constanttrek

Sun, sea, tiles, food

March 3rd, 2005

                                                               
It doesn’t take
much to make me fall in love with a country.  A bit of sun, good
meal,  nice glass of wine, something pretty to look at, and I’m
yours.  Nobody ever accused me of being hard to get, and Portugal got
me in Aveiro. 

The walk out of
Porto was, unusually for a big city, truly beautiful.  Twenty
kilometres along a winding wooden slatted beach path, green Atlantic
ocean on one side, and a never ending supply of good cafes on the
other.  The sun was shining and there was barely a chill in the air.
It was a pleasant contrast to inland, where the snow was coming down
in buckets, with temperatures up to twenty degrees below zero.  Sod
that for laughs. 

We walked on
peacefully all day, heading for the next town of Espinho, which we
reached in good time.  Unfortunately we were so caught up in admiring
the view (and the cafes) that we managed to walk straight past the
campsite.  About five kilometres past.  By the time we realised our
mistake we were well on the other side of Espinho, amongst the rough
shanty towns which often seem to lie on the outskirts of Portuguese
cities, and it was late afternoon.

The next campsite
was at Esmoriz, another five kilometres away.  We set off, and after
about three kilometres detoured off the road and onto the beach –
something we sworelong ago, in France, never to do if we could
possibly avoid it; but the alternative would have meant doing an
extra three kilometres, which by that stage didn’t appeal.  We
trudged up the beach, still admiring the view and beautiful sunset.
It was around about then that we spotted a large inlet cutting up the
beach.

The inlet ran from
the water’s edge right into the dunes, spreading out into a large
lake and swamp the further in it went.  We couldn’t see where the
flow finished, but it was obvious that this was why the road deviated
so far around the beach.  The only place to cross, that we could see,
was right at the sea line, where the inlet began as a shallow, quick
running stream.

Well, shallow and
quick running when we first spotted it.  By the time we were within
one hundred metres it was clear that the incoming tide was quickly
turning our stream into a surging torrent, with no discernible bottom
at it’s deepest point.  Gary was in front of me, and he turned back
and yelled to me to hurry up – if we wanted to cross we had to do
it right now.

For some strange
reason I had a severe case of de ja vu.  What is it with us and water
crossings, lately?  But the sheer novelty of Gary actually telling me
to hurry up – not to imply my husband is anything less than Speedy
Gonzales – was enough to make me (almost) run across the sand.
When I got to the edge, where Gary was hastily tearing his boots off
and stowing his precious things safely out of water’s reach, I have
to admit I felt a bit tense.  The water looked really, really deep,
and there was a big looking ocean just waiting to sweep me out.  But
the difference between this crossing and our ill-fated river debacle
a few days earlier was that this time there really wasn’t a choice.
At the rate the tide was coming in, heading back down the beach to
take the road wasn’t an option; and the longer we dithered, the
worse it was going to get.  Two hundred metres up the beach on the
other side of the inlet I could see a bar.  As I said – no choice.

While Gary got the
last of his stuff stowed, I watched the waves, and when it looked as
though there was a little break, I waded in. 

No more than three
steps in, the side of the inlet fell away, and suddenly I was over
waist deep in freezing sea water, with a strong undertow.  There are
moments when you realise with a bit of stark clarity that you are
seriously in the shit; this was one of them.  I looked at the waves
heading in and figured if I didn’t gain shallower ground in about
five seconds, I was going to have to dump the pack and hope like hell
the tide wasn’t too strong.  I lunged forward, went a bit deeper
still, and then suddenly felt the crumbling wall of the other side.
I threw myself forwards and hauled my drenched carcass up the other
side. 

Quickly I dumped my
pack and looked around for Gary – he was just about to go in. There
is not much you can say at that point.  He had seen how deep it was,
but knew there was no choice really, and so he waded in.  His pack is
so heavy, and enormous, I really did wonder how he would do it –
but apart from straining across the centre part, he made it ok, and a
few seconds later was hauling himself up beside me.  At that point a
local man came sprinting down the beach toward us.  He had seen my
pack lying where I had discarded it up on the sand dune, and was
worried that it’s owner had come to grief in the inlet – he very
excitedly told us that the tide was incredibly dangerous, and we
could have really been in trouble.  No kidding.  I showed him our
map; the inlet wasn’t even marked on it.  He shook his head and
clicked his teeth, and said all the locals knew it was a problem, and
something really should be done; we all nodded in solemn agreement,
and that was the end of it. 

