It's been about three weeks since we arrived in Santander. Had we stuck to our original plan and headed straight south via Salamanca and Seville we could have been in the Sherry Triangle within three days. Our impromptu deviation via Valencia probably gained us a few more sunny days but it was at odds with our intention to spend more time in Portugal this year. We need to head west!
We decided to split the journey by staying in Isla Cristina on the Spanish side of the border. Then we were a tad tardy getting on the road and further delayed when we inadvertently took what looked to be short cut on the outskirts of Seville. We ended up on a minor road through the docks. Given how crowded camp sites had been we decided it wouldn't make sense to arrive at the Isla Cristina campsite late in the day so headed instead to an area autocaravanas close to the A-49 Autovia at La Palma del Condado.
The area designated for motorhomes had half a dozen bays, they were all occupied, but there's plenty of space on a nearby piece of waste land to use as an overspill. I was surprised by how busy the place was, but I guess it's a handy stop off for people heading for the Algarve. The town is not unpleasant, lots of small factories, a few bodegas and a handy Mercadona within easy walking distance of the area autocaravanas.
Next day we arrived at Isla Cristina about noon. We had pre-booked on-line but had not received a confirmation by email. In the event they were expecting us and we were greeted with a big smile and "welcome back!"
It's true, we have been coming here regularly for a decade. Many people stay for months, it's easy to see why. Isla Cristina is a fishing port first with a small resort on the side. It has an authenticity that's difficult on find many of southern Spain's Costas.
We booked in for three nights, enough time to wash towels and bed linen and take a breather. We did the usual stuff, walked through the beautiful pine woods up to a closed chiringuito by the beach.
The Costa de la Luz is well named, it's broad, empty beaches and big skies have a crystalline light. The sands are cover in big exotic looking shells deposited here by the Gulf Stream.
At the eastern end of the the Costa de la Luz at Tarifa you can see the mountains of Morocco: here, at the west end on the border with Portugal the horizon is empty, sail towards it and eventually you might make landfall on Madeira or somewhere in the Caribbean.
Isla Cristina has a good network of cycle lanes, we took the one that follows the coast to the breakwater near the mouth of Rio Carrera.
You get a panoramic view from here, the small resort of Punta del Moral just across the water, beyond a big tract of esturarial marshland and white houses of Ayamonte in the distance. The town lies on the eastern bank of the Guadiana, the last town in Spain, the blue hills beyond it lie in Portugal.
Isla Cristina is a busy fishing port with boats big and small coming and going. There is something fascinating about just watching them, I don't know why humans enjoy watching the traffic, but we do: train spotters, plane spotters, the odd person you see standing on a motorway bridge waving at the traffic - an odd habit! However only boat watching has its own anthem - 'Sitting on the Dock of the Bay'.
As we sat there happily emulating Otis an oldish guy on a road bike drew up and asked us if we were cycle touring. We explained we were touring in our motorhome. He introduced himself as 'Gerry' and explained he owned an apartment across the river in Isla Canela but had taken himself off for a bike ride while his wife played bridge with her friends.
Gerry lived in Cork but had worked as a doctor in England for a while. Now retired he explained that he split his time between Spain and Ireland as well as travelling elsewhere. It's always good to talk to a fellow traveller, especially Gerry, who definitely had the Irish knack of being able to spin a good story. We must have chatted about this and that for well over half an hour. We live quite solitary existences when we travel, these occasional moments of sociability do us good. One thing I felt sheepish about, I'd pigeonholed Gerry at the outset as 'oldish'; it transpired he was a couple of years younger than me!
As promised, later that evening he emailed the photos he took, I guess we both look 'oldish' but there's little doubt which one of us looks fitter! I doubt I could manage a non-electric bike these days, maybe on the flat, but come the first gentle incline and I would be off and pushing.
Next day we packed up and headed for Portugal, refuelling at a cheap place we found just before the border. Diesel is cheaper in Spain, a 30 cent reduction adds up to a €25 saving for a full tank. The petrol station had an easily accessible air pump so I checked the tyres too. We drove straight past the tourist hot spots of the Algarve heading for Sagres at Portugal's southwest corner. It's not that everywhere is horrible on the Algarve, places like Tavira and Olhao are lovely and the area around Lagos is nice too. The issue is how busy it is, now as crowded with overwintering motorhomes as Spain's Costas. Not our thing.
Rain was forecast, it appeared in the form of torrential thundery showers. Driving conditions were poor, but we only had one scary moment. Most people were sensible and slowed down. Not so an idiot in a Mercedes convertible who overtook us at speed, only to hit a pond sized puddle as he passed, sending a wall of water straight into our path. The van juddered and for a few seconds I couldn't see a thing. It was unnerving.
The storms were fast moving and had passed over by the time we neared Sagres. Though the town is only 30kms from the busy resorts around Lagos it feels remote.
