Seville Day 2

Posted on May 26, 2014 by yachtlyra

Day two started with bath two and then we checked out and left our bag as before, before heading off to the café on the corner, this time for breakfast proper. John had Barcelona toast with air dried ham with a coffee and I had a Danish pastry with another cup of the hot chocolate. Probably not the breakfast of supermodels. We reapplied ourselves to the task of sorting out our internet connection, this time in the opposite direction. It is a truth universally acknowledged that mobile phone shops are like busses, none for ages and then several come by at once. What is little realised is that here in Spain they are always busy and it takes people a long time to sort out what they want. We queued in one, to be sent to another, to be told there was not the capacity and finally we found ourselves in Orange, where there was a queue system involving taking a ticket, like in shoe shop or deli. However, this was not an ordinary ticket dispenser, but a smart one. Our ticket number was F001, fool I thought, lookingup to the illuminated display to see A002. This was no guarantee of place, the next one to come up was C003. It was like an answer phone system that asks you to press one to buy something, two to book a service and three to be placed in an everlasting limbo of music. Except in this case the staff had to watch the victims mounting up. Already waiting was an agitated gentleman who had obviously already been there some time; he was shrugging and shaking his head talking to others ahead of us in Spanish. After a while even the members of staff came from behind their desks to check his ticket had not been missed. Eventually we had all been waiting so long he shrugged at me and showed me his ticket, A005. I showed him ours and cheered him up, even I could work out he said we would be there till tomorrow. Then a girl rattled through the numbers of people who had obviously given up and came to ours. Guiltily we shuffled past him to be served. After all that we could do no better than the limited data contract that had been so frustrating before, so pictures will arrive when we can get other wifi. Fortunately by the time we had finished the gentleman ahead of us was being served.

Back out on the streets we headed back to the quiet squares and alleyways for a coffee. As we sat we realised these were not so deserted as we had thought, tour groups and school parties trouped through, stood in a corner listening to their guides, some who shouted, some with mikes and one with a complete network of earpieces for the group, so she could speak very quietly. None of it was in English, so we were none the wiser as to what they were looking at. After coffee we went to look round a palace, the Real Alcazare and it is not to be missed. It covers a huge area in the centre of Seville, but does it so stealthily we did not realise until we went inside, like a tardis. The high walls enclose pleasure gardens, orchards; fountains play in sunny courtyards and from the depth of shady buildings, large formal ponds full of green water house lazy goldfish or carp designed for the table. The walls surrounding these gardens feature Moorish arches, tiled mosaics and intricate fretwork. Inside the palace the Muslim inspired features abound in splendour, rubbing shoulders with renaissance art and architecture. We saw a painting of Our Lady of the Navigators and she had an unsettlingly scornful expression. My favourite was the Palacio del Ray Don Pedro, with its many beautiful arches, particularly the Courtyard of the Maidens, a courtyard framed by the lovely palace, so separate from the other gardens. It features a long rectangular pool flanked by sunken gardens with small orange trees, so the oranges can be picked easily.

Nothing could compare with the wonders of the palace, so after our visit there we had a late lunch and caught our train home. We arrived at Lyra feeling we had been gone ages. Then the band started to tune up.

View out into the Palace Garden

 

 

 

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Seville Day 1

Posted on May 25, 2014 by yachtlyra

We cheated and took the train to Seville and, treat of treats, stayed overnight in a hotel, because the journey was quite a long one. We were across a small square from the cathedral, looking at its impressive bell tower. Of course this also meant listening to the hourly clang of bells, but we Mariachi aficionados laugh in the face of such sporadic noise. They are only sounded from nine till dark anyway. A more interesting phenomenon came from the ventilation grid in the en suite, where noise from the street below channelled crystal clear up the pipework.

That said it was a lovely hotel, the people were really helpful, there was a roof terrace bar looking across at the bell tower and our sonic en suite had a bath. Not just an ordinary modern bath, but one of those old enamel long, deep ones. Reader it was wonderful, the first evening I wallowed to the sound of muffled conversations and clop of horses’ hooves. Then, next morning I did it again, just because I could. The early morning noises were crisper with van doors slamming and instructions being called out. But enough of this decadence, I am getting ahead of myself.

