Natives, Colonists, Tribes.

Our quest to learn to love Portugal continues. The challenge was brought home to me when Facebook's 'on this day' reminded us of our joy and wonder when we crossed back into Spain a year ago: https://m.facebook.com/story.php?story_fbid=10212194318025870&id=1014424074

Admittedly, last year we had wet, cold and windy weather all the time we were in Portugal and it only became gloriously sunny once we crossed into Andalucia. The same cannot be said at the moment, the last fortnight's heatwave seems set to continue until Wednesday at least.

Both of us are feeling slightly glum. No particular reason, just a minor slump. It can happen when you travel for weeks on end, momentarily you suddenly feel adrift and rootless. So we are struggling with our mission to discover Portugal's delights. I sense the culture is more reserved than other places in the South, people less demonstrative, a little taciturn at times. Our lack of even the most basic Portuguese phrases does not help either.

The area is not particularly to our taste. The Algarve coast is undoubtedly very beautiful, but the level of development is reminiscent of Spain's Costa Blanca, a little more up-market perhaps, definitely orientated towards the British, but pitched at a Daily Mail reader demographic rather than the Spanish Costa's Sun reading, East Enders' devotees. If all of that sounds snobbish, that's because it probably is. 

I remarked when we visited Benidorm that the town delivered tourism on an industrial scale, and like most industrial plant it hardly enhances the view, tends to be polluting and changes the local area by imposing a dominant monoculture. In the Algarve the the tourist industry is similar​, plus golf resorts. No wonder there was an outbreak of low level direct action against tour buses a few months ago in Iberia, protests against low paid seasonal work that sets a poverty trap. Locals, particularly the young, become subalterns to itinerant, sun-seeking colonists; consumer demand obliterates whatever was unique and particular about the locality and whole stretches of the coastline becomes blighted by Disneyfication. Alvor, once an unassuming fishing village, is now so cute it looks as if has been photoshopped. Nonetheless it is marginally less developed than nearby Portomão and Lagos, and the estuary itself remains beautiful, though overlooked by five or six tower blocks.

Had the town's campsite where we had originally planned to stay been lovely (it wasn't) the sign over the local hostelry advertising 'proper grub' and 'a pint for 90 cents' would have been enough for us turn tail and run. 

We are staying down the road with a hoard of other mohos at the dusty 'Area Autocaravanas' near the beach. It's not great, but at least we are ensconced in our appropriate tribal enclave.

To be a member all you need is a motorhome and a dislike of over-managed, manicured camp sites with barriers that turn places into bungaloid gated communities for the zombie retired. Other than that our fellow Moho migrants are a mix of Europe's retirees in vans of all shapes and sizes. A motley crew, I do wonder if people who prefers a car-park to campsites are all misfits in some small way, ourselves included.

Maybe so, but at €4.50 per night, a stone's throw from a beautiful beach, a short stroll to Alvor's cute waterfront and an easy bike ride to the supermarket, then as imperfection goes, it is not bad at all. 

Given our scrap of dusty waste ground is in the middle of the resort it is surprisingly peaceful at night. More peaceful in fact than the rural site we stayed at previously to escape Stalag Batley. The inland site was on the outskirts of the small town of Moncarapacho, described in the ACSI book as rural and rustic.

The place is attractive and informal run by a French couple. Some of the facilities seem like self-build projects - definitely rustic! Rural, but not peaceful, the voluble cockerels I can forgive, shame the place is on Faro airport's flight path.

There are regular early morning arrivals at the weekend and the point at which pilots engage reverse thrust appeared to be directly above our open rooflight,. Perhaps sleeplessness is contributing to my grump. So we unpitched and headed for Alvor.

Our antidote to grump, irritation with fellow humanity and voluble chickens - unload the bikes and explore the tracks and boardwalks that crisscross the nearby estuary's wetlands. A gorgeous bright morning, you cannot stay glum for long. The shoreline seems to attract cairn builders and rock pile enthusiasts. There were scores of self-build mini menhirs all over the place. 

I posted a picture on FB suggesting they may be the work of 'men with insecurities'. Apparently I am missing the point, it's all about spirituality. My long time cyberpal Theresa asked, why can't they be both? A good point. By that reckoning the Leaning Tower of Pisa might be regarded as having had dysfunction in-built from the outset. 

We parked the bikes where the track became sandy and unrideable then walked the rest of the way to the end of the spit. 

The entrance to the estuary is protected by a sea wall constructed from big blocks of granite. At the end is a squat striped cone topped by a pole with a light on top. "That lighthouse looks very 'Spinal Tap,'" Gill observed.

