Don't stop the carnival...

The last blog post concluded with a nod to some forgotten giants of Geordie pop, so why not start this one with another. A pub quiz question -  Who had a top twenty hit in February 1968 with a calypso inspired song called 'Don't stop the carnival'?  The answer - as anyone aged over 60 born south of the Tweed and north of the Tees will tell you is... the Alan Price Set, whose leader happened to be the former bluesy keyboard player from the Animals, who have to be the second greatest band ever from Geordieland.

So why does any of this matter to us parked as we are in a dreadful campsite on the outskirts of Sesimbre on a sunny Sunday at the end of February? Because it is the town's carnival that has drawn us here. There are three major Brazilian inspired Mardi Gras carnivals in Portugal, Loule, Torre Vedra and Sesimbre. We decided that the latter was the one for us, partly because Sesimbre is an attractive seaside town with a mild climate, but also we knew the municipal campsite is walkable from the town centre making it ideal to be able to watch the parade then get back to the van afterwards.

The question we asked ourselves, would the event go ahead or be cancelled due to Portugal's Covid restrictions? It could go either way. With all the the singing, dancing and extreme bonhomie on the streets you might see it as a perfectly designed super-spreader event.  Conversely, what is the difference between a football match and a carnival? If it is acceptable for 40,000 fans to pack into Sporting's stadium to watch them play Porto then surely a carnival is no different in terms of outdoor social mixing. That certainly seemed to be the position when I checked Sesimbre town's website before we set off in January. 

So we planned our trip to make 'terça-feira gorda' the focal point of the trip, aiming to spend a few days up to Shrove Tuesday in Sesimbre to watch the street celebrations.

There then followed a number of confusing exchanges regarding the event. While we were staying in Isla Cristina I emailed the Sesimbre tourist office explaining that I wanted to come for the carnival and asked whether it would it be necessary to book a pitch at the town's municipal camping site. After a few days I received a one line reply informing me the site was closed until further notice, there was no mention of the carnival, so I took that as an affirmation of the information on-line. 

Though unlisted by either ACSI or Searchforsites I came across another site on the fringes of Sesimbre about 1km. down a minor road but within walkable distance from the main bus route into town. The reviews for Camping Valbom on Google were scathing but it seemed the only option. The road to it on streetview looked rough but doable, and most importantly not too narrow. No need to book was the reply to my email, or more precisely - "The camping area does not have limited spaces, so its occupation is done by order of arrival."

So we carried on with our plans. Two days before we were due to arrive, though the main Sesimbre town's website remained emblazoned with information about the delights of their annual carnival, a linked Facebook page kept by the local council posted  a gnomic message saying that this year's carnival had been 'adapted' and they hoped that next year there would be a chance to see a  procession  by the beach. 

Having been entirely confused by ambiguous messages on-line I hoped local knowledge would clarify matters. On our arrival the receptionist at Camping Valbom informed us confidently that all carnival events were cancelled this year; her colleague who came to open the side gate to let us in, asserted that everything was happening as normal and it would be best to catch the bus into town early, by about 9.00am. as transport would become impossibly busy any later than that.  I was disinclined to trust either of them, though if pushed probably would have  gone with the guy's information because he was the spitting image of Pep Guadiola, and he is always right about everything.

The only thing to do was to go and see, but not at 9.00am. We managed to catch the 11.25am bus, despite it being a 20 minute walk to the bus stop. This counts as perky by our standards these days. 

The quality of the site may be lamentable but the location is pretty and the road to the bustop passed through a lightly wooded area covered with blossoming ginestre bushes. 

I don't think the area will remain so undeveloped for much longer, an estate of stylish looking houses and apartments is almost completed. Given the location more must surely follow. 

This is our third visit to Sesimbre, it is a lovely small resort on a south facing coast. Protected by Arrábida massif the place has a micro-climate reminiscent of the Côte d'Azur, in fact it has the look of the Riviera, but not so over-developed.

Contrary to the Pep's long lost brother's prediction there were only half a dozen other passengers on the bus when it turned up. Traffic was heavy and Sesimbre busy, but not heaving. It appears to be the place to go on a Sunday for every guy from Lisbon with a shiny big motorbike. More stylish than Matlock Bath, Gill observed.