 

As I said we arrived Wednesday morning on the train and took a taxi to the hotel. This was a smart move as the streets in the old part are as much of a maze as the ones in Cadiz, but here the buildings we passed were painted in gorgeous earth

tones. Our hotel was right in the tourist cut and thrust, with horse drawn buggies nose to tail all around the cathedral. We had arrived just after a major downpour and all the buggies were covered over and the horses being rubbed down. It was too early to check in, but they stowed our bag and we set off for second breakfast. Churros and with hot chocolate thick enough to cut from a corner bar just across from the hotel. And you thought the bath was an indulgence. On a sugar high we decided to visit the cathedral and walked round to the front of it. The queue was horrific, so we thought again and had a wander down to the river, spurning offers from the miraculously dry carriage men and being stamped at by a white horse. The river is navigable to boats such as Lyra as far up as Seville. We cast our eyes to right and left and decided it was as well we had taken the train.

By the time we had sauntered back we were able to check in and then it was time for lunch, such a hard day. Rather than go back to the same place we went to one two doors along and it was so good we went back again next day and ordered the fried mixed fish again and they were different both times. Fresh each day as the waiter had vouched. Though we were glad that both times included fresh anchovies in a minted batter. The use of mint in this region is inspiring.

 

After lunch we thought to go on a boat trip, but rounding the cathedral noticed a paucity of queue, so in we ventured. This is purported to be the third largest cathedral in the world and the biggest in the Christian world, which had us thinking. Christopher Columbus is entombed here, his effigy born aloft by four extras from the original Blackadder series. There is also a suspended wooden crocodile, they call a lizard, in a cloister. Other than that it’s pretty much a standard cathedral until you pass the crocodile and enter the Islamic courtyard, which is so lovely the church kept it when they converted the existing mosque into a cathedral. They also kept the minaret, just knocking off the top third and adding bells. In the courtyard are orange trees and fountains set amidst a tiled pattern of rills, which must have been lovely filled with water. It was still lovely and we sat in an alcove for a while.

 

Then off we set for the river and as chance would have it a trip on a boat shaped like a breeze block was just about to start. We stood watching the previous tour arrive back, trying to decide whether to go inside or up onto the roof. John felt the clouds were ominous, but the roof did have a tarpaulin cover and inside did look like a geriatric dance floor, with plastic garden chairs balanced in odd groups around it. So we opted for upstairs, had great views of the various bridges, one by Eiffel, who clearly did a lot of work around here, and saw the marina we could have stayed in. As we docked the deluge started. On the upper deck we all moved to the centre, well under the tarpaulin. The haunting strains of the Macarena emanated from the deck below. The tarpaulin above us was perforated with regular holes, clearly designed to stop rain from pooling in the canopy. The result of this was spouts of water flowing randomly from above on those huddled below. Children love that sort of danger of wetness and indeed seem to covet it, dancing through erratic fountains, splashing in puddles. We cowered, dodged and giggled. The boat docked and I made a rush down the stairway and along the gangplank, while those below were distracted by Y Viva Espana. John joined me on the dock and we raced for cover under a nearby tree. Once there we discovered ourselves in the company of two youths with a motorbike, a couple of workmen and a large dog. The dog and the bike had the driest spaces. We all stood, not conversing till the rain lulled, when John and I left. Of the rest of the boat trip there was not a trace, though I think McDonalds on the wharf did a roaring trade.

Once the rain had stopped we had another go at finding a shop dealing with mobile internet. We followed John’s phone, but kept needing to top up the data roaming and each time we did the Vodaphone shop seemed to move away from us. Frustrated and with the clouds still looking threatening we gave up and headed back to the hotel, cutting the corner through a warren of small streets. This proved delightful; we were afforded glimpses into shady courtyard gardens and intimate looking restaurants. Every so often we would come into a quiet square, full of flowers and shaded by fruiting orange trees until miraculously we emerged right alongside our hotel. We resolved to go back that way for supper. That was us, Seville day one, bath one.

 

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Cadiz

Posted on May 23, 2014 by yachtlyra

The Marina Puerto America is built in the remains of an old fish dock and they have been careful not to change the ambience of the place. Manoeuvring is tight, but John’s steering was spot on and our lines were caught by a marinera and a kind Australian lady from the next boat. We arrived mid afternoon after a much shorter journey than the one from Vilamoura to Mazagon. Even so after the rollercoaster journey I felt exhausted and went to bed for an hour. John was hungry rather than drained and I heard him rustling packets to make himself a snack, before I fell asleep. This meant that when we walked into town later in the evening I was hungry and John very tired. It is a fifteen minute walk, first through the docks and then along a pleasant esplanade along the sea front. On our way we passed the statue of Gades, an allegory of the city she stands gazing out to sea, luring her sailors home. The sea still looked pretty rough. Once in town we came down from the high walls and plunged into the labyrinth of narrow streets.

