Amanda has told Mirinda how much she loves the west coast of Portugal. She loves it much more than any other part of Portugal, she says. And the other day when we went to Baleal Island, I started to understand the attraction. Today, though, I am convinced she is 100% correct in her opinion. Because, today, we visited the coastal, beach town of Foz do Arelho.
Seriously, if we wanted to spend winter somewhere beautiful and warm, this would be it. With the Atlantic bashing the beach and a massive lagoon, it is pretty much perfect. There are even ballerinas on the sand.
We headed out to the Fonz (clearly that’s what we’re going to call it) after Mirinda’s second project meeting in Santarém. She spent a few hours in a meeting room while I wandered up and down the main road before we hopped into the car and took off on the toll ways to the coast.
It was an extremely pleasant drive too. I think a lot Portuguese drivers (especially the ones in trucks) don’t want to pay the toll, so they leave the pristine tarmac for the more spendthrifty types among us. Which means a lovely, smooth, not crowded, costly journey from city to sea.
Obviously, we started with lunch.
We popped into the very handy Emotions Café…though I think they may have renamed it Oasis while retaining the crockery.
Actually, there is a veritable glut of food places along the beachfront. The summer would be very different but, today, for us, we had a wide choice. This place was Mirinda’s choice. And an excellent choice it was.
I managed to have my second bacalhau which was different to the one I had yesterday. Okay, it had the same ingredients (cod, potato, parsley, olives and butter) but arranged and prepared a bit differently. There was also a lovely pile of string beans cooked perfectly. It was delicious. I am really loving the bacalhau.
I’m also loving Foz do Arelho. Less than an hour to Santarém, beautiful views, walk to shops and a brilliant beach. What’s not to love?
When we return to Portugal, this is where we’d love to stay.
Maybe in one of the new flats to the right of the photo and behind the sandy coloured building.
PS: On a different note, we were almost killed this afternoon on the way home. A lunatic thought it was okay to overtake someone on the crest of a hill. Fortunately, Mirinda saw him in time and veered off onto the grass verge. Had she not seen him and acted as quick as she did, the lunatic driver, the two of us and the two people in the car he was overtaking would be dead now and I wouldn’t have posted this entry. The Portuguese are the worst drivers.
Mirinda had an allergic reaction last night. She woke up, coughing and sputtering. Fortunately, she had some Clarytin handy. She blamed eating vegan ice cream because, along with the many chemicals in it, there was yellow food dye. We bought it by accident. We read ‘salted caramel ice cream’ and just put it in the basket. Annoying.
Just shows how bad fake food can be. They shouldn’t be allowed to call it ice cream if they are going to use stuff that causes an allergic reaction, and it’s not actually ice cream. Fortunately, there were no such reactions at the superb restaurant where we had lunch today.
First thing, rain poured down. It was like a milky curtain looking out of the front door. The clouds were thick and gloomy, which decided us not to go out anywhere first thing. For one thing we would have managed to get super wet and, for another, Mirinda was still feeling a bit sick with her cold.
So, we sat around the house doing various things until the afternoon saw a brief lightening of the rain and a bit of straining sun attempting to dry the porch tiles. Then Mirinda suggested we try a restaurant not far from us called Oficina dos Sabores.
It’s almost in a small place called Aveiras de Cima. I say ‘almost’ because it is just beyond the town sign and just after a motorway overpass. This is important because if you put the address in your satnav, you’re likely to not find it. This happens a lot and, apparently, the postal service in Portugal is pretty bad because the deliverers have trouble finding addresses.
Anyway, I have it sussed and we managed to find the car park and headed inside.
And what an excellent place to eat, drink and joke around with the waiting staff. In particular, the main guy who gets called whenever an English speaker turns up. He was very entertaining.
And the food was excellent. I finally tried bacalhau-a-bras which I thoroughly enjoyed. It’s a very Portuguese way to serve cod and, so I’ve been told, Amanda’s favourite. It is now my second favourite Portuguese meal. Obviously, grilled sardines comes an easy first place.
For dessert, I decided to have my second ever farofias which I especially loved because it was only one serving as opposed to the triple I had at Taxos the other night. Mirinda had an egg pudding (pudim de Ovos) which she said was delicious. An all round excellent restaurant that I would happily recommend.
You might notice in the photo above that there is a television on the back wall of the restaurant. At first, this alarmed me, thinking that I would never frequent a restaurant that had a TV on but, it seems, every restaurant in Portugal has at least one on a wall somewhere. No sound, you understand, just the picture.
