Beside the Seaside

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In Which Portugal's Rutted Roads Wreak Their Revenge

October 26, 2007 by Mike

Sao Vicente

Route: Villa Nova de Milfontes - Azenha do Mar - Odeceixe - Vila do Bispo - Sagres - Cabo de Sao Vicente

Happy biiiiiiirthday to you
Happy biiiiiiirthday to you
Happy biiiiiiirthday dear Kaaaaaaayceeeeeeee
Happy biiiiiiirthday to you

--

Down a dozen dead-end roads to catch a glimpse of the sea. The most fruitful of all -- to the tiny fishing village of Zambujeira do Mar, homes a mile inland but the most interesting and charming feature a muddle of jerrybuilt wooden shacks on cliff tops overlooking a treacherous cove, where the Atlantic scurries and pounds the dozen small fishing boats drawn up on the quayside.

There's a bar there, for the fishermen (who I have yet to see actually fishing -- I suspect they finish for the day before I'm out of bed); there's a dramatically different house -- a huge thing it is, the colour of sand, almost entirely hidden from public view but with towers, minarets and domes just visible from the road -- enough to tantalise. Who lives there? Who could possibly afford such grandeur.

(Answer: probably only Premiership footballers. With taste. That narrows it down a bit.)

There's a house right on the edge of the cliffs. More of a tumbledown stone shack, in fact, it looks likely to fall down even before the cliff erodes and takes it to a watery grave. I stood for a good five minutes looking at the shack and beyond it to the horizon, jagged promentories retreating to the far distance; composing photographs; and the whole time I was there, it dawned on me, a man stood in the doorway of the shack, face in shadow, watching me as I contemplated his home, his world. I waved. I waited. I waved again. He didn't move.

There is also, in Zambujeira do Mar, the cutest little puppy dog you ever did see. I'm yet to be entirely convinced of the need for dogs -- yapping creatures, they are -- but this one was a scampering, sniffling sweetie. He (?) also had a curiously human face. What do you think?

[pictures to follow as proof I'm not barmy]

Azenha do Mar -- a long way to go down a dead-end. Worth it: the village is stuck on the end of a peninsula like the head of a match. Incredible views.

Odeceixe -- classic white-walled village. Gorgeous.

Aljezur -- there's a castle on the hill: so far, so Portugal. A very steep hill, as it happens. But this castle on the hill is in a state of disrepair. Not made good in the 19th century by some do-goodin' Germanic prince. This, readers who have waded through the entire trip will smile in recognition, is a first. It cheers me up that something hasn't been Disney-fied yet, though there's a worrying placard where the drawbridge used to be detailing the money the European Union is putting in to repairing it. (There's lots of placards showing how much the EU has pumped into the country - castles and churches, but also roads and infrastructure. No wonder people here like the EU.)

But there's more to Aljezur, at least as far as my little trip is concerned. I've known it was coming but it still took me by surprise. I didn't know whether to laugh or cry.

Portugal from this point on has turned into Little Britain.

There are UK-registered cars everywhere. Businesses advertise their wares in English first: Portuguese if they remember. Houses are "For Sale", they aren't "Se Vende". The estate agents' boards.. this tipped me over the edge.. I recognise their names from London.

I've been to places that bear the mark of British influence -- Bordeaux, Porto, for example -- but they were matters of historical fact and interest. Now I'm entering a part of Europe that is being defined by Britain and the British *now*. Freakydeaky.

I am in the Algarve. I am no longer in Portugal.

I took a long detour round Monte Cherigo and Vale de Telha, stunning views and picture PERFECT coves, winding roads and the smell of the sea. But I couldn't escape the Brits. Creeping towards the sea are sprawling "urbanisations", row upon row upon row of villas owned by Brits - with the occasional cul-de-sac of Germans and Norwegians by the look of it. You can tell thy're foreign-owned because they have lawns. I haven't seen lawns in a long time.

And then.. pooooof.. something felt wrong.

I stopped. Checked the tyres: OK. Frowned. Started again. No, there's definitely something.. something.. it feels off.. wrong.. not sure.. stop again and check. As i hunker down to look at the rear tyre again I lean on the rear pannier for support. It bounces under my hand. That. Is. Not. Supposed. To. Happen.

.. but at least I've identified the problem. One of the struts of the frame supporting the frame has snapped. (Also not supposed to happen.. ) B*gger. B*gerb*ggerb*gger.

But I can't sit here swearing all day -- much as I feel like it. I transfer as much stuff as I can from the pannier, jerry-rig a bungee round it for extra suport and gingerly make my way down the hill. Some builders point me towards a car mechanic, but they're the only Portuguese workmen in the Algarve and I can't follow their directions. I stop at an estate agency, knowing they'll speak English, and yes - they point me back towards Aljezur, and a "soldero" (a welder).

Meet Walter (my second Walter in two days): he welded the frame back in place (*fingers crossed*) and nearly set fire to his hair in the process: the front sticks up in a parody of Tintin, held in place by what can only be highly-flammable gel. But he got the job done (*fingers and toes crossed*) and got me back on the road.

I'll be writing to Metal Mule to let them know about the frame..

--

Onwards. Past the Serra de Espinhaco da Cao, mountains that creep towards the coast without quite reaching it, and into the rich red earth of the Algarve. Beautiful red, with the green green grass and the blue blue sky. And the yellow yellow sun. Luvverly.

I reach the end of today's road: Cabo de Sao Vicente. And I've written enough. More on the end of the world tomorrow.

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