Beside the Seaside

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In Which I Turn Left

October 27, 2007 by Mike

Sao Vicente has good reason to rue the existence of Cabo da Roca (the westernmost point in continental Europe) and Finisterre (the end of the earth) because without them it would be officially, and romantically, the end of Europe. It is, sort of, being the southwesterliest point. But.. have you heard of it? Nope, didn't think so.

(Students of naval history are excused - Nelson had one of his first notable victories at the Battle of St Vincent.)

It's the place where Portugal stops heading south and starts heading east -- one of the BIG left turns of this trip -- and looks suitably dramatic up by the old lighthouse. The cliffs are high and airy and lined with anglers. They perch (do you see what I did there? Perch. *Perch*. It's the name of a fish.. perch.. oh I give up) they perch on the very edge of the cliffs, the better to guide their hooks into the maelstrom. Why more of them don't fall the 50 metres and more into the crashing surf I'll never know.

I asked around. It's a hobby for them. They aren't, literally, fishing for their supper.. at least, that's not the message the tourist authorities want to get out. I suspect many of these men are here every day, and selling their meagre catch to pay for.. everything they have. I trust the fish apprciate that they go to their unwatery graves knowing they have died for a reason.

A couple of miles away: the beach at Tonel. Last week three Britons and a German died here trying to save their children. Portugal only makes the news in the UK when it's bad news, eh?

Because a few short miles further on, past the fort at Sagres where Henry the Navigator lived and learned and launched his men on voyages far beyond the known world, lies the Praia de Luz.

I've missed a lot of the UK coverage of her disappearance, for which I am truly grateful. What can I add?

There are more pictures of Maddie McCann in the garages of Norfolk than there are round here. Not because anyone here cares any the less about her fate, but because they've been Maddie'd out. The pictures are still here, but they're smaller, more discrete.

How small that church seems.. the one her parents visited so often. Facing the church is a pub -- a proper English pub. Draught beers on tap; sausage and chips; Liverpool vs Arsenal on the telly; no Portuguese customers at all. Two doors down is a club that has 'adult' floorshows and features minstrels with blacked up faces. It's not just not Portugal, it's not even 21st century Britain. It's.. the seventies.

I didn't stay long. Riding out of Luz I came upon the Mark Warner apartments by chance, and remembered that's where the McCanns had been staying. I peered over the fence at the faces of the people staying there. They didn't all look like swingers.. but who can tell?

--

I made it to Lagos. It's one of the larger towns along this coast. It's Saturday and I need to get out.

There's a campsite close to the centre of town which is undoubtedly the worst campsite I've ever been in. (I haven't been in many.) I've put the tent up on ground that is more gravelly five-a-side pitch than tent pitch, and I'm not sure I trust my fellow campers not to be serial killers of various shades. But it's within walking distance of the centre and, by my reckoning, that means it will be within staggering distance when I need to get back to the tent tonight.

I'll let you know tomorrow.

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