Eventually, the rain drifted away, but that was too late to be doing anything. We stayed in the house and read, wrote and devised world conquering plans. A normal, rain affected afternoon, really.
In 1836, Queen Maria II of Portugal said that bullfighting was not the sort of thing that civilised people enjoyed, so she banned it. Sadly, her decision was swept aside in 1921. I guess the ordinary folk of Portugal decided they were happy not being civilised. Anyway, in 1928 it was agreed that they wouldn’t kill the bull like they do in Spain. Even this rule was ignored in some bullrings. I have to say that I completely agree with the very civilised Queen Maria II.
Santarém, it seems, is the unofficial capital of bull fighting in Portugal and, today, I found the bullring. It is right behind this guy.
In fact, the bullring is named after him. He is Celestino Pedro Louro da Silva Graça (1914-1975). He was born and died in Santarém.
Now, I know what you’re thinking. He must have been a famous toreador or matador or whatever bull taunting killers are called in Portugal, but you’d be wrong. Oh, he loved bullfighting, don’t be mistaken. The reason the bullring is named after him is because he had a big hand in it being built to replace a smaller one. But he was never a participant. He was very happy because it was the largest bullring in Portugal.
But not just bull fighting, Celestino was intent on preserving everything traditional about Portugal. Though, I don’t think he was that intent on preserving slavery…but I could be wrong. Portugal, it seems, was made very rich on slavery and, given how long they bought and sold other humans, it must be considered a bit traditional.
But, slavery aside, good old Celestino roamed the country, collecting traditions and presenting them in travelling shows which, eventually, became the yearly International Folklore Festival in Santarém. In fact, it is still an annual feature of the city.
For his work in remembering stuff about Portugal, he was awarded a couple of honours and his name now graces the bullring. Hurrah!
I found his statue while Mirinda was in her project meeting at the uni this morning. I wandered up the main road, passing the bullring and Celestino and winding up at the same shopping centre that I visited last week.
On the way, as well as Celestino, I passed this chap.
This is Fernando José Salgueiro Maia, who, in 1974 led a group of soldiers to Lisbon where they helped overthrow the dictatorship to install a democratic government. He is a bit of a hero in these here parts.
He wasn’t born in Santarém, but he was stationed there when the great Carnation Revolution* started. On the day they left, he gave this short and famous speech:
Gentlemen, as you all know, there are three kinds of states: capitalist states, socialist states, and the state we’ve come to. Now, in this solemn night, we are going to end this state! So that anyone who wants to come with me, we go to Lisbon and finish it. This is voluntary. Who does not want to leave, stay here!
What a guy! His biography indicates he was a modest man but with a strong belief in freedom. He wasn’t alone, but without men like him, democracy may have never come to Portugal. Oh, and all of his men went with him to Lisbon.
Anyway, having walked up to the shopping centre then back to the car, I sat and waited about ten minutes for Mirinda to finish and meet me. We then drove to the little town of Alpiarça because one of the people on Mirinda’s team suggested she might like to walk around the small lake.
And he was right.
Apart from the world’s smallest glass of beer, which Mirinda took great delight in giving me, the lake makes for a lovely, off-road, unpaved and very pleasant walk. Of course, there were cars, but this is Portugal after all. Even so, we could ignore them. A bit. Well, not really. Not as well as the geese did, anyway.
The walk was good, the town not so much.
We parked the car and went for a short walk, trying to find somewhere to eat. We may have found somewhere nice but the huge number of very big trucks rumbling through the small town, put us off.
My theory is that the truck drivers growl through these small places rather than pay the tolls on the big, purpose built roads. It fills the little places with pollution and makes walking very dangerous. We managed to reach the car safely and headed back to the house.
* The reason it’s called the Carnation Revolution is because the soldiers who marched on Lisbon visited a florist to get flowers to put in the barrels of their guns to indicate there would be no bloodshed. The florist gave them carnations.
According to our waitress last night, the trains in this part of Portugal are hopeless. She said that, if you have an exam to attend, you are more likely to miss it if you rely on a train to get you there on time. She said that everyone drives everywhere. She also said she could ride a bike to Lisbon. She wouldn’t ride a bike to Lisbon because it would take her three hours, but she could. She did admit she was lazy as well.