Try as we might we could not find an open space with cafes and restaurants. When we returned the following day it was hard to imagine how we had managed to miss them so comprehensively. Eventually we stopped and sat at a table outside a bar in a busy thoroughfare to regroup over a drink. Our waiter was very busy and rather stern and tapas was not on offer.  I could have taken a bite from the table. The whole of Cadiz seemed to be promenading past us, all going at quite a smart clip. The air was full of the babble of their chatter. John looked mesmerised by the constant flow of people. We set off into it again trying to find a restaurant following John’s phone. This time we found a square, with a restaurant on the corner, but it was the wrong one, so it was back into the narrow, thronged streets. I was beginning to recognise people we had passed before. Finally we came out into a quiet square, with a restaurant in the corner, still not the one from the phone, but strategically placed behind a taxi rank and we went in.

By this time anything would have tasted good, but the soup we were given, as a pre starter was truly excellent. It was a teacup of chicken broth, with a sprig of large leafed mint on the saucer, which our waiter said we could decide whether or not to plop in the soup. We both took the plunge and the brew was miraculously reviving. After a thoroughly enjoyable meal we then stepped  out  straight into a taxi home. The driver weaved thunderously through largely empty streets, so narrow that at one point a woman with a buggy had to dive into an alley to let us pass. We stopped for nothing, flashing at each crossroads and popping out like a cork onto the main road to the docks. We slept very well that night.

On the following day we set out again with the plan of circling round the outside before venturing back into the web of alleys. The sea was even rougher with white horses all the way to the horizon and waves crashing onto the cement blocks below our walkway casting spume high into the air. We walked along the perimeter, first along the walls and then through the various narrow pleasure gardens running alongside them to the fort of Santa Maria. It was free to wander round inside and there were immaculate toilets. Further on we stopped for coffee overlooking the beach and then made our way to the towering hulk of the cathedral.

Finally we had found a small square with tables set outside simple cafes, so we sat and had lunch, steadfastly refusing a stream of pedlars and beggars working the tables. One black girl cut a striking figure in her bright robes, arms festooned with the jewellery she was selling, a sleeping baby swaddled to her back and a basket of smaller trancklements balanced on her head. As we chose not to buy from her I did not feel it right to take a photo. After lunch we went into the cathedral, which was not free to enter. Inside it was pale grey and soaring. Nets had been strung across the vaulted ceilings to catch flaking plaster, which lay in dusty patches high above us, lending the place a neglected, Miss Faversham sort of air. We went on to the art and archaeology gallery, which was free and we very much enjoyed the archaeology section, with its’ Phoenician remains of intricate jewellery and a pair of dumpy sarcophagus.

Then came the frustrating part of the day. We tried to buy a data only sim for our Internet dongle, rare as hens teeth they are. Neither Moviestar nor Orange were very helpful. Somewhat frustrated we walked to the station to find out the train times to Seville and then wandered around a bit till we came across a supermarket, where we replenished our supplies. Footsore and weary we decided to have tea on the boat. That was when we realised a Mariachi band rehearses near the marina. The discordant melody continued well into the night, the same piece over and over again, fading away and then blaring loudly forth. We think they must march up and down as they play. They certainly need the practise. We remembered the Alamo.

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Posted on May 22, 2014 by yachtlyra

