From Algarve to Alentejo

This morning's chat - when was the first time we took the motorhome to the Algarve? I have reached the point where multiple visits to places get all mixed up in my head and I have to consult the blog, using it as my brain's external hard drive. As Amber Case, the American 'cyber anthropologist' observed in her Ted Talk in 2014, "We are all cyborgs now". It's true, it has comes the point that information overload is such that reaching for the phone as a back-up to memory has become normal. Also, the optional search facility on Blogger makes it very easy to retrieve the trivia and sundry factoids of our travelling life; the answer to the Algarve question - October 2017 was our first sojourn here.

Looking back these previous posts it's clear we preferred the eastern part around Tavira and the Ria Formosa to the classic beach resorts and golf courses of 'Tui brochure Algarve'. We also discovered that the wilder stretch of coast west of Lagos was less frequented, thankfully it remains so.

Last year we tried to revisit Tavira but it was so busy we could not find a place to stay. Every year another cohort of northern Europeans retire, a good few realise their ambition to 'live the dream', and head south in ever increasing numbers. We can't really complain, we are part of the problem. However, it does mean places that once had a handful of mohos parked up might now have scores. 

During the pandemic the Portuguese authorities clamped down on wild camping and still continue to do so. I can understand from a local's perspective the January motorhome invasion requires regulation. However, the more unofficial parking places are closed the busier campsites and 'aires' become. Briefly we toyed with revisiting Tavira, however, checking online most stopping places seemed to be very crowded. So we gave up on tourist brochure Algarve and headed straight for the far end, the region's 'wild west'. So here we are, back once more esconced in the Orbitur site near Sagres.

I do love this simple site among the pine trees, waking in the morning to the soundscape of wind in the trees, pigeons cooing insistently and in the distance a soft oceanic roar as the Atlantic crashes into the rock wall of Cabo de São Vicente. 

I have a theory that there is an unacknowledged cultural divide amongst we winter van lifers. There are some who formerly hoildayed in hotels and apartments but now slum it in a moho because it enables them to afford fun in the sun for weeks on end. Their vehicle of choice - a C class or coach-built moho with plush leather upholstery and faux wood interior styled to look up-market, a tad luxurious. Then there are people who habitually camped in their younger days but have now acquired a van because it makes four season camping more comfortable. Most choose to use a camper, these are styled to look more utilitarian and outdoorsy. In truth the actual equipment - Thetford toilet, shower, Truma multi fuel boiler, Dometic frodge - are identical the differences between moho and camper are largely cosmetic. Surprisingly, though camper vans are usually more compact, they are no less expensive.

So given the outdoorsy ambience of Sagres you might expect it to be full of campervans. It is true they do predominate, but there are a fair few mohos too. Not everyone conforms to a stereotype. Some of the campervans lack the required half dozen surfboards strapped to the bike rack, and more shockingly not one motorhome sported a mini Jodrell Bank on the roof, always a surefire sign of people who prefer to watch 'Blue Planet' rather than inhabit an actual one. Am I being  cultural snob? Probably, but I do believe that the biggest threat to humanity is not the changing climate but our own ignorance and stupidity. 

The Algarve looks very verdant in winter. In early February the verges blaze with bright yellow sorrel. At first sight the ragged end  around Sagres looks somewhat scrubby, a patchy blasted heath. 

However the heathland is crisscrossed with unmetalled tracks, flowering shrubs and succulents abound. It invites aimless wandering about.

The dry stone walls are built on a massive scale using big boulders as if constructed by a race of giants. The local stone pales to grey when weathered, but more recent repairs have an almost golden hue.

Most of the old cottages have fallen into ruin. In Portugal any abandoned surface is regarded as fair game by the country's prolific graffiti artists, like the one just down the track from the campsite. 

As well as having been thoroughly daubed, in a small niche once housing an outside tap someone had carefully placed a crocheted pink figurine.

At the moment I am reading 'The Incredible Human Journey', the forensic archeologist, Alice Robert's succinct summary of how genetics, forensic science, anthropology and material archeology have enabled us to figure out how Homo Sapiens spread out from Africa to colonise the Earth. What is clear from the outset is that we inhabited the landscape imaginatively as well as physically. Evidence of 'symbolic thinking' in the form of ornaments and jewellery as well more spectacular examples like rock paintings have been found in South Africa dating back 75,000 years. Beads discovered in a burial site in Israel are even more ancient, possibly 130,000 years old.

