North
by North West
The Portuguese aim to make the English happy in
Vilamoura. English beer, whelks and fish ‘n chips may all be had. Fresh off our planes from Gatwick and
Bristol, we settled our bags in the Irish Pub whilst Robin went in search of
the pontoon key kindly left for us in the reception 2 km away. It was a hot day
and ice cold beer prayed on his mind as he trudged across the sands and
boatyards. Desperately he asked in reception whether they could ferry him back
by boat, which they willingly did. On opening up Voltair however he found a
kindly note, “Call up a water taxi to take you to Reception and save the 2 km
walk!”. Aha!
Sardines and Sangria soon replaced tiredness with
a general feeling of well-being once Maggie, Helen and Dick had unpacked their
luggage and found the supermercado. The marina is a parade ground. Strolling
the wooden walkways were honeymoon brides in their exquisitely diaphanous day
one outfits and awkward new husbands, elderly couples wondering what to eat
and families wanting ice-cream. And it is all provided for from one sunrise to the next.
By contrast Culatra is a tiny island with no
roads, but sweet smelling heather growing amidst the dunes. There we swam and
walked and dined on fish stew and Vinho Verde. A good and true starting point
for our long journey North by Northwest back to Povoa.
The
first stop was Portimao where we anchored beneath the castle and swam ashore.
The coast between there and Lagos is studded with cathedral sized caves,
colourful pinnacle rocks and funny tourist boats. We had been able to drift
along quite close, enjoying tea and cake with Rod Stewart singing, “We are sailing” on the audio system. Dinner
was taken in the beach restaurant as the moon rose above Voltair nodding to her
anchor. In the morning we visited the church where we read the prophesy of
Fatima. The world, she said, would come to a messy end unless the Pope
consecrated Russia to the Sacred Heart of the Virgin Mary. There was much
anxiety that this had yet to be done. But who was Fatima?
Another 30 miles to west is Baleeira, a former
whaling harbour and the last town before Cape St Vincent. It remains fairly
industrial to this day. Anchoring just east of the moorings we dinghied ashore
for a last meal on the Algarve. The next day we slipped around Sao Vincente
just after dawn and met the overnighters from the North ghosting the other way
in the light airs. Our plan had been to go to Sines, but such wind as there was
permitted Cascais so we changed course to the west and settled in for an
overnighter. A family of dolphins came to play and sing to us for awhile till,
satisfied that we were on the right track, Mother gave us a wink and took her
brood off for a bit of fishing. George steered most of the way, but an hour
before our arrival, he went on strike and nothing since has persuaded him to
return. The moon brilliantly lit the sea behind us, but we could not pick up the lobster pots until
we saw them slip past our quarters. We promised that if we passed more than
two, we would cut the engine and do the last few miles under sail, but two was
all we saw. We dropped our anchor in Cascais bay in the dead of the night –
buoying it to ensure we did not get entangled in disused mooring chains - and downed the traditional
whiskies before going to the sleep of the Just. When the sun came up, we
allowed Cascais to give us lunch ashore and then motored into the Marina, no
more expensive than May, for a quiet night, refuelling, watering up,
showers and a home cooked dinner.
Peniche proved a problem. The southgoing
current was strong, especially off the headlands and the north westerly wind,
though brisk, was just where it was
least helpful. At one point we were making nearly 6 knots through the water but
only reducing the distance to Peniche at the rate of 2.5 miles each hour. We
tried furling the genoa and ploughing straight into the weather under motor and
main. This enabled us to do some current dodging but it was still early the
following morning when we dropped our hook in the shelter of the Easterly
breakwater, took a few more tots of
whiskey and fell into our bunks for a few hours’ kip. We made no attempt to
enter the harbour where there are only 6 spaces for visiting yachts and the pilot
advises arriving early. Early, but not 1 am I guess. By 8 am we were up for a
swim off the boat in ice-clear water as cold as a well-served lager. Well Helen
was, which we all thought was admirable. By 10 am we were off again, battling
wind and current towards the monk’s islands in sparkling sunshine. Tacking as
we reached them we were almost able to
lay Nazare where a day’s touring in the hinterland was promised.
Dick
drove us to nearby Alcobao – a stunning monastery with a kitchen oven capable
of cooking two or three complete bulls simultaneously. Once there was a prince
who fell in love and secretly married a noblewoman who did not fit his father’s
dynastic plans. The king had her assassinated, but when the son came to power
he had her remains removed to a beautiful sarcophagus in this monastery, where
she rests to this day supported on the
heads of the three assassins. When he died, the new king had himself entombed
in a matching grave so that the lovers were together in death – if not in life.
At Batalha a monastery was built on the site of
the decisive battle that secured Portugal’s independence from Spain. It is as
stunning as Alcobaca, but famous for its extension, the ‘imperfect’ or
unfinished chapel at the east end. To this day it has no roof.
Not
far away was a site where in 1917, three children had a series of visions of
the Virgin Mary. The site today is a pilgrimage destination for many Catholics
built on the pattern of St Peter’s Rome. Here Helen and Maggie lit candles,
Robin attended mass and Dick studied the scene from the perpective of a
non-theistic Quaker. The name of one of the children was Fatima. But her secret
revelations were only disclosed to the Pope, and only published recently –
hence the anxiety in Portomao.
Nazare itself has a funicular railway up to the
old town, which we used to find a delicious supper and a fine view of coast.
The journey from Nazare to Fiquera da Foz was so
easy that we prepared (and drank) a jug of Pimms on the way. We had time to
anchor off the seemingly endless beach and two of us swam ashore to explore the
dunes, whilst Dick and Maggie read and relaxed. Fig d Foz is a key transit port
and boats of many nationalities come and go at all stages of the day and night.
Our first attempt to leave was influenced by how easy it had been to arrive and
the promise of a useful WNW wind in the afternoon. But by 4 pm it was clear
that the current was stronger than expected, the wind more northerly and the
swell steeper. We were not going to arrive off the ‘potentially dangerous’
entrance of Aveiro until after dark and near low tide. So we turned and enjoyed
the only down-wind sail of trip. They were pleased to see us back in Fig.
Leaving at dawn the following day, we cracked the
problem and entered at HW in daylight and with time for a walk ashore to the
‘really dangerous’ beach where the breakers rolled in on the sand from 200
meters out. We had time to cook up a three course meal on board - baked mussels
with a breadcrumb, oregano and spicy topping, fried Rogalo with garlic
potatoes, carrots and spiach and a choice of many cheeses - goats, sheep and
cow .
Another
early departure was to take us on the last lap to Povoa de Varzim. As we left
we met some tall ships coming in through the dawn mist in a scene that Turner
alone would have had the palette to paint. They had been waiting off the coast
for daylight and a favourable tide.
Our arrival in Povoa was just as inspiring.
Aerial grenades were fired from the harbour wall in a salute that made the
water tremble; flashes of light and sonic shocks rent the harbour - heavy bombs
were interspersed with staccato bursts of rapid fire. Then, around midnight,
after we had enjoyed a splendid dinner near the yacht club (including a
langoustine paella) a sustained firework display painted the night sky in a
cascade of vivid coloured starbursts, culminating in a massive column of
brilliant white light that blinded the eyes. It was the start of the week-long
festival of the Assumption.
What a finale!
Robin, Maggie, Dick and Helen
Photos by Dick