After lunch we read for a bit, then sat on the beach. This may be the last beach weather we get, rain and thunderstorms are forecast for the end of the week, beyond, a return to sunny days but temperatures dropping to the high teens. Not chilly, but weather to to take a walk rather than simply relax. 

Perhaps today will be my last opportunity to swim without a trisuit. I chickened out at the first attempt, compared to only a few days ago the water temperature had dropped considerably. Gill read, I watched a group of Germans, dad and his teenage sons I guess, having a kick about on the sands. They were precise and skillful, having fun, but seriously. The sea did look inviting, greenish rolling waves, not breaking much, great to swim in, but not scary. So I told myself off for being a wuzz and waded in. As soon as you begin swimming your body adjusts to the temperature. I spent about 10 minutes wrestling the swell. It was a good work out. 

We both feel happier now. I think the stultifying atmosphere of the sites we have been staying on depressed us both. However, we need a washing machine, so tomorrow we must head for a nearby site at Luz. Maybe it will be less stuffy and rule-bound without a Daily Male in sight. After then we intend to head towards Cape St Vincent then turn northwards following the emptier west coast towards Lisbon. 

November tomorrow - we have found at these latitudes the month brings cooler, more mixed weather; Maybe the hoards of inveterate sun-seeking wrinklies will head home and places will be less busy. The far west of the Algarve is more remote, surfer oriented with a more youthful vibe or so our trusty Lonely Planet guide asserts. We shall see.

Is that really an Elvis impersonator singing in the bar?

Well it probably was. It went on long after we went to bed and we dropped off to his dulcet tones - ballads preferred to Jailhouse Rock. It sounded as bad as you might expect from the Algarve's most under appreciated Elvis wannabe. Beyond Camping Ria Formosa's surreal enclave we had a good day, it was only when we returned to the site that life reverted to being peculiar.

We planned an escape to the beach. This part of the coast is protected. Ria Formosa Natural Park runs west from Faro covering the estuarine coastline of salt flats and tidal inlets most of the way to the Spanish border. Consequently the area is less developed than the coves and cliffs typical of the central Algarve. The beach at Cabanas is situated on one of the string of sand and salt marsh islets that shelter the small fishing portsfrom the Atlantic's swell. Consequently the beaches are as undeveloped as you are likely to find in southwest Europe.

To get to the beach you have to catch a small ferry from the Cabanas promenade. It only seats about half a dozen people at a time, trundling to and fro across the narrow channel. There is something ancient, mythic almost, about swapping a few coins for a boat crossing. Admittedly, to be a truly elemental experience we should have been rowed across. Perhaps even Charon these days has an outboard, Mercury coming to the aid of Hades' guardian! Our ferryman really looked the part, tall and skinny with a tawny sun-wrinkled face, Gill got a real hero shot, a bit of a silhouette, but that simply added to the epic effect.

We spent an hour or so being beach bums. Gill finished re-reading Eric Ambler's 'Mask of Demetrius' and declared it brilliant. I messed about in the pounding surf, attempting to swim, but mainly got up-ended. The water was exceptionally warm considering it is November in less than a week's time. Generally it has been a very warm, calm October. It's the lack of wind as much as the high temperatures that makes the sea comfortable to swim in I think.

Stored in the Moho garage is my two decade old bodyboard. I am trying to build up my confidence to re-launch myself into the Atlantic surf. Two problems, firstly, even the forty something me was pretty crap at bodyboarding; secondly, the sixty something me has a much stronger sense of mortality and self-preservation. Younger me launched himself into the crashing waves with the thought, 'I might be scared, but probably I won't drown'. Today I am likely to suspect the opposite. But if the worst happens I do have trisuit, so as a victim of extreme sports at least I would look the part.

Days are getting shorter. It was a little after five by the time we got back, already shadows had lengthened and the light was golden. By the time Gill had prepared the veg and I had fired-up the outside cooker the sun was setting. We finished grilling the chicken in semi-darkness and grumbling about needing a better outside light. At this time in the evening there can be a lovely convivial hubbub in campsites, especially in southern countries. What we realised tonight that this impression is created largely because we are foreigners. Unable to understand a word of what is being said around us we interpret the resultant murmur as a sign of conviviality.

Here at Camping Ria Formosa we are in a British enclave, Autotrails, Swifts and Baileys surround us. The big difference is we can actually understand the ambient social hubbub. Most of it is complete bollocks and some, like the nervous amused shrieking, quite annoying. I am not saying that my fellow countrymen (the drivel is predominantly coming from the men) are more prone to talking bollocks than other nationalities, simply that our myth about convivial continentals may be the result of being unable to understand them.