The point is, the need to mark our passing is as old as humanity itself and matters to us now as much as it did to our forbears. The graffitied ruined cottage could be taken as a piece of contemporary archeology, or if that is a contradiction in terms, then at least regarded anthropologically as evidence of 'New Age' tribal culture.

In this respect Sagres has changed in the last few years. When we first visited the place was full of crusties. Quite a few families seeking an alternative lifestyle, living in ancient Mercedes self builds covered in psychedelia channeling 

album covers like Abraxas or The Incredible String Band. I got the summer of love vibe, but in truth many of the latter day flower chlidren looked very spaced-out and quite unwell. I felt for their kids especially; they looked unkempt and uncared for - running wild is not the same as being free.

Anyway, this year the psychedelic army was conspicuous by its absence. Maybe restrictions on wild camping during the pandemic had cleared them out. In fact Sagres is changing, it still has an alternative vibe but inexorably the place seems to be in a process of left field gentrification, shifting from hippiedom towards the hipsterish.

 

The changes are subtle, craft beer ads instead of Super Bock, eateries that look as if they have been styled to look 'alternative'. The municipality too has invested in commissioned public art works rather than relying solely on the plethora of spray painted masterpieces provided voluntarily.

There's the funky surfboard Sagres sign designed to be Instagrammable...

And a row of beautifully painted bird heads promoting the town's annual twitcher fest...

Up close some of the birds were quite disturbing. They'd been depicted 10x life size. ..

I once had a nightmare where I was hunted down by an elephant sized hedgehog. To be truly 'on trend' maybe the avian mural should have been accompanied by a trigger warning specially to protect people with repressed Lilliputian anxieties. 

Aside from the alluring landscape of Cabo Sao Vicente and Sagres's intriguing cultural mix,  the main reason why we are here is to eat some fish. A Sereia, situated in the 'Baleeira' harbour, is the best fish restaurant we have ever found. Don't come at the weekend because the place is closed. The local fishermen only work weekdays and as the restaurant is situated on the first floor above the wholesale fish market the restaurant only operates when there is fresh fish on offer. 

We got there at about 11.45 and expected to have to hang about for a bit before service commenced. In fact people were being seated and a small gaggle had gathered by the entrance. This seemed very un-Portuguese, who tend to have a long lunchtime break beginning around 1.00pm, like in Spain.

We joined the gaggle who were predominantly French. Portugal is very popular with the French people and there are strong cultural and economic links between the two countries. We speculated that A Sereia has such a strong Gallic following that it may have adopted the their unwavering belief that if it's midday it must be lunchtime. Alternatively, as A Sereia also feeds the fishermen as when they arrive maybe it operates an all day service, but that would mean keeping the outdoor charcoal grills fired up all the time, an expensive proposition.

We ordered a 50cl flagon of Vinho Verde and Gill headed inside to choose our fish. 

She went for a dorada...

...which duly arrived perfectly grilled - it takes skill to do this on a charcoal grill, to get it spot on so it falls off the bone but is not overcooked. It also takes care and a delicate touch to devour it while avoiding the bones. At home we buy our fish from Regal Fish based in Hull who deliver locally every six weeks or so. It's all filleted so I am not particularly adept at dealing with unboned fish, but I persevered...

In deference to our hunter gatherer forbears we paid our respects and thanked the fish for it's sacrifice.

We had planned to stop two nights in Sagres then another couple further north in Vila Nova de Milfontes so we would reach the Costa Arridiba in time for the carnival in Sesimbres. Now we had given up on the carnival we were under no pressure to move on. In the past we have taken a week or more to wend our way northwards. The Atlantic coast south of Lisbon to Sagres has to be one of the most magnificent in Europe, it was tempting to take our time. In the end we stuck to our original plan as the weather around Sagres threatened to become unsettled but sunnier days were forecast for Lisbon by the end of the week.

So we drove north to Vila Nova de Milfontes. The road wends through the low coastal hills, the remnants of ancient dunes, so you rarely glimpse the sea. Still, the landscape is very green, a mix of woodland and pasture. Last time we drove this way the roadsides were ablaze with mimosa blossom, sadly we were a week or so too early. The hedgerows may not have been yellow but the verges were, drifts of sorrel blanketing every uncultivated patch of ground. You simply don't get a sense of the dead of winter here. I know some people love it, but if I lived in a milder climate I don't think I would miss northern winters at all.