We are now in Spain and finally are back on line after a long delay, so have quite a bit of catching up to do. We stayed in Vilamoura longer than planned due to the weather. The forecast was for high winds and rough seas and proved right on both counts. We watched from the shore as another yacht went out and it did not look pretty, dobby horsing up and down and making scant progress. We bided our time, ate out a lot, there was an excellent Indian and a very smart fish restaurant, found Emma’s Irish pub and had a long walk on the beach watching the kite flying. By the time the forecast was favourable we were keen to move on. We were bound for Mazagon, some ten or so hours away and so started at six thirty. The sea state was much rougher than predicted, so I felt ill almost right away and eventually had to resort to going below, as I was of no use and could not have been fun to watch. John soldiered through and I had recovered enough to crew by the time we arrived. This was just as well as we had to moor four times in all. First at the reception pontoon, John glided in perfectly, so I could just step off and tie us up. Then at the berth allocated to us I also stepped off smartly, but it had no cleats, to tie up to, so that was a flying visit with me no sooner getting off the boat, than having to climb back on board. John radioed reception, but there was no reply, so we went into the next available berth along. This took a couple of goes as we were tiring, but finally we were all secure and John went off to reception as I adjusted the fenders. He came with the news we had to move. In a fairly empty marina we had managed to choose a berth already allocated to someone else that night. We moved again, tired and tetchy, but well practiced by now. Each flit brought us closer to the bar, which seemed to be packed and rowdy. As we finally tied up cheering broke out. It turned out that the bar was full of fans watching the final match of La Liga, a crucial decider of the Spanish title, so our efforts had not inspired the fervour. We were both so rimed in salt we showered before heading off to join the Athletico celebration. For the rest of our time there the bar was pretty quiet. Next morning John sluiced Lyra down while I washed our salty clothes. Mazagon marina was nicer than we had expected. The bar area was planted with palms and trees with both amazing purple blossoms and weird brown seed pods, hanging like baubles amongst the vivid froth. We walked along to the adjacent beach on Sunday. A steady line of people lugged gear from the car park to join the confetti of umbrellas on the shore. We sat in the small beach bar for lunch, surrounded by Spanish families having extended feasts. No one here speaks any English. My efforts at leaning Spanish over the winter has so far been to no avail. John seems fluent in bar Spanish and is teasing me. At some point I am sure a girl will eat an apple or a cat will drink milk and I will be vindicated. After our day off we woke early to set out for Cadiz, but had to wait till the office opened at nine to return our keycards. The wind was whistling through the rigging and the Lyra was rocking slightly in her sheltered berth. John struggled to check the weather on his phone. The wind would be on our nose, but the sea state was not due to be bad, we could motor. John laid in a back up course for Chipiona in case things became rough. We set off and it was murder. I had taken sea sickness tablets in anticipation, so was not ill this time. Instead I sat under the spray hood and held on. The prow plunged repeatedly into the oncoming waves. The foredeck was awash with foaming water rushing towards me, swamping the dorades and smacking against the windscreen, sometimes flying over the sprayhood and splattering John at the wheel. On occasion I traded places with him and rode the rodeo, dodging lobster pots. Obviously the fishermen had not considered the weather so bad and as the day progressed the sea became less fraught, so we proceeded to Cadiz.

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Rough Seas

Posted on May 22, 2014 by yachtlyra

We are now in Spain and finally are back on line after a long delay, so have quite a bit of catching up to do.

We stayed in Vilamoura longer than planned due to the weather. The forecast was for high winds and rough seas and proved right on both counts. We watched from the shore as another yacht went out and it did not look pretty, dobby horsing up and down and making scant progress. We bided our time, ate out a lot, there was an excellent Indian and a very smart fish restaurant, found Emma’s Irish pub and had a long walk on the beach watching the kite flying. By the time the forecast was favourable we were keen to move on.

We were bound for Mazagon, some ten or so hours away and so started at six thirty. The sea state was much rougher than predicted, so I felt ill almost right away and eventually had to resort to going below, as I was of no use and could not have been fun to watch. John soldiered through and I had recovered enough to crew by the time we arrived. This was just as well as we had to moor four times in all. First at the reception pontoon, John glided in perfectly, so I could just step off and tie us up. Then at the berth allocated to us I also stepped off smartly, but it had no cleats, to tie up to, so that was a flying visit with me no sooner getting off the boat, than having to climb back on board. John radioed reception, but there was no reply, so we went into the next available berth along. This took a couple of goes as we were tiring, but finally we were all secure and John went off to reception as I adjusted the fenders. He came with the news we had to move. In a fairly empty marina we had managed to choose a berth already allocated to someone else that night. We moved again, tired and tetchy, but well practiced by now. Each flit brought us closer to the bar, which seemed to be packed and rowdy. As we finally tied up cheering broke out. It turned out that the bar was full of fans watching the final match of La Liga, a crucial decider of the Spanish title, so our efforts had not inspired the fervour. We were both so rimed in salt we showered before heading off to join the Athletico celebration.

