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.