The love of cars seems to be very much the case here. Sitting on the porch at our accommodation, in what appears to be the quiet countryside, you are actually in the middle of the thrum and growl of engines.
There is a motorway not far away but even so. The traffic doesn’t stop.
And there are no paths to speak of. If you wanted to walk anywhere…well, you can’t, basically. Most roads outside of towns and cities have no footpaths, forcing anyone who wants to go a few metres outside their house, to walk on the road. Cars, of course, do not like this and will endeavour to run them over.
Even when there is a footpath in a town, it is invariably a small, skinny space up against the buildings. Just room enough for the foolish pedestrian to hug the wall when a massive vehicle rumbles down the narrow street. The same narrow streets also hang on to the obnoxious and noxious fumes, which are then sucked into your lungs. It’s seriously awful.
Paths in the countryside are another non-existent thing. All land appears to be owned by someone, and that someone does not want you on their land. Fences are everywhere, delineating the boundaries of ownership. There doesn’t seem to be anything like the British public footpaths or the Swedish right to roam.
To be fair, Portugal is pretty small. For comparison, Sweden has a population of 10,540,886 and is 450,295 km2 while little Portugal has a similar population of 10,639,726 but is only 92,230 km2. And, if you think about it, a lot of that space is needed for roads for the cars to drive on.
Anyway, that sounds like I don’t like Portugal very much. That’s not exactly true. I don’t like the constant traffic and the dangers associated with walking anywhere. I also don’t like the bad public transport.
But, and it’s a big but, I really like the food, the wine and, most importantly, all the people I’ve met either socially or just in passing. They seem very nice, welcoming and happy.
The reason I’m writing this almost diatribe is because Mirinda has come down with a cold, and we spent the day at the house. She has an important meeting tomorrow so it was all soup, sleep and hot drinks.
Back in 1159, the Knights Templar were gifted the fiefdom of the Médio Tejo region of central Portugal. The area had once been the Roman town of Sellium. Some time later, it was a Moorish town but then, under the strong guidance of the first king of Portugal, Afonso Henriques, they were vanquished from the land. The Knights Templar had helped the king and so, grateful, he gifted them the land and they built a huge castle. And we visited it today.
It is a very impressive ruin. It is also, along with the convent next door, a UNESCO World Heritage site.
The castle was actually founded in 1118 and by 1190 completely encircled the town of Tomar. This was good because a whole gang of Moors arrived under the command of caliph Abu Yusuf al-Mansur who laid siege but gave up after a few days because of the 72-year-old commander of the place. He had the help of his knights and also the townsfolk, who were not that keen on changing religion. Again.
The famous rotunda church in the castle was designed to resemble the more famous Dome of the Rock in Jerusalem. Though some say that it may also have been a copy of the Church of the Holy Sepulchre of Jerusalem. You can make your own mind up.
The Knights Templar remained in the castle for many years, repelling attacks from the Moors and, generally, being the bully boys of Portuguese justice. Then, in 1319 when the Templar order was dissolved, the unlikely named King Denis of Portugal asked Pope John XXII to turn the place into a convent. It then became the Order of Christ.
During our walk around the castle grounds, a chap was picking oranges in the orchard (he said it was okay because he was from Tomar) and handing them out to anyone who wanted one. Now, when I say oranges, they only looked like oranges. In fact, they tasted like lemons. Pure, unadulterated, sour as all get out, lemons. They were awful. I threw mine away.
Recovering with only slightly pursed lips, we left the castle and had a bit of a rest at the café in the car park before heading around the corner to the entrance to the convent.
A bit of the old castle was converted but, generally, a lot of the place was turned into cloisters. Seriously. I have never seen so many cloisters in a single building. An information board at the beginning said there are eight but, honestly, I think they just keep increasing the further you walk into the complex. I think a visitor slips into a time vortex where cloisters magically multiply the deeper you go.
Here’s a double storey job.
Each cloister has a name. There’s the Washing Cloister, Saint Barbara’s Cloister, the Cloister Cloister, and so on and so forth. You could easily get lost wandering around. I bet that back in the day, newly created acolytes did. In fact, they were probably sent on errands that got them lost for weeks.
But the place is not just about the cloisters. It also has two amazing structures, one outside and one inside. Let’s start with the one inside.
I have never seen anything like it but, apparently, they have them in other places too, just not places I’ve been. It’s called a charola (rotunda) and this one is inside the round church mentioned above.