There are two campsites in Vila Milfontes, situated next to each other, both within walking distance of the town centre. On our two previous visits we stayed at Campiférias, for no good reason other than it's the first one you come across. This time we decided to try the other one - Camping Milfontes. It's an Acsi site, but as with most sites in Portugal the Camping Card out of season discount is more or less the same as going rate elsewhere.

Camping Milfontes had a slightly odd atmosphere, or at least so it seemed when we first arrived. The layout of the site is somewhat haphazard, most of the pitches are scattered among pines, but it's unclear which of the spaces between the trees were access tracks rather than pitches.

To add to our uncertainty whole areas had no vans parked in them at all, the ground was very sandy and having become bogged down in Isla Cristina we had no wish to repeat the trick here. We must have circled the site at least three times before settling on a pitch that was merely moderately soft. 

Camping Milfontes has a core of guests here for the duration. Places that attract long-stayers can develop a bungaloid ambience; newcomers are greeted with a mixture of curiosity and mild mistrust and surreptitiously scrutinised. It is a tad discomforting. Our apparent confusion about where to park and antics around reversing into our chosen pitch, which took couple of attempts to avoid low branches and a annoyingly positioned metal pole, all were observed carefully by our new neighbours. 

Part way through the second of my three attempts to position the van exactly where I wanted it on the pitch a French man from a nearby van came across and offered to help, explaining he was a truck driver and would I like him to park our van for me. I realise he only wanted to help but I was quite affronted. I suspect my age as well as apparent incompetence prompted his offer, which I turned down with less grace than it possibly deserved. 

We both have become used to being offered seats on public transport by well meaning twenty somethings. However, this was the first time I have prompted a middle aged man to come to my aid. I don't feel a couple of years shy of seventy, but that doesn't mean I don't look it. I do appreciate there will come a point where I welcome the assistance of a younger generation, but not yet. Actually, after this shaky start we concluded that Camping Milfontes was ok, the facilities are a bit old but clean and functional. The motorhome service point was easy to access and well designed. Most aren't.

We seem to have hit on a period of settled weather. Normally a welcome change, but in this case the high pressure has brought high cloud with occasional light rain showers, temperatures peaking around 17° but with an annoying chilly easterly breeze.

Still, Vila Nova de Milfontes is an attractive place to be in, even if sunshine is in short supply. We cycled down the coast towards the place's fishing harbour. The Alentejo coast is one of Europe's most beautiful and remains relatively undeveloped.

As well as the fascinating geology, the clifftop flora is splendid at this time of year; late winter or early spring, I am not sure how the locals regard mid February. To a northerner it definitely feels spring-like even if the vernal equinox is more than a month hence. 

Our quest to simply repeat last year's trip without the tricky bits came unstuck yet again. We recalled the lunch we had at '18 e Piques' as having been delightful. Portuguese tostas can be delicious, yes they are 'toasted sandwiches' but they are not a simple snack, a lot of thought goes into the flavour combinations and the ones here were the best we've ever had. Sadly the place was closed up. It was difficult to work out whether it had gone out of business or was being refurbished. Anyway we gave up, searched around for a supermarket that was open at lunchtime, bought some bread and ate back at the van.

Now we were at a loose end. Back on the bikes and up to the small promontory at the southern side of the estuary.

There are wooden walkways through the clifftop flora..

..and a great view of the stunning coastline, the sun even managed to put in a desultory appearance..

Looking the other way, back up the estuary,  the old town's white houses tumble down to the water's edge.

 I reflected though this is our fourth visit here I didn't know the name of the river. Goggle maps to the rescue - the 'Mira', the same as the company that made our electric shower!. Since we have drifted into the world of fatuous trivia, in Portuguese 'mira' means 'aim". A good name for a river, I feel. After all there can be no such thing as an aimless river, they all have the same purpose - to reach the sea.

There is a brief sunny interval forecast among the longer term gloom. We've decided to head to Lisbon for a couple of days. Neither of us are city lovers, but I do have a soft spot for ports big and small. As big ports go is Lisbon my favourite? Maybe, but I do love Singapore too, and the Med is ringed with dozens of alluringly decrepit ports great and small. No matter how far you travel you never can quite escape your roots, so thinking about great river cities with a rich maritime history, Newcastle and Tyneside more generally must figure in there too.