Fog blurs the medieval End of the World- Cabo de Sao Vicente. 
Visitors challenge their vertigo by looking into the foggy abyss below the lighthouse at
Cabo de Sao Vicente. 
Remains of the fortress appear from the fog, on top of a cool, moon-like planet.
A tenacious wall of stone has stood its ground against the unrelenting winds of the
Atlantic for millions of years.
The beach is hidden until the last minute. 
Camping along the Portuguese coast is a breezy series of beaches and cedar forests . |
EXCERPT FROM SARA’S JOURNAL August
1, 1999
Sagres, Algarve, Portugal
The End of the World
When I was a girl I drove with my father and twin brother from Lisbon to Faro, along
the southwest coast of Portugal. We took two weeks and moseyed into countless seaside
villages – each a crayon box of cheerful one and two-man fishing vessels, bobbing in
Atlantic tide, exaggerated with long orange shadows and the fantastic designs of octopus
traps. I remember the places as glowing and sea-breezy – each a kind of place one
would want to go for cool wind and less dust.
Between Lisbon and Faro, in the barren southwest corner of Europe is a rocky,
scrub-desert plateau atop a granite cliff. Its very edge is called Cabo de Sao Vicente and
beside it is the port of Sagres. It’s bracing with wind and fog, cool, moon-like and
plunging into the Atlantic from three sides. For centuries Sagres and the Cape were known
as the end of the world. Indeed, if one were to travel throughout Europe and end up here,
with the blue nothingness beyond it, one would believe it was. Here, at the 15th
century end of the world, is where Henry the Navigator devoted the last 40 years of his
life to the study of navigation. In the company of Europe’s greatest geographers,
cartographers and astronomers he developed new seafaring techniques including his
invention of the caravel ships which were far superior in maneuverability and
seaworthiness than the traditional sailing ships. Walking along the cliff-edge of the
windswept cape, we come upon a smaller point, looking across at the true end. We’re
almost there, with nothing left beyond it except the perfectly misty Atlantic horizon.
Suddenly, below, a paradise hidden among scrub trees beaten rocks. It’s a pristine,
virgin cove below us, dotted with toddlers, lapped by foamy surf rising from transparent
aqua ocean. We climb down a long, teetering set of stone steps and find ourselves in the
protection of the surrounding cliffs. The sand is galaxy of jewels – translucent
shells, mother-colour iridescent apricot, soft, wet, and inviting contemplation.
"I tell you it’s-a-round! Like a melon!"
"No, Christopher, it’s-a-flat! Like a pancake!"
The discussion escalates to stalemate, until we’re coaxed to dreams by the end of
the world’s crashing lullaby. |
A picturesque last point of land before a big, blue, merciless ocean.
A deserted plateau hundreds of metres in width is all that greets the incoming Atlantic
winds for miles along the coast.
Rich braces himself against the wind and cliff edge .
A pristine, virgin cove hidden among scrub trees appears below us.
Relaxing beach time ends with the hike out of the cove.
The familiar Europa camping scene. |