It is an extraordinary thing. The walls around the centre are painted with many scenes of Christ’s life, as well as a few saints dotted about. Most amazing was this painting of St Sebastien. Check out the cross bow! Very unusual.
The Martyrdom of Saint Sebastien (c 1536) by Gregório Lopes (c 1490-1550)
The artist, Gregório Lopes, ended up living in Tomar and also painted the altarpiece in the church of St John the Baptist, in the town. We are thinking of returning and, if the church is open, I think I just might snap that too. I do rather like his work.
Obviously, I’m a bit biased when it comes to paintings of saints being killed in spectacular ways. However, the rest of the rotunda was just as extraordinary. Maybe more so.
Imagine a big cylinder inside a round church. Inside the cylinder are paintings and statues. They are currently protected by a magic bit of string but, originally, religious types would have gaily strolled between the pillars, admiring the images before them.
If it’s difficult to imagine, given my appalling description, here’s a photo of the top bit. The bottom bit was full of a Japanese tour group.
The second, equally amazing feature of the convent is the chapter house window, made by Diogo de Arruda in 1510–1513. It is called the Manueline Window because it features many designs frequently found in the Manueline style. This is also sometimes called the more prosaic Portuguese late Gothic.
Whatever you want to call it, it is pretty bloody amazing. Stone ropes and liquorice intertwine around figures and heads, giving an impression of an overly decorated wedding cake. The fact that it is clean makes a huge difference, as it stands out like a beacon at midnight.
Right at the bottom, there’s a chap who looks just like me. Okay, his hair and beard are curlier than mine and his hat is noticeably of a rakish Renaissance style but, otherwise, Mirinda reckons it could be me. Of course, you can’t see it in this photo.
We spent quite a long time (for us) wandering around both the convent and the castle so, by 4 o’clock, we were ready for the big drive back to the house in the countryside and a short rest before heading out for dinner.
We only had a snack at the café outside the Templar’s castle so we were in need of a proper dinner. We decided to return to the Taxo restaurant, mainly because it’s easy to get to as well as having great food. And, turns out, an excellent waitress.
We think she was chosen to serve us because she had the best English and, it turned out was very entertaining. We all three made each other laugh a number of times. For instance, when Mirinda asked her if she got to have dinner at the restaurant she replied, indignantly, that she didn’t work there. This caused a flurry of jokes about her wandering in off the street, grabbing an apron, and then just waiting tables randomly.
“This is not my life!” She said with great emphasis.
It turned out she is studying at university and grabs a Saturday shift at Taxo when she can.
The other thing she did was introduce me to that great Portuguese dessert, farófias. It’s difficult to describe the farófias. But, of course, I shall try.
Imagine, if you can, egg whites shipped into peaks with a bit of sugar then the yolks whipped up as well and made into a sauce. The whites are baked for a bit then the yolk sauce poured over the top. The whole thing goes into the fridge for a few hours then is served sprinkled with cinnamon.
The thing is, it is ridiculously light. So light, in fact, that they give you three of them.
As well as being light, it was also very, very yummy.
We woke to the loud drips of rain this morning. Everywhere was wet, the views were greyish grim and the wind was pretty fierce. It was a big surprise after all the sunshine and blue sky we’ve been subjected to this holiday. However, it was the ideal day for having a break and staying indoors. So we did.
We had enough food from yesterday’s shop so we wouldn’t starve. While Mirinda worked on Project Portugal, I researched a few dead soldiers.
Then, in the afternoon, I had an email saying the dead soldier project would definitely end by February 28. There is the chance that I may be able to do something else remotely for the Surrey History Centre, so, fingers crossed there’s something for me to contribute.
I started researching dead soldiers for the SHC back in January 2018, so it’s been a few years and, I guess, a change will be fun. However, I am a bit sad that there are still war memorials that remain unrecorded and soldiers unresearched.
Speaking of which, I spotted a war memorial in Cartaxo yesterday. It listed the ten Cartaxo men who lost their lives in the Great War. I didn’t know Portugal was involved. Apparently they joined in 1916. They were on our side, by the way.
Note that four died fighting in France while the others died in Africa. The African deaths were a result of fighting in the Portuguese colonies in Africa that bordered German colonies. That sounds a bit mad.
Speaking of which, also commemorated on the memorial were the 19 Cartaxo men lost in the Portuguese Colonial War (1961-1974), which I’d never heard of and which ended following the Portuguese government being overthrown. It not only finished the war, it also introduced democracy to Portugal.
