Today we’ll touch the southern edge of the old world. Squinting towards hazy horizons hiding the northern coast of Africa, we’ll soak in the same sunny shores as bygone sailors and salty sea monsters. We’re going to Ilha de Tavira, the island beach.
It sounds a little pretentious, but it’s easy to get nostalgic about the distant past when you’ve been steeping in history, living in medieval villages, and sleeping in stone houses… not to mention our BBC-fueled predilection for old-world charms, traditions, and murder mysteries (but you can’t have everything).
Gilão river wandering
Tavira’s main beach is accessible by ferry on one end (which is our goal today) or a walking bridge on the other. We arrive at the Gilão river terminal early, purchase our very reasonable 2.50 euro round-trip tickets, and mill around the waterfront. Though it looks to be a sunny day, it’s best to be prepared, so we brought a backpack stocked with beachy things like sunbrellas, sweatshirts, and snacks.
Stasia finds herself naked-headed, so with a few minutes to spare, we scour the shops for a hat. We’re intercepted by a coy kitty, who looks like she’s saying ‘talk to the butt’ but is in fact pointing us toward a hat shop.
The most massively useful thing an interstellar hitchhiker can have
If you don’t know the origin of that phrase then you’ve never read the Hitchhikers Guide – but it refers to the towel, and is demonstrated throughout the series as being an indispensable article. We certainly found that to be true – the fabulous new beach towels we purchased in a Coimbra sports outlet turned out to be ideal for the task – attractive, warm, soft, and strong while being very light and compact.
All aboard!
Our transport has now launched and we’re moving at a steady clip, just enough to fan us with delicious (if not a bit chilly) headwinds. Hello towels! These defenders of wet and warmth taught us something about the accumulation of souvenirs – make them everyday things you’ll use and not ornate dust collectors. So what if they don’t say ‘PORTUGAL’ etc, they will always remind you of special adventures regardless and you’ll actually use them.
Tooling down the winding Gilão River, we pass anchored skiffs and active fishing boats, sailors stowing netting and stacking crab traps. The channel widens, transitioning into a widening lagoon dotted with seabirds perched on decayed docks, the entrance of the Ria Formosa Natural Park.
Just sit right back and you’ll hear a tale, the tale of a fateful trip
Our ship docks at a berth and it’s not clear if this is where we should get off because it’s not exactly an island or a beach but there was never a mention of more than one stop. It feels like everyone is watching to see if someone knows what’s going on so they can follow, or is that just me.
Two little biddies in the front of the boat get up to disembark, but the captain is telling them something, the body language saying ‘I don’t think this is where you want to get off’. The elderly sisters look at each other with some confusion, but demonstrate their resolve and conviction by walking off the boat regardless, and sauntering towards what appears to be a closed restaurant. I see the captain shrug and five minutes later, the boat unmoors and we’re gliding off across a small expanse to what is most assuredly our destination, the Ilse of Tavira, aka Beach Island. The cute pair of grandmas we’d marooned were never heard from again. Actually, they probably realized their error and caught the next passing ferry.
Ilha de Praia
Why aren’t all beaches located on sandy knolls out in the ocean? This is beautiful! If an island beach with forested picnic areas, seafood restaurants, thatched cabanas, and soft, sandy shores isn’t enough to win you over, well then you’re hard to please. But seriously, the cherry on the top was the overt display of environmental consciousness, a theme we’ve noticed countrywide.
Portugal’s love for its mother
It’s really heartening to see that public access to recycling abounds everywhere – in all cities and parishes, even on remote islands. Back in Porto, our culinarian Nuno talked at length about the buy-in from the populace and the government. Almost nothing we’ve bought at the local supermarkets came in containers that weren’t recyclable (with some unavoidable exceptions) and assorted public receptacles are always nearby. Even then, it’s not like you’re given a catch-all bin, (which would likely result in much of the contents going to landfills anyways) but an array of different containers, each with a specific set of materials to receive.
With trashless streets, a conscientious population, and a nimble, forward-thinking government whose “global leadership recognizes the human right to a healthy and ecologically balanced environment”, we are muito impressionado!
Sands of time
After disembarking the ferry and wandering up the way a bit, we pull into a little restaurant and order an espresso. Some rocket fuel combined with a nibble at the breakfast bars we bought gives us a moment to savor the upcoming tropical treat while the small throng of a dozen other passengers disperses ahead of us.
While we linger, freshly caught seabream, mackerel, and seabass are being laid out in a display case to attract would-be diners when they open for lunch.
Eternal sea and sky
The shoreline is a short stroll ahead and with the exception of a few distant dots of people, it is all ours. Sea daffodils and other budding flora poke out here and there to give a desert-like vibe on inland dunes.
Our walking path delivers onto sands that have a deeper taupe than their American analog, and upon shedding our sandals we find it soft, yielding, and just the right temperature. Onward we tread toward the water, the crashing sea beckoning me down, the dramatic skies pulling Stasia upwards. What looked to be colored ribbons from a distance turn out to be small and medium shells, mostly still intact, dropped in rippling patterns at high tide.
