from Cascais, Portugal: break

We got it today – a greatly appreciated pause in the rains (to resume tomorrow, and the next day...).



 our guest house against a partly blue sky


...even as Ed continues to struggle with the sprained (thankfully not broken) ankle, vacillating between being in denial (no, I’m fine... of course we can hike) to the delay (can we pause for a few minutes while I elevate my foot?) to the discouraging reluctance to so much as get out of bed (you sure you want to set out already?).

Margarida gives us a ride to the coast, pointing out various ways we can attack a trek along the water’s edge. The waves are fantastic! The wind has stirred up the hornet’s nest within the Atlantic – the might of the heaving masses of water is palpable, as it all crashes against cliffs and rocks, with a fine spray that makes the shoreline path take on a perpetual salty haze.





My camera is not happy with the sudden attack of salt. It is like wiping salty tears from a child’s face, only to have to do it all over again a minute later.

We start our walk up the coast, in the western direction, indeed, aiming for the point of Portugal which marks the farthest western tip of the European continent.

But shortly into our walk, we turn back. We’re tempted by the bikes that Margarida tells us are available here. Cascais will hand over a bike for your use for free. All you need is an ID and it’s yours until sundown. Ed thinks he may fare better pedaling rather than stomping and I'm happy to be covering longer distances.





There is a bike path that continues up the coast , with mild ascents and descents, and it is somewhat amusing to be handling these on one speed bikes. Ed reassures me – you actually have two speeds. Where do you see a second? You can push the bike and walk.

When the wind blows at our backs, my hair, delicately salty, blows in every direction, but I like the push from behind. When it hits us in the face, it feels brutally strong and fast, almost as if we're biking at great speeds (even as we’re not).

And all the time, we are aware of the crashing waves.


 


I think the term itself – the crash of a wave – has never been more apt. Often the wind picks up puffs of foam and sends them flying. And everywhere, there is the white, lathering foam from broken waves – coming, going, mixing together. Ed tells me – I’ve seen many an ocean front (this, the sailor in him), but I have never seen so much foam at the shore.



...with the most western tip of Europe, in a haze of sea mist



The weather holds up and after our bike ride, we have time for a stroll through, first along the shore, back to town...






...past a craft market...






...past fishing boats and lobster traps...






...then on to the old part of Casais.






















I’m hungry for a late lunch. Ed, who eats mammoth breakfasts when we’re traveling, is satisfied with a bowl of fish soup. I order the catch of the day – sea bream.





As we hike back to the guest house, we pause at one café for an espresso and a local pastry (very sweet, with shaved egg on top)..





...and then at a bakery to take some cookies back to our room.






We’re walking through a residential part of town...





...lost in a maze of streets that  seem to be always shifting directions. As the afternoon sun disappears, the air cools down ever so slightly.  I have a jacket, but Ed remains in short sleeves.  It's been a most beautiful day.



In the evening we again stay in the neighborhood for dinner, returning to the now open place Margarida favors -- Redes do Ma ("sea nets").





We know to ignore the menu and ask what’s available today. Fresh sea bass, or red mullet. I’m beginning to recognize the fish of the season here. I’ve had them all now. Each roasted in crunchy salt, with handfuls of garlic, each one delicious.










We pass on dessert. There are cookies back in our room. And we’re working through the bottle of Portuguese Port that Margarida left in our room.

from Cascais, Portugal: clockwork and cantaloupe

I had emailed Margarida, the landlady of the Dolce Cascais Guest House that we would probably arrive Thursday, around 6 in the evening. It’s a tiny place, sometimes calling itself a hostel (it offers no daily clean up service), but it is lovely and fresh and unbeatable at 40 Euros (about $50) per night for the two of us. With private bathroom, breakfast, WiFi, all taxes and service included.

The arrival prediction was a bit of a wild guess – the best I could do, given that we had two Madison buses, three separate flights, one Lisbon bus, and finally one Portuguese train to factor in.

We were at her doorstep at 5:30 p.m.

What’s most impressive about the whole bundle of travel connections is that the weather in western Europe is quite unstable this week. There is a storm front that’s bringing with it quite a bit of rain and gusts of furious wind.