Anyway, given we didn’t go anywhere today, I don’t have an awful lot to report. Except the weather. And while it rained most of the day, there was a brief period of sunshine shortly before it set.
Tomorrow should be back to the sun and blue sky that Portugal is so famous for. I hope.
In non Portuguese news, a new heat pump was installed in the stuga today! Yay!
The closest town to where we’re staying is called Cartaxo. It’s pronounced something like CarToosh, which Mirinda thinks sounds Klingon. It only has a few things of great note, in fact, when I searched for anything to do, I found a listicle with five things in it. I also found one with ten items but most of those were ads.
Something Cartaxo does have, however, is a surfeit of supermarkets. The first time we visited we found the Intermarche then, today we found Pingo Doce, Continente and Lidl all within cooee of each other. We decided to try Pingo because it had a café inside. Also, how could we resist a supermarket named after a penguin?
Now, not wanting to shock any Swedish readers, I feel I should explain that, in Portugal, you can buy beer, wine and spirits in a supermarket. I know, a shock, right? This is what it looks like:
I bought a bottle of green wine for Mirinda. I’d never heard of green wine before. It’s a young wine with a very slight effervescence. And Mirinda has fallen in love with it. Obviously, I also bought beer and sausage for Gary. Along with cheese and some healthy stuff.
It’s a lovely supermarket except for one thing. They have a ticket system for some counters. Like most big places, you touch a screen and you get a numbered ticket. The thing is, there are four options for each counter. Not reading Portuguese meant Mirinda had to ask a friendly fellow customer which one was chicken.
The other thing I really liked about Pingo was the fact that they have an entire aisle full of the weekly specials. Genius idea. Everything from biscuits to cereal, from detergent to coffee. And beer. Always beer.
There was a slight issue at the check-out though. There was only one cashier operating, so I joined the queue behind a man with an overflowing cart. He’d been standing there a while. He had cobwebs under his arms. In front of him was a woman waiting to have her bits scanned.
In front of the woman was a young chap with a sneaky moustache and two lots of shopping and, finally, in front of him there was a woman who was trying to pay with cash. The guy on the cash register looked as if he’d never seen paper money and coins. He was very confused. He called over a senior assistant to assist him. He cried as the assistant explained what cash was.
Actually, he didn’t cry and he did know what cash was. The thing is, he didn’t have the right change for the woman and was waiting for someone to bring over the right denominations.
Next came the young chap with the sneaky moustache. He wanted to pay with his phone. This proved too much for the young check out fellow and he left, replaced by a rather aggressive woman. She snatched the phone from the young chap with the sneaky moustache and started waving it vigorously all over the place in the vicinity of the card machine. She had to do this twice.
Eventually a new check-out opened up so I managed to make my escape. I think the old man with the cobwebs may still be there.
Our next excursion in Cartaxo was a walk up the main road into the town where we bumped into the church of St John the Baptist. Outside there’s an impressive carved calvary, but inside there are two amazing things. Two examples of Catholic depictions.
Firstly there was a totally unexpected tile version of Salome being presented with John’s head on a platter and the other was a marvellous St Sebastien.
I realise it’s out of focus but there was a big Jesus on a cross in front of him and Jesus kept stealing focus. Anyway, you get the idea. And I loved it. And he prevented the town from getting the plague.
The church was very quiet and lined with gold. A couple of old, austere women were praying anxiously while we quietly wandered around – I was conscious of my stick making a noise every time I walked – but didn’t seem bothered by us. I thought it was sad that they looked so serious while talking to their imaginary friend. Surely they should have been happy to know he was listening to them. Maybe god doesn’t understand Portuguese.
The church sat in a small square just off the main road and looked glorious in the sunshine. You can just see the carved calvary in the cage to the right of the church.
We continued our wanderings and saw everything there was to see. This included the bull ring that is currently covered in hoarding as it undergoes some sort of renovation, the municipal building which has a very impressive painted frontage, the statue of journalist, playwright and novelist, Marcelino Mesquita and the weird cultural building with the half barrel on the roof.
Most impressive though was the Roman centurian taking a selfie.
Cartaxo was an important staging post for the Romans back in the day. On their way from Lisbon to Santarém (and/or back again) they would stop off for fresh horses, a bit of vino and tapas, before continuing their long journey. In fact, there are the remains of a Roman road somewhere though I have no idea where and no-one will tell me.