Soaking wet and a
bit quiet, Gary and I headed up to the campsite.  Not for the first
time on this trip, I felt really, really grateful for the fact that I
am a tall, strong person.  I thought of all the times in my life I
have wished I was smaller, or skinnier; and then I imagined that
small, skinny person trying to haul a twenty kilo pack across five
metres of swift moving water, four feet deep.  To hell with it, I
thought.  Bring on the food.

After all of that
drama, the next couple of days were pretty low key.  We were both a
bit flu-ey after our impromptu dip, and decided to treat ourselves to
a pension room when we got to Aveiro. 

As our budget is
less than generous, the upper limit for a room, when we splash out,
is thirty euros; we usually try for twenty.  On the recommendation of
the good people in the local McDonalds (always a good place to ask)
we pitched up to the Santa Joana Residencial in Aveiro central,
cold, tired, and badly in need of a bath and some sleep.  And what a
room!  Bath to drown in, huge bed, enough space to play football in,
and an enormous pumping radiator.  It was every camper’s fantasy
multiplied by ten, and amidst chronic sneezing and coughing we agreed
that we would have a day off the next day and enjoy it – at well
under thirty euros, you take your good luck where you get it, I
reckon.

And so to the
wonderful falling-in-love-with-Portugal part.

Aveiro is beautiful,
a lovely sized town full of sunny tiled courtyards, distinctive
pattern tiled architecture, and old bridges, with fishing boats
moored in the salt water inlets right up into the centre.  It is also
the home to truly, sublimely, awesome seafood and wine.

On our day off I
went for a wander while Gary did his thing, and found a likely
looking cheap café in a nice, sunny, sheltered praza.  I was
equipped with my overpriced copy of the Sunday Times and the
International Herald Tribune (hey, you take what you can get in
English) and ready to do sod all for the rest of the day.  The rather
heavenly waiter came and gave me a long verbal list of lunchtime
offerings, and I asked for whatever he thought I should have to eat
and drink.  For under five euros.  Big Spender, me.

Oh, man.

Out came a glorious
steaming caldo soup, all thick buttery fava beans and tasty spinach,
and crusty bread, with a glass of really, really good white wine –
kind of a fat chardonnay, but without the heavy oaky thing.  I had
just devoured the soup, and thought that was probably it, when Mr
Gorgeous Waiter came back with a huge plate of an octopus rice dish,
not a paella and not quite a risotto, just a truly divine moist,
tasty, mildly piquant mound of heaven.  It came with an enormous
salad and potatoes in salt and olive oil as well.  At this stage I
was thoroughly over excited and sent Gary a text telling him to get
himself down there now; it was getting a little embarrassing grunting
and snorting away to myself, slopping food everywhere and giving
little moans of joy.  Less Meg Ryan than Jabba the Hutt, I suspect.

But before he could
arrive I got to dessert, which was the most blissful mango and apple
concoction you can imagine, all whipped up into a creamy, frothy
thing.  I sat back and decided that even if it broke the budget, it
was worth it.

But you know what?
It didn’t.  All of that was five euros fifty.  And the wine kept
coming.  No to mention Mr Gorgeous Waiter thrown in.  Gary turned up,
and we stayed for dinner.

So, that did it.  I
am now officially in love with Portugal.  Told you I was easy.

  I take back every
mean spirited  comment about food and wine; since then we have not
had a bad sample of either, and the nice wine was actually the local
stuff, so they really can make things other than Port.  Unfortunately
this discovery coincides with an unrelated decision to cross back
into Spain just below Fatima, and before Lisbon, so now I have to
make the most of this lovely seafood while we are still near the
coast.  It looks as though it will be a more straightforward route
for us to cut inland after Fatima, and neither of us really fancy
walking into yet another big city – they cost money and take time –
so our stay in Portugal will be shorter than anticipated.  I just
hope all this arctic weather stops before we get too far in.  Snow in
the South of Spain in March really is a bit ridiculous.  Thank god
for the roasty toasty sleeping bags – the tent has been frozen most
mornings lately.

A final note to
thank all of you who have sent us messages of support and
encouragement since the site was reviewed on line.  We both very much
appreciate your thoughts and words – it is great to hear from
people we have never met, from places as far flung as Estonia and
Brazil!  And look out – we have always liked the idea of South
America as a walking destination….

Entry Filed under: Portugal