Next morning John sluiced Lyra down while I washed our salty clothes.Fortunately for the rest of our time there the bar was pretty quiet, indeed, Mazagon marina was nicer than we had expected. The bar area was planted with palms and trees with both amazing purple blossoms and weird brown seed pods, hanging like baubles amongst the vivid froth.

On Sunday,we walked along to the adjacent beach. A steady line of people lugged gear from the car park to join the confetti of umbrellas on the shore. We sat in the small beach bar for lunch, surrounded by Spanish families having extended feasts. No one here speaks any English. My efforts at leaning Spanish over the winter has so far been to no avail. John seems fluent in bar Spanish and is teasing me. At some point I am sure a girl will eat an apple or a cat will drink milk and I will be vindicated.

After our day off we woke early to set out for Cadiz, but had to wait till the office opened at nine to return our keycards. The wind was whistling through the rigging and the Lyra was rocking slightly in her sheltered berth. John struggled to check the weather on his phone. The wind would be on our nose, but the sea state was not due to be bad, we could motor. John laid in a back up course for Chipiona in case things became rough. We set off and it was murder. I had taken sea sickness tablets in anticipation, so was not ill this time. Instead I sat under the spray hood and held on. The prow plunged repeatedly into the oncoming waves. The foredeck was awash with foaming water rushing towards me, swamping the dorades and smacking against the windscreen, sometimes flying over the sprayhood and splattering John at the wheel. On occasion I traded places with him and rode the rodeo, dodging lobster pots. Obviously the fishermen had not considered the weather so bad and as the day progressed the sea became less fraught, so we proceeded to Cadiz.

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Romans

Posted on May 15, 2014 by yachtlyra

Vilamoura is reminiscent of a Walt Disney World resort with its various hotels, bars and retail outlets all purpose built round the marina basin. Probably because both have been built from scratch in what was scrubland and swamp. Possibly an important wetland habitat has been lost in the process, though the house martins are certainly thriving in the eves of the apartment complex walls. We watched as they swooped in circles from their tightly packed nests, presumably returning with tiny insects for their clamouring young.

There is no established town of Vilamoura around which the resort complex and its golf courses have grown. This lack of settlement has not always been the case. Centuries ago the area between the two rivers responsible for the swamp was a huge lagoon, which has gradually silted up. The rich soil and sheltered lagoon had attracted people since Neolithic times, with Romans, Visigoths and Moors all taking a turn to live here. The most dominant remains to have been discovered are those left by the Romans and there is a small museum and the partially excavated site of a large villa and a public spa to visit a stones throw from the marina. It took us a couple of attempts to find the correct direction to throw said stone, as it is hard to gain a feel for the geography of the various apartment blocks. In the end John just happened to spot the site across the road. Once found we had a pleasant time wandering around the low walls, reading the engagingly illustrated boards and admiring the remains of the mosaic flooring. We shared the quite extensive site with just another couple and were far enough from the sea to be out of the wind, which was blowing the forecast hooley in the marina.

It would have been very peaceful, but for the strimming. A couple of guys were busy cutting back the remaining wetland habitat, just the other side of the fence from the remains. It was quieter nearer the museum building, which was very much in character with the site and had been surrounded by vines, olives and apricot trees. Once in the museum there were artefacts from Roman times and also some from the other cultures on show. Particularly haunting were the actual remains of Neolithic people, curled inside large burial pots. The museum also seemed to host cultural activities as an amateur play was being enacted in the foyer during our visit, though lacking Portuguese we could make no sense of it.

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Setting Sail for Vilamoura

Posted on May 15, 2014 by yachtlyra

Well the first passage of the season went very well. St Monday saved us from having to do battle with the dredger; the crew go home for Sunday and have to travel from Faro on Monday morning. As soon as the Marina opened John was there to settle our account. The good news was there was nothing to pay, they had very kindly deducted the time the boat was out of the water having work done, which we had not expected and thought was very decent of them. When he arrived back from this foray we cast off the lines, radioed to ask them to open the swing bridge and were off down the channel, passing several yachts eager to come in on our way out. I managed to stow all the fenders and lines before we were at sea proper, though the fenders seemed to take up a lot more space than I remembered. I rammed them into the rear locker, which set the scene for a bit of a drama later. We were finally off, granted into a flat calm, but definitely on our way again.