Anyway, I reckon the statue depicts a typical Roman, on leave, heading for Santarém and stopping for a quick selfie with the bullring behind him.
Eventually, we grew tired of our exertions and went to a small but perfectly formed cocktail and brunch place called Caverna Brunch and Cocktails. We sat and had delicious burgers, beer and a strange antitoxic concoction that had beetroot in it. No point in asking me what it tasted like. That’s a question for Mirinda alone. Suffice it to say that it looked very red. And fizzy.
The food was excellent and the woman behind the bar was also very pleasant. I would recommend the place just for her alone. Apart from being incredibly helpful and jolly, she also spoke excellent English. So, it’s all thumbs up from me.
Stuffed full of burger, we made our slow way back to the car and home, stopping briefly to snap a photo of the poster child of Cartaxo from her position on the wall of a house.
This is the depiction of an apparition that appeared to three kids in Fatima years ago. I don’t know why she’s so popular in Cartaxo.
The house we’re staying in has a few issues. Okay, it’s situated in a lovely spot with great views and, generally, it’s quiet, but there are regular reminders of what’s not so good. Here’s a sunset photo taken from the porch, to sugar the pill, as it were.
Yesterday I mentioned the dogs. They bark almost constantly. I really don’t think they sleep. It’s okay with all the doors and windows shut but, the moment you step outside, the noise of a thousand hounds hits you. Which is why Mirinda christened the place the Valley of the Hounds. I think Sherlock Holmes would be interested.
Then there’s the shower. It’s beyond not very good. I have reported on showers from all over the world, but this is easily one of the worst. It’s so bad that poor wobbly Gaz has been reduced to sitting in the small bath with a hand held shower head.
The electricity is weird. Sporadically, it dips off then comes back on. It’s not that noticeable during the day but at night, with lights and heater on, it’s quite alarming. Mirinda wanted to know where the candles were on the first night. Just in case. I searched but found none.
And then there’s the sketchy Internet connection. My phone usually has no Internet while my laptop does. Sometimes. Though it does tend to drop out suddenly with no Internet but a wifi connection. It’s quite frustrating. On the first night, I couldn’t actually connect to my blog, which was weird. At least that works now, though I do keep playing catch up when the connection drops out. It’s frustrating.
But, enough moaning about the house, today we went to the beach!
Baleal Beach, to be exact. It’s renowned as the surf capital of this part of Portugal and, if today was anything to go by, it certainly is. As well as numerous surf shops selling boards, wax and other surfing paraphernalia, there were a lot of people out on boards.
Apparently, people have been surfing here since 1965, and it has become the Surfer’s Paradise of Portugal. I found it was not as bogan as the Queensland version, though there were lots of cars to spoil the overall ambience.
There’s a sort of island just across from the car park for the surf beach. It is joined to the mainland by a very narrow road and footpath as it crosses the sand. I would have thought this would have been the perfect opportunity to make the place car free but, no, there are more cars than humans. I even spotted a woman taking photos of the views from inside her car rather than get out and walk around.
Still, it was very pleasant walking around even with the almost constant car dodging.
Mind you, I’m not sure it was as pleasant as my lunch. Ever since arriving in Portugal, I have been searching for grilled sardines. I love grilled sardines. Then, today, at the amazing Prainha Restaurant and Wine Bar, I struck gold.
Bloody delicious. Even the boiled potatoes were lush.
But, back on the little island, we wandered up to the small chapel. It is dedicated to Santo Estêvão but was shut. Utterly. A shame because the inside walls are covered in tiles and, the photo on the information board outside, showed that it looks pretty amazing.
Santo Estêvão translates to Saint Stephen and he was the first Christian Martyr. He was stoned for blasphemy by the Jewish authorities. Apparently, Saul (who became Paul) was in the audience. Steve is very popular in Portugal. I don’t know about Saul/Paul. (Did he change his name because he didn’t want people to think he liked watching a good stoning? If so, he could have done better than just changing the first letter!)
Anyway, the chapel looked lovely from the outside as well so I took a photo of that.
It was probably built in the 16th century and also celebrates Nossa Senhora das Merces. That’s good old Mary, the virgin, Our Lady of Mercies. It seems that she appeared in a dream to someone who said he had to remove all Moors from Portugal because she said so. I guess he succeeded. I always say, there’s nothing like a good old fairytale.