We came across a poster advertising 'Carnival 22'. Finally we made sense of what was going on. The parades had been cancelled and replaced by events on an outside stage in a park on the edge of town, about 3km away. We decided to give it a miss. The whole point of a carnival is it feels abandoned and spontaneous, transforming momentarily the polite order of the street into something wilder and slightly indecent. To confine it to a stage would be to tame it. 

We looked for somewhere to have lunch and were delighted to find the Taphouse cafe open. It's a stylish looking place on the roof of a small 'fortezza' by the sea. Both times we have been here previously it has been closed. In Portugal if you turn up at 12.55pm then you almost always will get a table, 10 minutes later you might struggle.

The place specialises in craft beers, something which is still quite niche in Portugal. Gill went for a classic IPA, I decided to try something more unusual - a light ale with a hint of thyme. Both were good, but mine was interesting rather than delicious.

We ordered two 'tostas' but failed to appreciate the why the letters 'XL' had been placed next to them on the menu. In terms of food culture Portugal is not somewhere that embraces minimalism, you are not going to be served a small ceviche of tuna accompanied by a couple of sprigs of greens, a seared sliver of red pepper, five meaningfully placed olives and an artistic brush stroke of tapenade. Hearty is the thing here.  

Our Lonely Planet guide sums this up perfectly in an entry about a restaurant in Obidos:

"The place isn't signed, it just says 'Snack Bar', but if these are snacks, we'd hate to see what they consider a full meal."

The Taphouse is not a  'snack bar', the place is quite stylish, but the tosta's were definitely "XL' , substantial enough to be considered a full meal by Lonely Planet's criteria. 

Afterwards the most we were going to manage was a slow amble. We toddled to the west end of the esplanade, turned around and made our way slowly to the opposite end, like everyone else.

Some people were in fancy dress, entire families dressed as Marvel characters, clowns, cats, all kinds of things, maybe there had been some kind of competition, perhaps it's just a thing people do around carnival time. 

I took a few pictures of the beach and a couple of things I took a liking to, such as the enormous white hotel which looked  late 1970s. I do love twentieth century architecture.

The other thing you find in Portugal are lots of murals depicting everyday life, both past and present. Maybe the tradition goes back to the scenes found on traditional azulos, but transfered to mural painting.

You get a mixture of styles, some realist, but also art-deco idealism and more contemporary comic book inspired graphics.

The bus stop nearest to the campsite was on the main road towards Lisbon, so even on a Sunday there was a regular service. We were back at the van before 5.00pm. 

During the early evening I entertained myself by watching the live stream of the carnival concert that the local council had put on YouTube. I was glad we had decided not to go. In a carnival parade you forgive the amateurism of the musicians and dancers, even their shortcomings can seem charmIng. Placed on stage and videoed their awkwardness becomes more apparent and annoying. I hope we can return here next year at carnival time, somehow I feel we owe it to the place.

Now there is nothing to keep us here and we have a few days to spare before we need to be in Lisbon. Staying here is not really an option, the site is set up for statics, hundreds of them in rows, each a variation of the same setup, ancient caravan with gazebo style sun lounge, outside kitchen with impressive brick BBQ with chimney. Busy at weekends, empty otherwise.

The facilities for tourers are some of the worst we have found on all our travels. The showers especially were memorably dis-functional. Admittedly the water was on the acceptable side of luke-warm, but the heads were either missing (water streamed like a tap) or corroded into strange positions so the water missed you altogether, sprayed down the walls, up to the ceiling or towards the door. Not that there was much of door, I'm average height, and my head and shoulders stuck up over the top, while the bottom of the metal door was a little above my knees; in terms of privacy this was matterless, the bolts were missing anyway. Grim shower block = grumpy Pete. Hopefully Sesimbre's municipal site will be open again if we return next year. It isn't great, very utilitarian, but at least it is functional.

Tomorrow we are heading north to Peniche.I do realise that one important question remains unanswered. If the Animals were the second best band to emerge from the North East, who do I rate as top? Not the obvious candidates, Roxy Music, The Police, Dire Straights are probably the ones  most likely to spring to mind. Personally I would choose Prefab Sprout, England's answer to Steely Dan in my book, sassy arrangements, great playing, clever intelligent lyrics. 