Leaving Lagos

We motored on with the coastline to port and felt it all coming back as we followed our waypoints, made log entries and kept an eye out for lobster pots. We pulled the mainsail out and, after a little initial reluctance, that all went smoothly and John strapped her tight, ready to sail if the wind came up. Then all of a sudden a force four was blowing from the shore and we were sailing along at a fast clip in exactly the right line for our plotted route to Vilamoura. Just as quickly as it had arrived the wind dropped. John used the lull to go below and make lunch and mugs of tea. Then we motored again as we picnicked. After lunch the wind picked back up and we let the sails back out.The combination of lunch and sea sickness tablets made me very drowsy, so John suggested I have a half hour nap in the shade of the sail. When I woke forty minutes later, the sail was on the other side and we were rocketing along, with the water singing along the hull. John said the wind had completely turned round, so we were still bang on course and what was more, we had been going so well that we were only half an hour or so away. I sat up to enjoy the rest of the sail.

Twenty minutes later we set up our ropes and fenders on the port side, ready to tie up to the reception pontoon at Vilamoura.

Reception Pontoon, Vilamoura

This next part was the bit I felt worried about. All was well. As we arrived at the pontoon a silent man came to take our ropes, one at a time, calmly tying each one up and then reaching for the next. The whole process went like clockwork. He helped again when we moved over to the refuelling station, where he served us and took exceptional care to make sure nothing spilled on our precious new deck. He cast us off and John motored towards our berth on pontoon P. We scanned the line of craft there looking for our space. Horror struck I realised I had forgotten to put fenders on the starboard side, where another boat could be laying. John held the boat in reverse as I sped to put out the fenders. Yank as I might, I could not prise one from the packed locker. John and I swapped places and he managed to free one, after which he had to rescue me from the wheel and I scampered around tying on fenders, which in the event we did not need as the berth next to ours was vacant. I redeemed myself by managing to jump down onto the narrow, very wobbly jetty and attach the centre line and to sprint forward to make fast the front. We overhang the length of the pontoon quite a bit and so needed to tie both the centre line and the stern line to the same end cleat. John came off to help and we sorted the lines out with the pontoon flexing like a springboard, with both of us on the end. We set up the shore power, tidied up the boat and ourselves and set off to explore.

Emma had recommended we try the Irish bar and we found one in short order. The Captain managed to lower two pints of Guinness with impressive speed, particularly as they took such a while to pour. Not surprisingly there were quite a few Irish accents about. We went for a walk a bit further round the marina only to find another Irish bar, closely followed by a third and fourth. The place abounds with Irish folk in the way that Lagos is full of the English and the Guinness flows at every third bar. We will need to check with our source to find out which one she meant.   That evening we had a lovely meal from a Swedish style restaurant near our berth. We sat in the open front of the place with a view across to the water watching the world go by as we ate. About half way through dinner the ambient music of the restaurant was swamped by the sound of a male vocalist in the bar next door. During the rest of our meal he serenaded, giving the Karaoke treatment to Roy Orbison, Elvis and that guy with an achey, breakey heart, with scant pause for audience reaction. We emerged at the end of our meal to hear the strains of another Elvis competing from across the water along with the more general disco throb of the music of the night. It promised to be quite a lively evening, but we were both too tired for any of it to keep us awake. It might be a different story as the week goes on, for with high winds forecast this time the girl is going to stay.

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Ready to Depart

Posted on May 11, 2014 by yachtlyra

Considering we had prepared to leave on Friday we had a lot of jobs for the weekend. First amongst these was to walk up into town for a visit to the Vodaphone shop, to make sure we could stay online. On the way back we witnessed the dredger coming out past the swing bridge. Nudged around by a big yellow tug, it lumbered rather close to the pillars of the bridge on its port side before ploughing down the channel, passing close to a couple of yachts tied to the fuel pontoon before disappearing out to sea.

A Narrow Squeeze

We must be sure to let it get well out there before we set off on Monday. Anyway, we have now sorted out our awkward Bimini, taken the sprayhood down, put it back up and mended it, shopped for more food, done our laundry, watched the football and filled up with water. We are all ready to set off tomorrow, dredger and weather permitting. It feels a bit daunting after all this time. Lagos has been a lovely winter base and we will miss lots of things about it, but it is exciting to move on and we are looking forward to exploring new places.