A shame I didn’t get to see the tiles, though.
Just across the inlet from the chapel there’s a rather tricky path that leads to the remains of a French fort, built in 1808 when there was a garrison there. General Thomieres was the man in charge during the Napoleonic Wars that saw Portugal come under French rule for a bit.
Everything I know about the Napoleonic Wars I know from reading Bernard Cornwell’s Sharpe novels, but I don’t remember anything about Thomieres, Baleal or surfing. Which is a shame because Thomieres saw a lot of action during his time under Napoleon. His short but exciting life would make an exciting Netflix series, I reckon.
The remaining fort wall was quite a distance from where I waited for Mirinda, but I tried to take a photo anyway. It also features her leaving the fort while a man in sandals and socks (for the love of the gods, WHY?) is entering it.
A bit further around, there were information boards pointing out the various geological happenings over time, starting 260 million years ago when there was a sea where the sea is now. The salt from the old sea, pushed up the limestone rocks, forming faults along the coast which the current sea now crashes into.
All in all, we thoroughly enjoyed our day at the beach and will surely return to the Portuguese west coast. Mirinda would prefer there to be no sardines or a geology lesson.
My first impressions of Santarém were not good. The traffic was awful, where we parked was ghastly, the narrow streets provided a racetrack for drivers of all sorts, it was very, very smelly with car fumes. As I said, it was not good. Things gradually improved, however.
Mirinda had a meeting at a café so we parked as close as we could. We parted ways and I headed for the centre. Except I didn’t…at first.
My opinion of Santarém gradually changed as I reached the Portas do Sol and the garden it sits in. Don’t get me wrong, there are still cars. For one thing, you can clearly hear them in the valley below, while you sit enjoying an espresso outside the small café.
That’s the Targus River, by the way. It was probably the last thing that the Moors saw when Afonso I (First King of Portugal) Henriques, sent them all flying over the battlements of their own castle.
That was back in 1147 when Afonso decided he’d had enough and wanted to get rid of them in order to Make Portugal Great Again. You see, before he attacked, the Moors ran both Santarém and Lisbon. Afonso wanted it all joined up.
By the way, Afonso I became king when he trounced his mother at the Battle of São Mamede. He didn’t have the best family life. His father was already dead when his mother, Theresa of León and her boyfriend, Count Fernando Pérez de Traba of Galicia, decided that Afonso shouldn’t be king. Then they lost. Theresa was exiled to and Fernando went back home to, Galicia.
Here is Afonso I, atop a very high pedestal looking rather threatening with his big sword.
As I stared at this statue, admiring his heroic stance, I was approached by a little old man who, through a bit of Portuguese, French and a lot of gestures, told me about the memorial. He also told me how the Christians had demolished the Moors, chucking them over the battlements and skewering them with their swords.
Though we didn’t share a spoken language, his gestures really were quite graphic and self-explanatory.
He showed me the tiled bench which told the story. He sounded so proud of it, you’d think that he had made it himself.
I had passed a museum on the way down to the gate which probably told the story as well and, I fully intended to visit. Except it was locked up tight, the sign saying it was closed on Tuesdays. Today was Tuesday. So I was very glad for the history lesson given to me by the little old man.
Not that he was finished.
With a glint in his eye, he took me round the back of an unopened restaurant, urging me to follow him. I was slightly concerned but then, his eyes wide with wonder, he showed me this:
He explained that it was firstly a Moorish temple then, after they were slaughtered or sent home as illegal immigrants, it was changed to a Christian church. It was then largely destroyed when Santarém grew over the centuries. And then, finally, a bunch of archaeologists found the foundations.
I told him I was an archaeologist and that made him very happy. I wouldn’t have seen the ruin if the little old man hadn’t taken the trouble to show me.
“Thank you, little old man,” I said, as I waved him goodbye.
Walking on, through narrow streets that appear to have no speed limit and barely room for a car and a man with a walking stick, I came upon the church in which Pedro Álvares Cabral, the man who discovered Brazil, was buried.
They say ‘discovered’ like it hadn’t existed before. Obviously, it had. And I do wonder what the locals thought when they started to speak Portuguese.
Anyway, Cabral wasn’t from Santarém but, following his seafaring and discovering days, he settled in the town. He then died and was buried in the church. Then, sadly, everyone forgot about him until the 1840’s when the Brazilian Emperor, Dom Pedro II, organised research into Cabral’s life and death.
