Posts filed under 'Portugal'
March 12th, 2005
So…what were you doing last Thursday?
I only ask, because this was what I was doing.
Not that I like to gloat or anything.
Hah! Suffer in your jocks! Yah boo sucks to you! Ner ner ne ner ner….
And, now that I have that juvenile piece of shameless conceit out of the way, I can readily admit that although this may look terribly glam, in fact I stunk really, really, badly, as we found the restaurant before we found a shower. Not that we cared. Food is far more important than being clean, after all. And wine is far, far more important than both of those things; and if the waiter had to peg his nose in order to serve us, that is his problem.
Suddenly, it is warm. T-shirt wearing, factor thirty, zip the legs off your trousers, Portuguese coast warm. It may still be snowing like Santa’s hideaway up there in the hills, but out here the beaches are clean and deserted, the sea spectacular, and the weather superb. Even better, the campsites are actually open. Life is definitely good.
Not long after Aveiro, we stopped at a really nice little coastal town called Mira; so nice, in fact, that we decided to have a day off. Which was a stroke of luck, as we ran into a couple there from Cornwall, 
Nikki and Martin, who were great company. They have been down on the South coast of Portugal surfing for the last three months, living out of their van. They seem to have life sorted out beautifully – they are just heading back to England with the intention of surfing the summer months away, and plan to head to Morocco next year. The only 
downside is that they were heading in the opposite direction to us!
We have had some really good days walking, and some strokes of luck, too. Gary has been wearing in a new pair of boots since Porto, which means a lot of blisters and pain. One day we had been walking straight down a main road for about twenty kilometres, and had decided we would have to stop, no matter what, as his feet were ripped to shreds. Unfortunately it was one of those areas with a lot of commercial developments and no homes to enquire about camping, or convenient patches of forest to duck into.
(Although there were the odd rustic touches…she looks even more embarrassed than I usually do with the pack on.)
On the side of the road, though, there was an “Albergaria” – we had heard they were an expensive type of hotel, and had never bothered enquiring about them. We decided we may as well go and ask anyway; luckily, as it turned out. Just as I went in the receptionist was on the phone taking a cancellation from a conference which was to have booked out the entire hotel that night. She now had an empty hotel, and it was four o’clock in the afternoon in the off season, so the prospects of filling it weren’t great. And thus it was that we found ourselves in a four star hotel, with breakfast and a pool, for twenty euros. I got to curl up and bond with Elizabeth and Mr Darcy. 
Sometimes vagabonds can live as kings.
Thankfully our time on the main road was short lived, and we found ourselves back on the coastal road – and, truly, in paradise.
We have had day after glorious day walking down isolated, peaceful roads, forest on one side, and stunning ocean on the other. The beaches really are amazing, great long swathes of white sand and crystal clear water, with not a soul in sight. For quite a long stretch, we even had a perfectly flat cycle path to walk along, complete with 
bench seats at regular intervals to rest our weary bones! Sad as it may sound, on such things as these does the quality of our day depend.
We had one stretch however, which wasn’t so easy to navigate – a combination of new roads, old map, and lots of intersections – and it was a good thirty five kilometre day when we limped in to our destination, only to find that the campground was shut. It’s the kind of thing that happens a lot, and we try to be philosophical about it, but nonetheless it’s never too much fun, and inevitably happens on the long hard days rather than on easy ones. But there was plenty of forest and so we set up camp and ate some packet pasta and felt grateful that at least it is warmer now. The next day, however, we were really hoping for a relatively short and painless day, and looking forward to a good campsite with a shower, and a cook up.
It just so happened that it was about as perfect day as we have had. 
A long, straight road direct to our destination, overlooking the sea all the way; brilliant sunshine; and then, just as we entered the town, we found the restaurant you see me beaming from at the top of this page. Up on the cliffs, overlooking a beautiful little beach, it had “Paula’s idea of heaven” written all over it. It was right on two o’clock, the end of the lunch period, so we decided to sit down and hoe in, even before we found the campsite.
Hey, it was so good, I’ll give you another picture.
Two hours later, fed, wine-d, and totally at peace with our little universe we toddled the last five hundred metres to the campsite. Which had hot showers.
Like I said – the perfect day.
The next few days were just as beautiful – albeit minus the restaurant experience – and we had intended to just keep marching for another five days to Lisbon. But yesterday we came into a small village, and suddenly found ourselves overlooking this quite spectacular view.
When we wandered down, it was to find the most beautiful coastal town you can imagine, full of winding cobbled streets, beachfront wine bars, and old men playing classical guitar on the footpath. Nazare is just big enough to have all the things we need for a good rest stop – like an internet café and campground – and small enough to walk everywhere. So we have 
stopped here for a day and are carrying on to Lisbon tomorrow.
We had planned on coming inland near Lisbon, and cutting back into Spain. But we are so in love with this coastline, and the magnificent, CHEAP food and wine all along it (we are just coming into the major viticultural area of Portugal) that we have decided to keep on going all the way to the Algarve, the entire way around the Portuguese coast. So it takes a bit more time. So what?
We are determined to get a bit of beach swimming in before hitting Morocco. The water up here looks incredibly appealing….
But man, is it cold.