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Rambling

Posted on May 11, 2014 by yachtlyra

Friday was pencilled in as a possible departure day. Sopromar had serviced the fire extinguishers by Thursday as promised, we had washed the boat from bow to stern and the weather forecast was for a mix of light winds and sunshine. The winds were probably a bit too much on the light side if anything and of course there was the football to consider. The end of the premiership title race was to be broadcast in the various marina bars, simultaneous showings of the crucial games on big screens, with beer. The captain thought we would be best served setting off early Monday. We could retrace the steps of our anniversary walk along the cliffs, revisit the nice restaurant for lunch, look down on the grottos. So it was settled. We set off around eleven and were surprised at how quickly we made it up the hill. It was still quite tricky to find the footpath from the main road, but eventually we were back on the sandy track, through the grassy scrubland, which was now bejewelled with wildflowers, both familiar and exotic. The air was heavy with the buzz of insect and every so often the murmur of the sea below tempted us to venture to look over the edge, where the red earth plummeted in rugged shards down to a flat azure sea. Before and behind were the breathtaking vistas we remembered, but we arrived at the restaurant much more quickly than we expected to. The August heat had obviously slowed our progress more than we realised on our first walk.

 

Undeterred we sat on the terrace and had a quenching drink before ordering lunch. A sea bream from the glass topped fridge by the bar, which we shared, with potatoes and amazing broccoli. We are becoming very decadent with all this lunching out. After a couple of small espressos we set out to walk further along the cliffs to the lighthouse we had seen on our boat trip. We could look down on a medley of bright boats, both small and large, threading their way through the rocks. We were too far away to hear their screams, but perhaps it was not so exciting with a flatter sea. At the end of the cliffs we looked across to the next stratified headland before turning back and making our way home. A bit hot and dusty, we were glad to have a quiet night in, to rest our weary legs.

 

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Alvor

Posted on May 11, 2014 by yachtlyra

Despite our moving to allow it sea room the dredger did not immediately spring into action, but by the time we had arrived back from our boat trip it was sitting in the middle of the channel in full swing. The noise from it is horrific. There is a general low level rumble over which the plaint of metal on metal sends an irregular searing whine. A lonesome whistle that is going nowhere soon. When it does stop the silence echoes with wonder. There is no escape either below deck or in any of the marina bars. After one afternoon we decided an outing was in order for the following day and went to Alvor.

A Narrow Squeeze

Last autumn our neighbours from home had taken us there and it was such a lovely spot we wanted to go again. This time we took a taxi, which went rather faster than Keith had. We whizzed  anticlockwise round the roundabouts and overtook all before us on the straight. Nearing our destination we passed a small airfield and our driver told us we could book to go parachuting from there for adrenolini, which seems to be the word of the moment. I was glad enough to arrive in Alvor.

He dropped us off at the taxi rank, which was unfamiliar territory. At first we took a few wrong turns before finding our bearings and after that we had the pleasure of navigating by passing places we remembered from our last visit. There was the Irish pub, there the wine merchants, here the walk round store, where Sheila had tried to find Marigold gloves and so on until we wandered down the hill to the pretty harbour. We had a coffee in one of the bars and then walked along the promenade in the direction we had not already covered. It soon petered out into a rough trail, for which my sandals were not fit. So we sat on the wall, dangling our legs and looking out over the estuary.

As we sat small martins dipped and swooped over the shore catching insect, if the birds skimmed too close to the water, a foment of small silver fish flipped over each other and disappeared with a clatter of splashes. our attention was caught be movement on the sand, hermit crabs, each with a single large white claw were two stepping about the strand, unconcerned by the aerodynamics of the martins.  After a while a brown wading bird with a long, bending, narrow beak landed and began walking along the wader’s edge. This time it was the crabs’ turn to flip into their shells in a prudent Mexican wave. The wader plodded past them unconcerned, more interested in poking about in the mud for grubs. Eventually we stood up to head back and caused pandemonium – birds scattered, fish flipped and crabs hid. We had been sitting long enough to become part of the scenery. Once back at Alvor we had lunch in the first restaurant, another branch of Navigator. We shared Portuguese paella, which had a touch of chilli and an abundance of seafood, watching would be windsurfers take their first tumbles in the harbour.

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