Since the rediscovery and remembering of Cabral, he has become a bit of a hero in Brazil. Okay, it took around 400 years but, better late than never. Mind you, the way that Columbus has been rather maligned and hated on lately, I’d not be surprised if Pedro suffered the same ignominy eventually.
Meanwhile, back in the here and now, Mirinda was released from her coffee meeting and headed over to a convent for a look see and tour by a young intern. The convent is just beyond the centre of the town. I met her outside, and we went for a coffee in a lovely little place just behind the stares of St Frank.
Mirinda had to race off for a lunch meeting, so I stayed and had a delicious Chicago burger for my lunch. I may also have had a beer.
Anyway, I slowly wandered back to the car, given my phone was running out of charge. The next message I received from Mirinda, as my phone dropped to 5%, was that she’d be a few more hours yet.
I waited. Reading in the sun. I may also have found another beer. It was a long wait but, eventually she returned full of excitement over the day’s proceedings. I was just happy to get into the car.
As we drove into the accommodation, we were once more assailed by the masses of dogs. They are so loud and numerous that we have named the place the Valley of the Hounds.
Mirinda has found the most amazing AirBnB property. It’s a few kilometres outside Santarém and is set in the most wonderful countryside. The house was built by the father of Carlos, the man who runs it. The father designed it architecturally to be of the same proportions to Solomon’s temple. Or the First Temple as some religious people call it.
Apparently, the dimensions and structure were divine instructions given to Solomon, and Carlos’ father followed the same information to build the house. That’s not to say that some god told Carlos’ father to build it that way. No, Carlos’ father just did it the same as Solomon’s builders. To be clear, there is no ark of the covenant inside.
However the plans were obtained, the house is fantastic. I think the next two weeks will be a delight. Though it is rather chilly at night.
But that was at the end of our drive from Santa Luzia and a morning coffee at the local café where we sat and listened to a woman say how much she hated visiting places where other English people visit. She was English. One of those horrid ones. We pretended we were Swedish so we wouldn’t get caught up in her diatribe. The American, Mexican and Dutch people near her, were not so lucky.
Eventually, we managed to sneak off and start our drive. On the way out of Santa Luzia we spotted a giant pétanque ground where many groups of players were indulging in a sun-drenched morning of throwing their steel balls into the sand. And why not! It was the perfect day for it, after all.
Which reminds me, yesterday I spotted some fellows playing cricket on a sandy football pitch down by the estuary, something I would never think to find in Portugal.
Anyway, sport aside, the day we drove through was beautiful. It was so boringly blue that a cloud made it interesting. And the sun! There was a lot of sun. It was so good, we had to stop at a very delightful services for a wander around, a beer and a roll.
We spotted this heavily bearded shepherd while we were there.
We even bought some jelly to take to the house. It’s a little known fact that Gary loves jelly.
The drive was only a little over three hours, so stopping halfway was a great idea, particularly given that we couldn’t check in until after 3pm. It was also quite expensive given the toll. We thought the road was delightfully devoid of traffic, but we think that’s because it cost a lot to drive on it.
Nevertheless, it was a very easy and enjoyable drive from one place to another, under the boring blue sky.
Having been shown around by Carlos, we headed off for food and booze in the close by town of Cartaxo (which is not pronounced Car-tax-o).
We didn’t find the recommended supermarkets but did manage to locate the Supermarche, so we went there. It seems the small town of Cartaxo has more than its fair share of supermarkets. It also has a very nice restaurant (Taxo) where we settled in for dinner.
And Gary, finally, had octopus. And it was very good.
What Trump did this week
What is with the trade war? Why did Americans vote for their goods and services to increase in cost? I thought they were concerned that the cost of bacon and eggs were too high and Trump promised them lower prices? Now, with his 25% tariff bollocks, he has effectively increased the prices on lots of stuff.
More importantly, why the fuck does the rest of the world bother trading with the US? Surely, this is a brilliant time to re-establish local, independent manufacturing and leave the US to drift away like the oily layer of slurry it has become. I know the rest of the world thinks this is insane and will continue to suck on Trumps pathetic teat. Stupid world.
Mind you, normal, nice, honest people often give in to bullies so, perhaps it’s just the way the world should be.
Mind you, given the shit that the US produces, why does anyone want it anyway?
And don’t get me started on Trump’s uber Nazi boyfriend.
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