Around and about in Alentejo

Years ago the Guardian ran a piece about how journalists have a peculiar habit of making fatuous comparisons to communicate the size of things; these measurements include Wales, London buses, Wembley Stadium, and Belgium. The writer omitted other equally clichéd units of measurement, such as the height of Nelson's Column or the Eiffel tower.

I could just say that the Alentejo is quite large and sparsely populated, or adopt a more tabloid approach asserting that the province is indeed roughly the size of Belgium. Now having made one fatuous comparison it becomes impossible to resist another. When it comes to population - you could fill 128 Wembley stadiums with Belgians whereas you would require a mere 8 Wembleys to accommodate all the citizens of Alentejo.

So, if I had to describe the Alentejo in one word it would be 'quiet'. There is not much traffic, the towns on the whole are small and unassuming, though many have interesting ancient centres and ruined castles dot the landscape. The countryside is agricultural in the main, orange groves in the south, cereals in the middle and some seriously good wine from Borba and Estremoz. However, the landscape may be unassuming but it isn't boring, mostly gently undulating, with big fields interspersed with eucalyptus woods, big skies too, often blue and cloudless. 

What drama there is comes at the province's extremities, in the west one of the most beautiful and undeveloped coastlines in Europe, to the east, close to the border with Spain, the river Guadiana winds through hillier and more rugged terrain; some of the valleys have been flooded to form huge reservoirs.

We have never systematically explored the Alentejo - though it certainly warrants it - instead we've tended to sample its delights while passing through on the way to somewhere else. In a way this time is no different, we are taking a week or so wandering northwards up the coast, but need to be in Sesimbre by the end of February to see the carnival, then we head for Lisbon to meet up with Gill's sister Jackie and her daughter Anna. 

What we do after then is still a matter of conjecture. Perhaps drive north and visit Peniche, or maybe head straight back to Spain. Either way it involves another meandering trip through the back roads of Alentejo, overnighting in free parking places but using the municipal campsite at Serpa to empty the tank and replenish our white water.

It's a plan. As for more immediate plans, we changed those too. Originally we intended to head towards Sesimbre in a series of short hops, but that would have involved staying overnight in free parking places. The weather forecast for the next few days is fabulous, do we really want to spend the time parked on asphalt when we have the opportunity to relax in warm sunshine? So instead of heading for a night in an Intermarché car park in Sines we decided to spend a couple of days in a campsite in Vila Nova do Milfontes, then take it from there.

Vila Nova do Milfontes

I don't know what was up with me when we first visited here in late October 2018. Re-reading the blog I didn't have a good word to say about either the place or the campsite. There is an alternative site next door, but due to a sat-nav failure we ended up in the same place. I wasn't wrong about the site's failings, but this time they didn't seem to bother me. The weather was probably the thing that made the difference. It was very showery in 2018 whereas today it was summery, with  deep blue sky and mid-afternoon temperatures that briefly reached 25°. Time to wind out the awning, recline the chairs and relax.

So far as the place itself is concerned, I really misjudged it badly before. The outskirts are quite bland, but the old town and its small fishing quay by the estuary are very attractive. What I dismissed as a bit grungy previously is actually quite stylish with a bit of a hipsterish vibe.

It's quite easy to get lost in the narrow streets, they look quite similar and are a bit of a maze. Gill found a good place for lunch, but we had already eaten back at van so we earmarked it for tomorrow.

As evening faded into twilight the sky lit up bright orange, the sunsets over the sea from here must be spectacular but we were cooking so only managed to hop out the van and take a snap of it through the trees.

Next day we cycled towards 'Porto de Barcos'. Like Zambujeira, Milfontes has a tiny fishing harbour situated a few kilometres north of the town. 

Both are tucked into clefts in the cliffs with highly dangerous looking entrances full of rocks. 

As well as having inexplicably courageous fishermen, Milfontes appears to be a magnet for suicidally minded surfers.

After spending quarter of an hour or so watching their antics, I realised that the main current ran diagonal to the shore, carrying the surfers away from the big rocks, still it was clearly not a place for beginners. I remembered a poem by Thom Gunn about surfing that I'd come across as a teenager, it's odd how some things stick with you. Of course I had to Google it.

