The empty corner.

It was bright and sunny when we dropped Sarah Rob and Ralfi at the station, though the temperature had dropped from the balmy upper twenties of a couple of days ago to the chilly low teens now. We were lucky, early onset winter was being reported on the news and by friends across Europe. Three quarters of Venice under water, a train trapped in snowdrifts near Lyon, flash floods sweeping through Zante. It was heading our way too, but not just yet. Being practically minded people we decided to head back to the campsite at Alcacer do Sal and sort out some laundry before storm Daphne or whoever, engulfed us.

We set something of a record managing to shop, do a large load of laundry, re-fill the LPG bottles, refuel the van, book into the site then hang out the bed linen, towels and most of our underwear, all within 80 minutes. Now what... we wondered. It was still early afternoon, all we had to do was sit and watch the clothes dry. It looked increasingly as is I was going to be forced into my least favourite activity - relaxing. Instead, we cleaned the inside of the van top to bottom and I emptied the rear garage, swept it out and put everything back in a more pleasing order. The clocks having changed, darkness was falling, time to eat, watch an episode of Wallander, deplete the wine store and head for bed. Another day slipped by.

It's Laundryman, not as powerful as Superman, but  more useful....

I tried spooking it by calling 'piri piri, piri piri!' It had no effect.

We woke to sunshine and single digits on the thermometer. Our plan was to head west towards the coast at Comporta following the south bank of the Rio Sado estuary, then southwards to Sines, calling into one of the remote beach parking places for lunch. 

The Alentejo is one of the least populated parts of Portugal. It's big, think Wales and a quarter, but with less than a quarter of the Principality's population. Even by Alentejo standards, the eucalyptus and pine forests between Comporta and Sines feel remote. The entire area is a series of ancient dunes whose progress has been halted by maritime pines. Nothing else grows, neither cereals nor veg, not even grass for pasture - no agriculture, no humans. Under clear blue skies and glittering sunlight such empty spaces feel expansive and liberating, but the horizon was smudged with clouds, the promised storms were threatening. It felt desolate. Ramshackle small resorts dot the deserted coast.

Campercontacts noted a motorhome stopping place at Lagoa de St Andre, it was next to a salt lagoon and a windswept beach. The village itself was half abandoned with a graffiti daubed shell of a 1960s apartment block on the outskirts and a closed restaurant opposite, similarly spray painted. The parking area between the lake and the beach was nice enough. Recently constructed walkways crisscrossed the delicate dunes with information boards explaining the flora, fauna and local ecology. We duly walked them, took some photos and tried to decipher the information on the boards. Though the walkways looked like wood they were made of plastic, curiously at odds with the 'green' message on boards.

 Lagoa de St Andre - closed for the season

If solitude is whay uou crave, you will find it here

along with a bunch of others seeking solitude too

Aires hereabouts on this remote stretch of the Alentejo coast tend to attract ageing hippies and a variety of other new-agers attempting to escape modernity. This place boasted a clutch of jazzed-up old mohos, mooching mongrels and gangly longhaired fifty plusses. Not really our style, we are not dropping out, merely dropping by. We decided to head for the campsite at Vila Nova de Milfontes, south of Sines, about a 50km drive.

By the time we arrived the weather was distinctly gloomy, as was our mood. There are some lovely campsites in Portugal, but these are the exception, many are mediocre at best. This one managed to achieve the apparently contradictory feat of being both ramshackle and scruffy, yet over regulated and rule bound, complete with turnstiles at the entrance and camper identity cards which we were advised to carry at all times.The place felt like somewhere Ceaușescu might have set up on the Black Sea coast as a vacation centre for minor Party apparatchiks.

Still the forecast torrential rain held off, so we took a stroll into town. Not a soul stirred, the uniform white grid of terraces were post-apocalyptically quiet. Our Lonely Planet guidebook explained why. The town's permanent population is a little under 4000. In summer it can reach 50,000. Many of the houses are short term rentals and second homes and the town's outskirts consist of acres of low rise apartment blocks. The old centre is attractive with an ivy covered castle overlooking the estuary and a tangle of steep streets of single storey cottages.

Ghastly low rise apartment blocks ring Vila Nova di Milfontes

The old centre remains a small fishing port

with attractive streets

shady squares

and some houses with gardens big enough to grow a few vegetables and keep chickens

As well as the fishing community, judging by the 'new-age' shops selling oriental fabrics, scented candles, Buddha sculptures and cute 'my little pony' style unicorn figurines, it would seem the place has an a bit of a crusty community too, inadvertently hilarious, like Glastonbury.

OK, why the giant patchwork octopus strung-up in the tree?

Quite scary close too

As well ar joss-sticks and plastic Buddhas, this place sold boomarangs - why? 

The town perked up a bit as we walked back to the campsite. School must have finished, suddenly the streets were full of excited tweenies and teens. As the long afternoon break ended shops opened and there was a mini rush hour. Though the outskirts remained spookily empty the centre at least seemed to have some life about it.

The  Municipal fish a vegetable market opposite the campsite was excellent, great fresh produce - and busy.

Before dark the rain began, a steady thrum at first, then during the night it became stormy. Where we sleep at the rear of the van, is next to the bike rack. In windy weather the bike cover flaps annoyingly and rain streams off the roof and drums on the taut nylon fabric. We had a disturbed night.

It was still raining when we woke. At least the shower is hot, I thought to myself as I plopped a dollop of shower cream on my head, everything else about the toilet block was terrible - old, Spartan and none too clean. Then the water went luke warm, then tepid then stone cold. It was cold and wet inside and out; so was I.

We hatched a plan. Let's head for the site at Zambujeira, we had used it last year.and remembered it as having been the best we found in the area.