If you ever fly Air France, you’ll probably recall that the pilots have this habit of telling it like it is. If anything, they tend to exaggerate the negatives. A typical announcement before landing would be: “the weather in Chicago is terrible right now: cold, poor visibility. We do hope you have had a pleasant flight.”

On our flight from Paris to Lisbon, the pilot tells us to prepare for “turbulance dynamique!!” on our landing. “The meteorological conditions are not good: heavy winds, cloudy skies.”

Turbulance dynamique. I’ll have to save that in my cache of terms to use for the rocky times that we face now and then.



landing in the clouds over Lisbon


Just hours before leaving Madison, I had an appointment with my sports doctor (makes me feel athletic just to type it) to take stock of where my fussy shoulder is at the moment. She wanted to do some manipulations, but I asked her to hold off as I was leaving the next day and didn’t want to travel with an achy body. You’re going to Portugal? What’s in Portugal? – she asks.

If you’re destined to be in Europe in the middle of January, is there a better place to catch your breath? It’s relatively warm (I’d say it’s like northern Florida, climate wise), relatively inexpensive, it’s uncrowded, naturally and architecturally pretty, with a zesty Mediterranean kitchen, and delicately drinkable wines (and of course, there’s the Port).

All that, but, too, there’s a feeling of remoteness that would appeal to both Ed and myself: Portugal is geographically closer to Africa than to any country in Europe (except for Spain). And Portugal has a long and rugged coastline. Superb hiking opportunities. Unless you’re traveling with someone who has an ankle that has morphed into looking like a cantaloupe, having only a few days ago looked remarkably like a watermelon.


We aren’t stopping in Lisbon. We haven’t much time and Ed is happier when I avoid putting him through a tour of the great capitals of Europe. But since we’re both traveling with almost no luggage, when the airport bus drops us by the coastal train station, we take a minute to walk around the water’s edge. Where the old warehouses face the choppy inlet.





And an occasional old fashioned tram will pull up and take in a wet and shivering people. (Ed, on the other hand, is down to his tshirt.)





Public transportation is so cheap here that we choose to stay with trains and buses rather than renting a car. A half hour train ride brings us to the coastal town (once fishing village, and even though it still has a fleet of fishing boats, you could hardly call it a village these days) of Cascais.





There is a threat of rain in the air and we still have our bags and we’re tired, and yet, we can’t resist a walk to the sea. Ed buys a bag of hot, roasted chestnuts (it seems to be a common street food here) and we munch these as take a quick look around.


















Our guest house is a little removed from the harbor area and the threat of rain has now finally become rain itself. Ed is relieved to put up his cantaloupe and indeed he tries to talk me out of going out again, but that’s just a futile thing. I’m good and hungry and I am especially hungry for something authentically Portuguese. Margarida suggests a place in the neighborhood and within a couple of hours, my umbrella is up and Ed’s hood is on and we set off in search of food.





It’s a warm rain and I’m not minding it at all, and that’s a good thing because we’re having a hard time finding the suggested restaurant. And when we do find it, it appears closed.

Still, there is a small place that has an open door and a name we cannot understand nor even pronounce -- Bandeireites -- and we walk in, shake off the rain and sit down. We’re given menus, but they’re in Portuguese. The waiter has a handful of English words and as best as we can understand him, most of the items on the menu are not available. This is a good thing, since in the off season overstocking a full menu means you prefer variety to something fresh and honest. What do you have then? -- we ask. Fish. Especially the freshest local sea bass.

We wait for our food and we watch the one solitary diner. He was on our train – Ed tells me.



two men in black, with curly hair


The waiter is setting wine and olives on a long table. A party? I ask. No, workers. He tells me.

But we don’t wait to watch their meal. Our fish comes – a delicious, delicate, roasted fish, with boiled vegetables on the side and a wonderful bottle of table wine. And pineapple something or other for dessert.











And now our internal clocks reach that confusing state when first you’re sleepy then not so much and it is a joyous ritual of travel and perhaps this is the true marker of time off – when it doesn’t matter if you sleep, when you sleep, none of it really matters because you have no agenda, no list of things to accomplish. You have the most wonderful thing of all – you have time.



the cook at Bandeireites