A Week in the Algarve

It’s difficult to write about the Algarve in a thousand words or less. She is like a lover, always revealing another secret beach tucked under a cliff, or a restaurant serving perfectly cooked swordfish. A vineyard over the next hill. A narrow hidden alley of galleries and shops. An unexpected rainstorm followed by sunlight sparkling on the water. I’ve wanted to come here since reading James Michelin’s The Drifters in high school. Six young people of varying nationalities drive a Volkswagen pop-top camper van across southern Europe and North Africa in 1969. The end of the sixties. Adventures ensue. Sex, drugs, and rock and roll. I was smitten.   

As good a way as any is to begin at the end. Sagres, the western end of the Algarve, and the edge of the world. In the fifteenth century Henry the Navigator set up shop here, and started a school to teach maritime navigation. Sagres is the westernmost point in all of Europe, a rocky piece of land jutting out into the Atlantic Ocean. It is windswept, desolate, and beautiful, with giant waves crashing on the cliffs below. Surfers ply it now, but then, to sail from here was to proceed into the void and the vast ocean. Into the unknown. Dragons and sea monsters awaited, giant boiling whirlpools that would suck a ship into the bowels of the earth.

Or perhaps eventually one just sailed off the edge, never to be heard from again.

Nobody knew what lay over that western horizon, but rumors of riches were freely traded. A brave man could make his fortune, a thousand fortunes should he survive. It could make him famous and rich beyond his dreams. Portugal’s Age of Exploration began here, with Prince Henry teaching seamanship and celestial navigation. When it ended a hundred years later, Portugal was the richest country in the western hemisphere.

From Sagres we drive east toward Spain, spending a few days exploring the cliff lined beaches and fishing villages. Every southern side road goes to the water, ending at another hidden gem. Five days in country I have yet to eat any protein that didn’t come from the sea. Octopus, sea bass, shrimp, squid, swordfish, tuna, dorado. Grilled, sauteed, baked, stewed, and raw. The sides are consistent and simply prepared. Boiled potatoes, rice, steamed vegetables, salad, french fries. Always with good bread, butter, and olives. I’m becoming addicted to olives, the subtle variation, salty and savory.

Alvor is a two night stop. A small beach town built around a harbor, white washed houses, shops, and restaurants spread up the hill from the waterfront. British expats have made it their home away from home so English is heard as much as Portuguese. Canadian snowbirds from North America. This time of year the wind blows steadily off the southern Atlantic, and we stop into cafes for a coffee or vinho verde, the Portuguese effervescent “green wine.” The perfect partner for shellfish. The fish is harvested from the water right off the coast here. The wine from thousand year old vineyards a few miles inland.

Then on to Tavira near the Spanish border, where the copper cliffs give way to the vast wetlands and barrier islands of Ria Formosa, a protected national park. It is flamengo nesting season, and they are spread out across the marshes by the thousands, tucked into the seagrass. Flat white sand beaches stretch for miles. 

Seven Knights Templer, as the story goes, were ambushed and murdered outside Tavira by Moorish soldiers in the 13th century. In revenge, the city was captured by the Templers during the Crusades and Tavira Castle was built on top of a hill overlooking the town. It stands there today, a perfect viewing spot over the village, the sea, and surrounding country.

Tavira is an old and scenic city, bisected by the Gilao River, which empties into the Atlantic Ocean a mile downstream. Bars, shops, and restaurants line the river on both sides. A Roman-era bridge connects the two. Fishing and pleasure boats tie up to the river docks. At the western end of the bridge is a tree lined park. Locals gather here during the day, on the benches and steps, playing dominoes, chess, smoking, and talking. At the other end of the bridge an Irish bar serves up excellent fish and chips. 

It’s the eastern end of the Algarve, and a perfect jumping off point to continue on to Seville and southern Spain, or even Morocco, Tangier, and Marrakech. A pleasant place to while away a few days, walking its ancient cobbled streets, eating, drinking, proverbial sunsets on the beach. Time well spent…