We find a nice spot to lay out the towels and now I must get in that water. I don’t care how cold or strong it is, this primal ritual was foretold by all the previous ocean dunks I’ve done. In a flash, I’ve changed into my trunks and am marching into the tide.
Sea
The temperature is cool but nowhere near as cold as the home product. This is encouraging, though this hint at a severe undertow isn’t something I counted on. Unphased, I plod on. I’m barely knee-deep now and that drag is starting to feel quite strong while my own resistance increasingly feeble. At one moment, the water swells up to my stomach, and moments later it’s down to my calves, roping me into the depths, the pull quite severe.
A distinct memory of childhood surfaces… I was a kid diving into waves on a beach trip with my parents. As I played in the water, I kept getting pulled farther and farther out. I recall not feeling worried – I could swim and was having fun (thankfully I hadn’t seen Jaws yet). Hearing some distant hubbub on the shore, I looked back and was surprised that it was so far away and people were waving their hands but I couldn’t hear what they were shouting. I waved back and kept playing. A short while later, someone with a floaty thing was swimming up to me. I don’t remember the lifeguard pulling me to shore but I do recall my mom being pretty upset.
Himself, circa 1977
These days, I’m not as young or dumb (at least not as young) and there’s no lifeguard anyways so I make my move, get soaked, and return to shore surprised at how humbling that tiny excursion was. The ocean is a merciless god and a few seconds in its embrace is enough to make even the toughest shiver their timbers.
Sky
Stasia, whose many paintings show her love for suspenseful skies, is amazed at the current display. First of all, with nothing but a flat expanse of sea and sand, the sky is huuuuge. There are small pockets of blue, but it’s mostly overcast albeit not in the typical flat grey we’ve grown accustomed to on the shores back home. It’s a patchwork of texture, a dynamic sky theater. The sun is darting in and out of curling whisps, peeking through blue and grey billows and creating quite the heavenly drama. While her muse performs, she’s snapping photo after photo for future reference.
The work is its own reward
My thirst for saltwater quenched, I get busy digging out a sand design that spirals, literally, into a concentric octopus-inspired shape.
I do a decent amount of scribble/sketch work like this in my chapbooks back home and sometimes it works, sometimes it doesn’t – but either way, you just keep going. I never tear pages out of my chapbook even when the design goes awry – in fact, I usually keep adding to it until it transforms into something more aesthetically pleasing. Here though, in this peaceful public space, I feel my monstrous sand aberration is a trespasser so I kick it over as soon as I finish making it. I consider taking a picture of it, but then what’s the point. The work is its own reward (something my literary hero Sherlock Holmes oft repeats).
Back at the cabana
It’s time for a hot snack so we shimmy ourselves up to the row of restaurants inland and it’s obvious which one to stop at – the cool beach music and beautiful outdoor furniture give it away. The long island ice tea they bring out is (again) the best we’ve ever tastest and I can’t say enough about the anchovy tapas – toasted sourdough with chunky strips of anchovies, roasted red peppers, chopped fresh garlic, and cilantro. I am drooling just recalling it. We also like the fish tacos but they’re nothing to go on about.
Despite my previous kvetching about the nation’s aversion to proper Caesar salads (and why do we keep ordering an American dish overseas anyways? Answer: we need roughage and the salad selections are minimal), we order one anyways, intrigued by the title ‘quasi-caesar‘ and the description which promises pickled cabbage and pineapple.
It’s not even a ‘quasi’ and I’m convinced that no one here actually eats salads – they are just a thing to put on the menu for American tourists. This one is a salad and is beautiful, but the only resemblance to the original is that it contains lettuce. Still, all is forgivable with long island ice teas this strong.
Arch frenemies
With our lovely repast behind us and an hour to spare before the ferry leaves, we explore the east end of the beach, marked by a small lighthouse at the end of a jetting rock pier. Perched safely above the crashing waves, we watch cormorants drying their open wings in the distance, and it occurs to us that the coastal development visible to the east is Spain. In fact, in the middle of the inlet is another lighthouse-pier which I think must be the witness line between the two countries.
Now a friendly neighbor, Spain battled Portugal off and on for 500 years, and then brooded through a cold war up until Spain’s democratic transition in the 1970s. When you see the size difference (Spain being 5x larger) you can imagine the tension this placed on tiny Portugal. With this arch-enemy on one side and the pitiless Atlantic expanse on the other, Portugal spent most of its life pressed between a literal rock and a hard place. That isolation and consequential poverty eventually pushed it to explore, which would then trigger the Age of Discovery and catapult this tiny sliver to exalted heights. You gotta love this scrappy underdog!
We pack it up to go and get back to the docks for the journey back.
Our return is quiet and introspective as the ferry gently delivers us back to the glimmering cobblestone streets of the old town. Sun-kissed and satiated, we’ve had quite the day and it’s not yet 5pm. Another small adventure awaits us as we mosey back home, but that will have to wait for tomorrow.
The Itinerant Three TnTs 