Beside the Seaside

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In Which I Cavort, That's The Only Word For It

October 8, 2007 by Mike

Praia Grande

Route: São Martinho do Porto - Obidos - Peniche - Ericeira - Praia Grande

At the risk of repeating myself -- another good day.

One that ended with a swim in the Atlantic.. no, let me be more precise.. a cavort in the Atlantic surf. Here at Praia Grande, the Big Beach, diving headlong into the huge, crashing waves and laughing out loud because this is October, bloody hell, and I'm swimming in the sea!

Just before the swim, I checked into a three-star hotel -- luxury I haven't even considered since I arrived in Tallinn in the middle of a snow storm. But I'm tempted, and go for it, by the position of the hotel, at one end of this amazing beach. And by the fact that I've been camping for several days and could do with a change of scenery when I wake up. And, not least, by the healthy discount I'm offered at the front desk when I offer my Bambi eyes and say That's a bit more than I was hoping to pay. Nevertheless, I could have stayed for approximately 9.25 days in the campsite in São Martinho for this price.

I had a very passable cup of coffee at lunchtime in a place called Cafe Dino. The only reason I stopped there was because I'm such a fan of Nick Tosches' biography of Dean Martin - Dino. Highly recommended - once read, you'll stop at all the Cafe Dino's you see too. (And so you should - this Cafe Dino was convivial, relaxed and.. cheap.)

Dino's is just past Lourinha, which was the third attractive little town I'd seen already. The second was Peniche -- a bigger place, and in the most inspiring location, teetering on the brink of dramatic limestone cliffs overlooking the roaring Atlantic. The very apex is called Cape Carvoeiro. Google it. The shapes these cliffs make are interesting enough, like discarded piles of pizza delivery boxes, but it's the height of the things that gets me. From their craggy tops, sheer drops of 50 metres and more into the maelstrom below. (I'm from Norfolk. Heights of 50 metres are almost beyond my wildest imaginings.)

And of course, being a boy, I have to clamber out to the cliffs and peer over the edge. And I'd complain about how bright the sunshine was but I'd lose yr sympathy -- I know how grim the weather is away from Portugal at the moment. My legs wobbled like jelly -- all things considered, it's lucky I was sitting down at this point, or I'd be falling down.. and down.. and SPLAT!

It's tricky staying upright on the jagged surface in motorcycle boots, I can tell you. I'm tempted to go back and put the helmet on too -- *just in case* -- before spotting a 4-year-old being allowed to run up to the edge by his unconcerned parents. They don't look like child-killers, so I conclude that maybe it isn't quite as dangerous as I'm making out.

Then I looked over the edge again, nearly lost my breakfast, and beat a hasty retreat.. back to the 'safety' of roads crammed full of Portuguese car drivers. Where, at least, I'm allowed to wear my crash helmet.

So that was Peniche. There's a fort too, an aquaduct and a Motorcycle Enthusiasts' Club with a clubhouse overlooking the sea. But even so, it wasn't the most diverting of today's towns. That had first thing in the morning in Obidas.

Now, when Micaela wrote to me earlier this week, she asked if I wanted to know any inside secrets about her country. I've been too lazy to press her for details (desculpa, Micaela) but I'm not sure if she would have mentioned Obidas. Not because it isn't special, but because it isn't a secret. Clearly, a fortified hill-top town with its own castle isn't going to be a secret to anyone who's done their homework. Unfortunately, I haven't. Or rather.. fortunately.. because the sight of crenelated Obidas rising out of the plain was a complete and happy surprise for me. The houses of the town are scrunched together under the castle walls:

Red-tiled roof? Check.

White walls? Check.

Cats lazing in the shadows? Check.

Old men wearing berets sitting in a row on a low wall opposite a bar? Check.

Elderly widows dressed all in black making oh-so-slow progress up rickety steps to their crumbling homes? Check.

Views across the plains to the sea and down to the incredible church? Check.

Horses browsing in the --- hold on. What's that you say? "Which incredible church, Mike?" Oops. Forget I was doing today in reverse. I haven't mentioned the incredible church yet. The Igreja do Senhor Da Pedra. I've seen thousands of churches on this trip.. haven't made a point of visiting many of them. perhaps half a dozen.. there's so much else to see and experience.. not really my thing.. but this church.. I should say this *building*.. plum took my breath away. The devil may have the best tunes but every now and again god, in her wisdom, has the best homes.

I've been trying to work out why this church got to me. The unusual shape, perhaps; the sheer volume of the thing. Maybe it's reminding me of something? Answers, please, on a postcard. Still -- when I get time to post pictures -- I hope you like it too.

Beside the Seaside

In Which I Cavort, That's The Only Word For It

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