicured greens of the nearest golf resort are even closer. The village of Budens is a five minute drive away and has an Intermarché supermarket. Immediately to the south of the cove is the tourist development at Salema; closer still, but out of sight over a steep hill to east is a complex of large luxury villas complete with panoramic sun-lounges and infinity pools.
So, although it feels 'faraway', in fact the conveniences of life are nearby. This suits us fine as people who are never truly going to explore wilderness landscapes due to the problem that the natives don't sell Lavazza and thought of being unable to enjoy an expresso macchiata provokes the onset of mild panic attacks. Along with epic scale, wonderful wildlife, magnificent scenery, strange volcanic rock formations and shimmering desert light, our memories of driving across the North Queensland bush are blighted by the fact that the remote roadhouses sold nothing but instant Nescafe. We may never go back. Gill and I may have many qualities; intrepid is not one of them.
Though Boca do Rio is no longer inhabited, aside from motorhome itinerants, there is considerable evidence that this was not always the case. The ruins of Forte de Almádena overlook the cove from the cliffs to the east, remains of smaller dwellings are dotted about and by the beach there is a more substantial structure, probably once associated with tuna processing. It is covered in graffiti, some of them quite startling.
There are no facilities in the parking area so really it's an overnight stopping place rather than somewhere to settle. However, a group of French vans seemed to have been here for a while. It appears their owners have become locked into a long running grudge boules contest from which there is no escape. We left before matters deteriorated further. We presume that allegations of surreptitious toe nudging involving M. Layfette were eventually proven and his headless corpse now lies buried in the marshes.
The clifftop walks are really spectacular. Every time we walked up it seemed the Swiss woman and her dog from the van next to us was coming down. She was very friendly and we had a couple of interesting conversations about her travels. She was married to an English mechanic called Kevin, together they had just completed a two year trip across North and Central America in their 4x4 monster moho. Previously they had travelled extensively in Africa.
I admire such resolve and bravery. Even our younger selves could never have emulated their adventurous spirit. What would you do if the Lavazza ran out half way to Timbuktu? Already we have become a little anxious that supplies of our favourite Mercadona crunchy cereal are somewhat depleted and we can't find anywhere in Portugal that sells humus. Africa is not really an option for us.
What makes this scrap of imaginary wilderness truly special, and the real reason we are here, is that just around the headland in the next cove is Cabanas Beach Restaurant. Today is Gill's birthday. Where exactly we are going to celebtate her birthday lunch on the 4th November is an important factor when planning autumn trips, and something I get quite anxious about. Gill's requirements are quite simple - delicious food, stunning view - which is more difficult to arrange than it might seem.
While planning the trip over the summer, as I browsed Google maps looking at the beach access roads to the wild camping spots mentioned on Campercontacts, I stumbled upon a link to a beach restaurant, the photos looked alluring, the menu simple but delicious and the place had rave reviews both on Google and Trip advisor. It all looked good.
As the 4th approached the weather which had been wall to wall blue for weeks became changeable and Gill developed a mild sinus infection which robbed her of a sense of taste. Every birthday Gill has celebrated since we started our travels has been affected by some minor glitch and I began to suspect that this year was going to be no different.
Magically, despite my brush with the moonlit thunderclouds and Jake sometime in the middle of last night, the storms dissipated by morning. Gill's regime of steam inhalation restored her taste buds to full functionality so everything was looking good for Gill's birthday this year as Maisy bumped and squeaked down the steep rough track that leads to Cabanas beach.
What a great little place this is. Decked out, as a Trip Advisor review noted as 'a slice of Ibiza in Portugal'. The staff are really welcoming and the food simply delicious. We both had seared tuna with sautéed vegetables, it was beautifully cooked. The baked sweet potatoes added an unusual flavour, a little more subtle than when they are deep fried. We shared a chilli chocolate brownie for pud, it was delicious too.
Afterwards we drove back to the Praia do Boca parking. As the sun set we finished our celebration by sharing a bottle of Alenjento white wine and birthday cake. The best we could manage was some lemon sponge cake bought from Lidl decorated with three tea lights. But I sang lustily in my best tone-deaf baritone - on the basis that a discordant celebration is better than no celebration whatsoever.
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