No left turn ahead (hanging with the dudes).

Heading west beyond Sagres you have only two options - turn north or turn around. Do anything else and you drive over a 280' cliff. 

Europe's vertiginous southwestern tip has been a significant place in human culture for millennia - as Wikepdia tells us:

Cabo Sáo Vicente was already sacred ground in Neolithic times, as standing menhirs in the neighbourhood attest. The ancient Greeks called it Ophiussa (Land of Serpents), inhabited by the Oestriminis and dedicated here a temple to Heracles. The Romans called it Promontorium Sacrum (or Holy Promontory). They considered it a magical place where the sunset was much larger than anywhere else. They believed the sun sank here hissing into the ocean, marking the edge of their world.

Even today it a place of pilgrimage, somewhere people visit simply to say they have been. By some amazing coincidence two British couples in motorhomes called Maisy turned up at the same time. 

My attempt to engage the owner of the other one in a conversation about this was a bit of a failure. She was keen to point out that their Maisy had the name inscribed on the back and a personal number plate to boot. Somewhat lamely I had to admit that ours had none of those things, though I did point out that she featured often and at great length in a blog. To move the conversation away from becoming a tad competitive we hastily agreed that Maisy was a good name for a moho, then went our separate ways. 

Gill had not noticed that I had stopped to chat, probably because it is not something I am wont to do that often, Anyway, I found her eventually taking photos of the lighthouse and the cliffs. She is a big fan of both. In fact the entire Western Algarve is something of an ex-geography student's delight. In the space of about 15 kilometres the coastal hinterland goes through three utterly different types of landscape. Around Espiche and Budens it is quite verdant, typical of the pictures you get in an Algarve tourist brochure. Further west you enter an area of ancient dunes. The sandy soil retains no nutrients whatsoever, The only thing that grows well is grey wizened grass - no crops, no trees; it's dead looking. As the end of the promentory approaches, around Sagres, the scenery changes again. Surrounded by the ocean on three sides it is wild and windswept. However, although there are few trees the underlying limestone and sandstone produces a richer soil; the two capes are carpeted with dense, low growing coniferous shrubs, their deep green tones contrasting with the vivid blue sea beyond.

After an hour or so mooching about at the Cape lunch called. We were parked by the side of the road on uneven ground so we decided to return to a clifftop parking we had spotted a kilometre or two down the road. It turned out to be the carpark for​ Praia do Beliche reached by a series of steep wooden steps down the side of the cliff. There were surfers in the swell and their vans parked around us. They provided plenty of entertainment while we munched our Greek salads.

The Summer of Love may now be half a century ago, but hippydom seems to still prevail here at the far end of the Algarve. The area towards the Cabo da Sao Vincent is a crusties' haven. Ancient campervans and conversions abound, as do tattoos, patched kahki shorts, half laced boots and dreadlocks. Scrawled on the back of an ancient Moho repainted in a camouflage livery was a mission statement straight out of Timothy Leary.

In some ways these latter-day drop-outs seem like hangers-on to the surf scene, sharing its laid back vaguely counter-culture vibe, but rejecting the surf dudes dedication to their practise. There is something spiritual in their pursuit of the perfect wave, a thrilling beauty when they catch one right and ride the rolling ocean, one frail human outfoxing Poseidon's power with nothing more than a two metre sliver of carbon fibre.

They look lithe and beautiful too, the sport hones their physique, lean yet muscular like dancers. Lunch was calling the surfers too. One by one they clambered up the steps with their boards heading back to beat-up old campers. A young man with tousled black hair and a blue and turquoise board tucked under his arm wandered across the road and leaned it against a yellow VW van in the restaurant car park opposite us. He looked super cool. He knew this; he had worked on it. He did have a problem however. He needed to divest himself of his wetsuit. As anyone who has worn one knows, irrespective of your dudeist credentials, no-one can escape a wet-suit laconically. His attempt started well, he leaned against a nearby lamppost and unzipped himself slowly, but then had no choice but to simply accept he was going to have to wriggle and hop ridiculously to have any hope of escaping the garment. After a bit of a struggle he folded the floppy dripping suit over the open rear door of the van and regained his cool, poised momentarily like Adonis in Speedos. Then, assuming an even more resplendent pose, he removed them and reached into the van for a towel to dry himself right by the roadside, ensuring that 'tous le monde' had ample opportunity to admire his Olympian form.

However, despite the prevalence of drop-outs and surf dudes, the Sixties are long gone even here. Nothing illustrates this better than the fact that you can buy a slice of them by hiring a hippyfied van for the weekend and escape the drudgery of your post-modern urban existence for a while in an 'Indie camper' - counter-culture commodified. Basically these are slightly clapped out campers jazzed-up with funky graphics designed to seem a bit random and left-field. Over the past two days a number of these vehicles have parked next to us. One had a graphic of a topless surfer with a purple Afro, like Marsha Hunt re-imagined as a mermaid. The other was decorated with a giant baby's head smoking a Popeye pipe placed on spacesuited body. It's all too over-designed and packaged to be really cool, but I suppose it feels alternative enough for a youngish KMPG auditor from Stuttgart or a couple of media executives from Dalston to swap their hard earned cash for a long weekend of fantasy counter-culture in the sun.

We were ready to move on. For a moment we wondered whether staying at the Orbitur site in nearby Sagres might be interesting, but the whole area seemed busy, different from the more obviously developed parts of the Algarve but nonetheless it was hardly peaceful. However, if we were going to wild camp on the west coast as planned, then we needed to empty the tanks. One positive aspect of the Moho jam in the Algarve is that some supermarkets are beginning to invest in facilities. The Intermarché at Sagres provides two modern moho service points behind the petrol station. A good thing but sadly misused by some owners who had emptied chemical toilet waste down the grey water drains leaving them in a disgusting state. What is wrong with people?

Anyway, we did manage to sort ourselves out. There followed our usual, 'well this is it' conversation which occurs whenever we reach our furthest point from home - 2,562 miles- to be precise - a momentary sadness as we turn north. Onwards - Portugal's coast south of Lisbon is unexplored territory. We like unfamiliar places. That is some consolation as we begin to head home. The forecast remains sunny, but autumn is catching up with us. A northerly wind is blowing; the thermometer may try to tell us that it's in the twenties but it feels chillier. I have a feeling the bodyboard in the garage may be going to stay there. In truth, these days I am too flabby to surf, I think I need to leave it to Adonis and his well honed friends.