I've written before about how I have a thing about headlands, in Sagres you are spoiled for choice. The big fortress on the town's outskirts sprawls over the clifftops of Ponta de Sagres; 5kms west lies Cabo de Säo Vicente, Iberia and continental Europe's most southwesterly point.
The Orbitur site we use is situated in pinewoods a few hundred metres off the road between the two headlands. It's a proper campsite, not some over- sixties club for over entitled motorhomers. There were hikers, surfers, cycle tourists and families all camped under the trees because they actually enjoy camping and living close to nature.
We had a friendly chat to the couple in the next doorw pitch whose two year old entertained us all. At that age kids are learning machines constantly experimenting and exploring, in turn doggedly determined, exuberant and exasperated. A joy to watch.
On the way to the washing up spot I got talking with a British guy who had been a truck driver specialising on the route to Greece, Italy, Sicily and Malta. We swapped stories of the vicissitudes of Mediterranean ferry travel and the challenges of Italian urban motorways. I may be introverted but I am not anti-social, the fact that in Spain we rarely spoke to any of our fellow travellers says as much about them as us.
As I washed up I reflected that It's quite easy to feel happy here. Perhaps the sense that you have arrived at the raggedy end of the world where the sky and the sea dwarves the land gives perspective, that in the end we are just another force of nature, inventive and cunning maybe, but not powerful like the wind or the sea and utterly insignificant in the bigger scale of things beyond our 'pale blue dot'.
We first visited Sagres before we owned a motorhome, taking a short break to the Algarve during the February half term some time in the late noughties - 2008 or 2009 at a guess. We're equally uncertain as to where we stayed, but hunting around Google maps the Tivoli resort hotel near Carvoveiro looks like the most likely contender. We'd hired a car from Faro airport and attempted to explore the entire Algarve in less than a week. Looking back on it we did well, visiting Faro on carnival day, Lagos, inland to Monchique, Sagres and the Cabo de Säo Vicente.
Back then Sagres felt somewhat run down with an alternative, ageing hippy vibe. A decade later when we returned in our moho we found it much the same, if anything the beach car parks were occupied by even more beat up looking campervans, home to a mixed population of surf dudes, crusties, ageing hippies and eco warriors. They were harmless, but a few of them seemed to be in a bad way and their kids looked neglected.
These days Sagres is a little more bougie and a lot less bohemian. I suspect the change was initially prompted by the pandemic. Travel restriction cleared the area of its itinerant population. I think technically it's always been illegal to free camp in the national park but it was toleranted. Now restrictions are strictly enforced by the local police. There are quite a few reviews on Search for Sites dating back to 2022 about being moved of by the police, some reporting incurring fines of €60 or more.
Moreover, Portugal has become more prosperous generally in recent years. A far cry from being baled out by the IMF and ECB after the banking crash alongside Spain and Greece, today both Spain and Portugal are being lauded as having vibrant economies outperforming their neighbours to the north in terms of economic growth and job creation. You can see it in the way the area around Sagres has developed.
The infrastructure has been improved with a brand new 4km cycle track connecting the town to Cabo de Säo Vicente. In the centre public areas have been improved with new azulla tiled seating and lots of planters. There are more places to eat - specialist coffee shops and hipsterish cafés offering matcha and plant based menus. A place that just a few years ago felt like a backwater has become more progressive. This feels hopeful which is something seriously in short supply right now.
We used the new cycle track to revisit Cabo de Säo Vicente, no matter how many times we go it remains impressive - a truly sublime place.
We stopped on the way back to take a few photos of the Forte de Beliche. The area around Cabo de Säo Vicente has been heavily fortified from the sixteenth century onwards underlying how pioneering Portugal was in the early stages of European colonialism during the early modern era.
It was the flora rather than the fort which caught my eye, my attempts to photograph the aloes and sorrel against the backdrop of the deep blue sea tempted me closer to the cliff edge than I would normally venture.
Whenever we visit Sagres we always make sure we have lunch at La Sereia. We are not alone in thinking it's the best fish restaurant ever...
The place proves that you don't need fancy ingredients to produce something delicious just fresh ones and experienced cook who knows what they are doing.
That being said mistakes can happen anywhere. Gill chose a plump dourada, big enough to share, from the counter. Some minutes later the manager approached our table to explain there had been an accident in the kitchen and our fish of choice had been dropped on the floor. All the big fish had gone so we had to make do with two smaller ones. As delicious but more fiddly to eat.
If you want the best fish on offer then you need to arrive there as soon as the place opens at noon. The place was not undiscovered when we first ate there in 2020.
It was our Lonely Planet guide that had led us there initially, but on that weekday in February it only had a handful of diners. Each year we return it gets busier. Online reviews suggest you get there early before the best fish are all taken, as we inadvertently discovered. It's worth taking the chance, the place occupies the second floor above Sagres's fish auction rooms. You will eat the freshest fish you ever had unless you are given to catching them yourself.
"'til next year!" We agreed.
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