One exception which proved our prejudice was the chap from Barnsley or Doncaster. He bored for Yorkshire by repeating three times within ten minutes to various long suffering victims an entirely facile anecdote about how you can make budget Aperol Spritz by using the cheap knock-off orange vermouth from Aldi and substituting cava (carevair) for prosecco... If Mr Higginbotham had been Italian I would have taken him as a bit of a raconteur based entirely on the fact I could not understand a word he said. We've decided to move on tomorrow to an inland site where the chances are we will revert to being foreigners basking in happy ignorance of everything that is going on around us.

Tavira, exceedingly Portuguese.

If you attempted to extract 'essence of Portugal' from our guidebook by choosing its most clichéd phrases and stereotypical photos perhaps the list might include, 'palm shaded squares', 'tangled alleys', 'terracotta tiles roofscapes', 'tile-clad pasteleria', 'the haunting sound of fado drifting from a shadowy café. I could go on (the guidebook does) - about 'gleaming white palacios with rococo facades piped like sugar craft'.... But to come up with such a list you would need to filch a phrase from the chapter on Lisbon, a bit about Porto's azulejo and a snippet from the effusive entry on Nazaré's ancient centre, and even then a suspicion would grow that the authors had gilded the lily somewhat.

Astonishingly, we clocked up the entire checklist in less than two hours wandering around Tavira. Perhaps you suspect that I too am exaggerating, but I have the photographs to prove it. However, before we reveal the delights of instant Portugal a note about transport. 

Camping Ria Formosa is a five minute walk from the station. Confusingly although we are in Cabanas, the station is called Conceição, which is impossible to pronounce without a smattering of Portuguese, which we lack. Tavira is two stops down the line, however the first stop, Porta Nuova, is actually closer to the old town.

A small gaggle of us gathered on the platform at 13:00, blissfully unaware that the timetable given to us by reception was provided purely for purposes of reassurance and had no relation whatsoever to actuality. Luckily, as the appointed time came and went we all could watch with growing fascination three distant figures, dressed in hi-res vests, approaching from down the track haltingly. It was only after some minutes that the reason for their intermittent progress became clear. Two of the young men were clutching six foot white calibrated poles, while the third lugged a hi-tech theodolite perched atop a yellow tripod. Checking that the tracks have not become hillier overnight is clearly top priority in Portuguese railway management circles, more important than punctuality, and probably easier to maintain.

Now the much anticipated express was not merely a tad late, but somewhat delayed. The handsome surveyors moved on, boredom set in and we both started taking random photos of interesting design features to be found in rural Portuguese railway halts.

Ping! went the nearby level crossing. The barber-pole barriers lowered and moments later an ancient diesel, liveried in shabby chic blue squeaked and clanked arounded the bend. It was so old that even the graffiti had faded. Alighting, we stepped from blinding sunlight to a yellowy penumbral gloom; the carriage windows had not been washed for a decade or two. However the conductor was cheerful and boasted a beautifully handcrafted leather money pouch and proper ticket machine. No contactless here.

We reached our stop in a matter of minutes and  soon walked to Tavira's famous Roman Bridge. It's called the Roman Bridge, but in fact there is evidence that its abutments may even be older, of Carthaginian or Greek construction.

The settlement itself is even older. Archaeological evidence from the castle area suggests that this hill above the estuary of the river Gilão has been occupied continuously since the Neolithic era.  People have lived a continuous settled existence here for more than 6000 years, an astonishing statistic.

Anyway, back to the claim that Tavira can provide total Portugal in an afternoon...

1. Palm Shaded Squares

This particular palm shaded square by the river out-hipstered our Lonely Planet by having cool live Bossa Nova drifting across it from a mysterious source.

Well, not wholly mysterious as it turned out, the guitarist was hidden behind a kiosk...he was very good.

2. Tangled Alleys

3. Terracotta tiled roofscapes

The best place to admire the undulating roofscapes is from the vantage point of Tavira's ruined castle. A couple of added bonuses thrown-in. Firstly, entry is free. Secondly it has a pretty garden full of exotic plants.

Including this one from Central America called Angel's Trumpet. It's deadly poisonous apparently and should have warning notices next to it.

4. Tile-clad Pasteleria...

OK, point taken, our venerable pasteleria lacked tiles, but crispy almond cake was a divine concotion and solace enough for any weary traveller pining for azulejo.

5. 'the haunting sound of fado drifting from a shadowy café.

It's true, the haunting sound of Fado did fill this flower decked street as we walked through.

6. 'gleaming white palacios with rococo facades piped like sugar craft'

Yes, I realise it's Renaissance not Rococo, but it does gleam and the twiddly bits do look like piped icing sugar,

Of course it is a fanciful, preposterous claim that one small town could ever contain the highlights of an entire country. Tavira makes a good stab at it -  an alluring place.