Up
early this morning, we decide to train it further along the southwest
coast to a beach town called Lagos. A quaint town, surrounded by river
channel and ocean, this is one of the most touristy places on the south
coast. We haven't been able to completely escape the crowds of
Barcelona here, but our guesthouse, a cute little whitewashed villa
where we have a room and outdoor balcony with sea view on the third
floor, is perfect. Our time in Portugal, we now consider one of those
"vacation" moments in our trip, where we need to shell out a bit more
money (accommodation in peak season Europe is expensive) to get off the
hard core backpacker circuit, to allow ourselves some down time and
relaxation. On the horizon from our room we see a church with moorish
architectural influences, rising into the sky, and little
mediterranean-like villas terraced on the hills surrounding us. I'm
just imagining that if I were an author, I could see hanging out here
for awhile on this cool little balcony, writing books. We've stocked
our little fridge with all the essentials, milk, beer, wine and cheese.
A could of fresh loaves of bread from the bakery around the corner,
some fresh meats from the local butcharie, and ripe fresh local fruits
- now we're ready to relax for a couple of nights.
The
house mom who runs this quaint place sets us up with a couple of beach
towels (too heavy to have our own in our packs on this journey), and
we're off to the main beach. We cross the river where the only bridge
is up, letting tall, sleek sailboats flow on through. The beach is a
bit of a hike, back past the train station where old grannies are out
in force trying to find occupants for their guest rooms. Unlike Spain,
Portugal sends out the cute grannies, hoping to get weary travelers
secured in their homes before they hit the streets for more advertised
hostels. Not a bad idea. I'd choose going home with old granny to her
flat every day, over some aggressive younger male tout trying to sway
my business toward his place. I'm sure I've read about some countries
in Latin America where grannies are sent out to public transport drop
offs to detract you from watching their bags and then their partner in
crime robs you blind. Luckily this isn't the case here, although we're
always a bit skeptical about touts on the street or at transportation
terminals. I guess our time in Asia has conditioned us to assume the
worst.
Across
the bridge, past the fishing docks, over the wood plank crossing sand
dunes, and walking through the dunes and tall strands of lightly
blowing beach grass, we finally arrive at a long sandy stretch of
beach. It goes for miles - we're stoked. There's a beach bar here
too, serving up pictures of sangria and other delectable treats. We
spend an amazing day at the beach, an evening listening to a local band
in the sand dunes with our pitchers of sangria, and strolling through
the beautiful streets, in awe at the beautiful historical buildings
illuminated with lights, and glowing under a full moon.