We decided to look at the town's beaches before heading to '18 e Piques' for lunch. Unlike Zambujeira where the beaches are semicircular in big rocky coves here they are more extensive lining both sides of a broad estuary. 

You can see why Milfontes has developed more as a small resort, still it's all very low key. 

We managed to nab the last outside table at the restaurant. It did simple food, but very well. I had a 'grilled sandwich' - a toastie as we would say. Gill chose the quiche with salad.

Both were spot on, accompanied by two 'imperials' of Sagres (250ml) and pingados afterwards the bill for both of us was €12. 

I could see us spending more time on the southwest coast of Portugal in future. It is consideredably less crowded than Spain, maybe it is a couple of degrees colder on average, but there is still a lot to explore, and because much of the Alentejo is low lying, the temperatures holds up inland, whereas the high plains of Spain can be be bone chilling in the winter.

Comporta

 

We woke to rain and the news that Russian forces had invaded Ukraine. It cast a shadow over the rest of the day. Maybe before the advent of 24hr news and smart phones travellers could disconnected themselves from what was happening in the world. Not so now, you would have to be much more self disciplined than we are to resist the temptation to peek every time your phone goes ping. 

 

'The world is too much with us late and soon,' Wordsworth wrote. Big events have shadowed our travels from the outset. In 2015 on a remote beach in the Peloponnese we watched USAF F15s head towards targets in Syria while refugees poured into eastern Greece fleeing the conflict. The following year we wended our way along through Costa Tropica in glorious late autumn sunshine while I sympathised with my American Facebook friends after Trump's narrow victory. Brexit's first mention in the blog was in May 2016 - pre-dating the referendum; it made a whole series of appearances as the tragicomedy unfolded over the next four years. None of these things though have the same potential to upend the world order as we know it as the events of today. 

There has been another occasion when 

major nuclear powers invaded a sovereign country on a dodgy pretext, but that was Iraq and outside of Europe, so we tend to conveniently overlook it, especially since it was the West who were the aggressors back then. This feels different because this time it involves a direct stand off between NATO and Russia within the borders of Europe, and for children of the cold war like us, that feels depressingly familiar and quite disturbing.

After a month of sunshine a proper rainy day came as a shock, we had a bit of everything, drizzle, fog, the occasional flash of lightning and protracted downpours.

The refineries, big power station and port cranes at Sines looked dismal in the mist, especially as they appeared suddenly out of nowhere in an otherwise empty, unpopulated landscape.

We shopped at Intermarché and ate lunch in the car park. We had intended to stop overnight in Santiago do Cacem but with the rain coming down in sheets we pressed on to Comporta, which meant we have now got a bit ahead of ourselves, but the big sand spit at Troia looks interesting, it has a short bike trail, Roman ruins and lots of pine covered dunes. Perhaps enough to entertain us for a couple of days before we take the ferry across the Sado estuary and head for Sesimbre.

Next day the sky had cleared by mid-morning. We needed to find some bread for lunch. It was trickier than anticipated as Comporta is well down the road to gentrification. 

Its traditional industries are still here to be seen - rice growing, fishing and wine - but clearly the place is also an up-market weekend retreat for wealthy Lisboaistas and ex-pats. Eventually we found a mini-market among the boutiques, wine shops, and estate agents. It is one of those villages where it is easier to purchase a stylish frock than some bread buns.

This clearly hasn't gone down a treat with all the locals as the place was covered in PCP posters. Unsurprising when a building plot for a villa was on sale for €I.3 million.

However my lasting impression of the place is unrelated to the dubious contention that all property is theft; I will remember Comporta for a different flight of fancy - as stork central. 

There were big untidy nests everywhere, in trees, on chimneys, pylons and the arches of the church's belfry which had been purloined as a kind of stork squat.

We had noticed there was a bike trail running south from Troia at the tip of the peninsula. We decided to drive up in the van then go for a bike ride, also possibly spying out the times for the ferry to Setubal for tomorrow. Though the Troia peninsula looks like one big nature reserve on the map in reality the upper third of it is a swanky private resort. The place is as good an example of a commodified landscape I have seen outside of Florida, complete with a big golf course and stylish villas protected by fencing and CCTV. A lot of thought had been put into preventing an attempt by a feral motorhomer to spoil the view by doing something as vulgar as parking.