For those whom we stay in contact with by phone, please excuse our lack of communication. The phones here cost an absolute fortune. I am also still using the Spanish sim card which means I run out of credit a lot quicker on the mobile (particularly after I send all the texts gloating about the sun, sea, and food whilst you are all working. Sorry about those.) We will be back in touch more in Spain.
We are planning a very short stop in Lisbon as we don’t like big cities, and want to get down the coast to where it is even warmer as soon as possible.
We are so glad we came through Portugal – apart from the gastronomic delights, it is an incredibly friendly country, and we rarely go a day without someone stopping to have a chat and offer us a lift (which, of course, we decline. Dammit.) It is a country we did not know a lot about, but one which we would love to return to – everything from the architecture to the landscape is truly beautiful. Increasingly, as we get further south, the Moorish history of the country becomes evident in the “azulejos”, the patterned tiles, and the intricate tile mosaics, the “azulejaria”. It is a wonderful thing to have a sense of walking into Morocco from afar through the gradually changing cultural patterns; walking helps the transition from place to place make much more sense.
On a final note, a very quick response to the many comments we have had by email and elsewhere about the weight we are carrying. Without going into detail, we are carrying a lot of technological equipment which would not normally be carried by hikers. This is to enable us to keep this diary going, and also to pursue our own interests regarding photography and writing – it means we are, on average, three to five kilos each heavier than a normal pack. And as to the big tent (3 kilos) – if you are living in it day in and day out, a hiking tent just gets a bit depressing. Ours also gives the option of being a self standing mozzie net in tropical climates. But I am leaving the rest of this stuff to Gary, as when the new equipment page goes up in the next few weeks, he will be keeping his own blog regarding the practical side of things (so there, Jo and Lisa, you can finally get your male perspective…he is looking forward to bagging the hell out of me so that should be fun!) Having said that, we hugely appreciate all of the interest shown and are grateful for the input and advice written to and about us.
If we manage to walk away from the wine bars we will be in Lisbon within the week. I’ll have another glass and think about it.
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 swore
long 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….
February 25th, 2005
On the day that we are high tailing it out of the Port capital of the world (one has to smile – Bordeaux, Cognac, Rioja, and now Porto…some healthy walking tour this is turning out to be) I am dropping a quick line, as I am not sure when the next internet cafe will be. We have been here for longer than anticipated due to the first serious rain Portugal has had since October. Excellent timing. Our tent has been far too wet to pack up for a few days, but this morning dawned clear – if a touch on the firkin side – and we are on our way once more.
We are finally getting a grip on Portuguese food and wine (particularly the port). The local speciality of Bacalhau, fish cured with salt, is never going to do it for me unfortunately, but there are plenty of robust, homestyle dishes which are great. It is suprisingly expensive after Spain. Used to both of us eating out, with full three courses, for well under twenty euros, we have found it more like thirty here. Hence, we are back to self catering on the campstove as much as possible. Ah, the joy.
Sadly our wonderful long lunch hours have also disappeared. In Spain, nobody eats lunch before one o’clock; and, really, it is considered rather barbaric before about three. We could still go into a restaurant and be sure of ordering lunch at four. Dinner starts at around eight, and runs anywhere up to eleven. The shops shut between about one and five, and open late into the night. Bizarre as it was at first, we had become not only accustomed to it, but major fans of the whole late lunch, tapas and wine for dinner kind of set up. Now we are back to normal hours it all seems utterly indecently early and quick. Racing to grab lunch between twelve thirty and two is enough to give one indigestion.
Every country has it’s oddities; in France it was the complete close of business on Mondays which took us a while to adjust to, in Spain the mad hours, and now in Portugal, it’s the phone system. Which is fine – if you want to call a fixed landline inside Portugal. Try doing anything else, and you had best apply to Donald Trump for a wee bit of pocket money to fund it.
On the upside – pig ignorant though I realise this comment is – life here is made immeasurably easier by the fact that English speaking is so prevalent. Either people speak English, or I can get by in French, which is a major bonus given how non-existant our Spanish and Portuguese is. Even better, there are loads of camping grounds. And they are all open. After our recent encounter with Gun Wielding Psycho Cop, we are heartily relieved to be spared illegal camping for a while.
One thing which seems to have remained the same between here and Spain, though, and to which I am in danger of becoming heartily addicted, are the unbelievably cheesy, camp-as-a-pitched-rubber-tent soap operas. Trust me, daaahhling, you can have no possible concept of how truly, appallingly bad these things are, until you find yourself in a cafe somewhere over lunch staring at the vaseline smeared lens shot of some scantily bikini clad page three girl rolling around in a pseudo pornographic manner whilst speaking on the telephone to a Burt Reynolds circa 1970 lookalike lounging in a wicker chair and silk dressing gown revealing chronic chest hair. The opening credits to these things make the start of Home and Away look like Tarantino at his finest. Every bad cliche you never knew you had seen, combined with muzak so bad even Michael Bolton would heave, means that even without understanding a word which is being said I am becoming familiar with who is bonking who, which sex god is currently in a coma and being fought over by rival bonkettes, and the Mr Nasty behind the shady drug deal. It’s definitely time to keep walking. It’s not my fault, you must understand, it’s the fact that it has been raining, and hence we have been eating in cafes, and due to the stupid lunch hours we are always in them at the same time, and, and, and….
We are heading down the coast now and don’t plan on stopping until Lisbon. Given the utter rubbish in this post, I think it’s best, don’t you?