 We drove 17kms.up to the tip, around a roundabout and then back to the area autocaravanas at Comporta where we had lunch. 

Yesterday while browsing the nearby area on Google maps I noticed a 'tourist attraction' down a minor road about 7kms from here. It appeared to be in the middle of the salt marshes that run along the southern shore of the Sado estuary. 

I have a thing about estuaries. From reviews and photos it appears Porto Palafita da Carrasqueira is a collection of ramshackle fisherman's huts on stilts linked by dilapidated walkways. Not in itself unique, but built on a scale that was almost grandiose. Is it possible for something to be both ramshackle and grandiose? We had to go and find out. 

In the end the bike ride we took to Porto Palafita proved far more pleasing than the one we failed to manage earlier at Troia. Not just because of the site itself but the ride through the forests, fields and esturial marshes, along empty roads, through straggling old fishing villages with whitewashed single storey cottages was truly delightful. The only disappointment was when we stopped at the Gulato Comporta, described as both a Gelataria Esplanada and an ice cream lab, the owner popped out to explain that they only opened at weekends in the winter.

The other highlight of the day was social. After a month where all face to face interactions have been strictly transactional we managed three brief chitchats in a single afternoon. It turned out the Belgian couple next to us, as well as being well travelled motorhomers, were big fans of Lindisfarne, When they discovered that we were both born near Newcastle upon Tyne the woman became inexplicably delighted and even sang a snippet from 'Meet me on the corner ' to prove their status as Lindisfarne super-fans. 

Next a British van turned up and owners wandered over to say hello. Things hummed along nicely at first when the topic of conversation centred on the local storks, however, when the pair mentioned they had just stayed at Alcacer do Sal, Gill enthusiastically began to to talk about the statue of Pedro Nunes outside the town hall. They looked perplexed. Helpfully I tried to explain how Nunes' pioneering development of Euclidean spherical trigonometry made navigation across oceans much safer in the 16th century and today's sat navs still work using geometry developed from the Portuguese mathematician's work . They smiled weakly, backed off and beat a hasty retreat, probably convinced we were both at best harmless eccentrics, but quite possibly dangerously insane.

Later we had a perfectly sensible conversation with a Portuguese couple who were visiting Porto Palafita with their two teenage children. The man had brought his kids to see the place because his uncle used to be a fisherman here and took him fishing in the estuary when he was a boy. The couple now lived in Suffolk and worked on an American airbase there. Their kids had been born in the UK and regarded themselves as Anglo-Portuguese. We chatted about how Brexit had made things complicated for them and how it had prevented Sarah and Rob staying in Lisbon long-term. I do find it easier to get on socially with people who are closer in age to my kids rather than in their sixties like us. Maybe it's the effect of working in further education colleges for over 30 years where most of the people I mixed with were younger than me.

Today we packed up and prepared to head towards Sesimbre to see the carnival next week. The Belgian couple wandered across to bid good-bye while we faffed about at the service point. They were experienced motorhomers and gave us some good tips about places to stay in south west Ireland, useful when we head there in late May. They seemed like nice people, but every time I talked to them I got a blast of random Lindisfarne my head - yesterday assailed by 'Meet me on corner' - the bit about the lights coming on and promising to be there; today it was the turn of the Fog on the Tyne to be all mine, repeatedly. I could become quite ill if it doesn't stop soon.

The mimosa hedged road to Zambujeira

The road north from Sagres takes you first to Vila do Bispo, where you have choice, to carry on the main road to Lagos, or take a short cut on a minor road that follows the coast. It is narrow, bendy and potholed, but very beautiful and quiet, so we tend to take that one, despite my usual reluctance to drive the moho down country lanes.

The first few kilometres look like a blasted heath, the constant winds discourage tree growth higher than about three metres, and the few hardy specimens of maritime pine by the side of the road are  bent double by the westerlies. The result is those on the left side of the road have been chopped down to stumps to prevent them becoming traffic hazards, whereas the ones on the right lean backwards, resembling wizened old crones recoiling in horror. 

After 10 minutes or so you leave Hammer Horror heath; then the road winds its way through ancient dunes reaching a more verdant landscape of fields dotted with stately eucalyptus trees. You don't really get proper hedgerows in the south, but at times here the mimosa has run amok to the extent the road becomes hedged in yellow.

Apparently it's the world's most rampant invasive bush, it may be a nuisance but right now it looks glorious.

When we reached Carrapateira we turned down a small track to the car park behind Bordeira beach. We've stayed overnight here a few times but the Portuguese authorities have clamped down on wild camping apparently, still it made a great place to stop for lunch. There was only one other campervan in the place, in the past there's always been at least half a dozen; the days of being beach bums in Portugal do seem to be numbered. It's a shame, but as overwintering in the south becomes ever more popular I can understand the need to manage the influx, which will end up with more regulations.

The fact that the place was more or less deserted meant we could park-up in a spot with an awesome lunchtime view.

 This was fortunate as it was so blustery taking a stroll was an uncomfortable prospect, sand blowing in your face rather than being buffeted being the main hazard.

I dashed out for a few minutes and took a few photos; it is a favourite spot of ours.

For some the conditions were an opportunity rather than a challenge. A group of guys drew up alongside us, They pulled-on thermals then squeezed into wetsuits. They then unpacked a bewildering array of boxes and big bags out of the car boot. When one of them donned a broad belt with webbing to protect the small of his back I concluded they were kite surfers. I think they must have been planning to use the big salt lagoon that separates the car park from the sandy expanse of Bordeira beach. In the distance the sea was wild with big breakers exploding onto the steeply shelving beach sending trails of spindrift high into the air. There was no way anyone would be able to kite surf in the maelstrom.

We were heading for the campsite at Zambujeira do Mar, about 20km north of here. Half way there we crossed the border from Algarve into Baixo Alentejo, though to me none of the west facing coast north of Sagres conforms to the postcard image of what the Algarve should look like. Portugal's Atlantic coast south of Lisbon and Sestubal must be one of the least developed in Europe, in winter it is unfrequented and though it cannot match the climate of Spain's Costas, it is as sunny and mild as anywhere else on the shores of southern Europe. Furthermore it is magnificently wild and empty.

We have stayed at the site at Zambujeira a few times, it always was one of the best we have found in Portugal, but clearly it had been given an upgrade recently, 'brightened up' is understating it, the terraces of camping bungalows, once decorated chastely in white and blue now sing raucously in dayglow tones.

The facilities too have been updated, add to that generous tree shaded pitches and friendly, helpful staff then the place had to be one of the best small 'winter sun' sites in Iberia now.

That being said, nowhere is perfect, the electrical supply is a trickle which fuses if you use an electric kettle, the free Wi-fi similarly underpowered and in the sanitary block this morning the fashionable 'rainfall shower head' had a plumbing malfunction, emitted an earpiercing scream as if you were standing a tad too close to a taxiing Airbus A380. Two hours later my ears were still ringing.

The village is about 350m from the site. It too seemed to have had a make-over, the roads less pot-holed, streets re-cobbled, lots of freshly painted houses particularly on the seafront.

However it is the coastal scenery that draws you here, the sea wild after yesterday's strong winds, surf fizzing in big coves overshadowed by even bigger cliffs.

To the south of the village wooden walkways give access to the clifftops, the decking protects the flora and discourages people to wander too close to the crumbling edge.

Next day the wind dropped, by mid-morning the thermometer read a respectable 20°, but the airstream was still a northerly so it felt chillier, especially in the shade. However the up-side of this was the light, all moisture washed from the atmosphere so the world sizzled with colour.

Zambujeira has two beaches, both backed by steep cliffs, the northern one is only accessible via vertiginous stairs. The fishing harbour - Portas das Barcos - lies 4km from Zambujeira, its setting even more spectacular than the village itself.

The cliffs and ocean are magnificent, but the clifftop flora is very special too, a mixture of heathers and flowering succulents interspersed with low shrubs and bushes.

The geology is complicated too, Gill took a particular liking to a low cliff of multicoloured shale, but really everywhere you look there are intriguing rock formations.

By the time we had pedalled back to the village and shopped at the Coviran it was late afternoon and the light became spellbinding, things looked hyperreal. 

The previous times we have been here the weather has been mixed, it's a lovely place whatever the conditions, but today the clarity of light made it unforgettable.