EXCERPT FROM SARA’S JOURNALAugust
2, 1999
Porto Covo, Portugal
Bratwurst and Apfelkuchen
Unlike the Algarve – Portugal’s south coast haven for late-night disco
revelers and fly-by-night beach bums – the west coast of Portugal is a series of
unspoiled, hidden coves and sandstone cliffs, interspersed with castle-topped towns
bustling with annual summer residents. The Deutschlanders have transformed southern
Portugal into a collection of fully equipped camping villages, honest, safe and with all
the comforts of home. Around town the best cafes serve strudel and bratwurst.
From the hilltop castle ruins at Aljezur, we look out at the Cerca River valley and
rolling hills of the surrounding agricultural lands. The town itself is a paradox of
toothless stoop-warmers and foreign residents, open for business with small cafes and
bars. The roadtrippers gather under patio umbrellas, sipping Lowenbrau. The applecake is
made daily and the proprietors, helped by their school-aged children, run a thrifty
operation, living half the year away from Bavaria.
The Atlantic beach is endless – like its French, Welsh and Irish cousins – it
stretches for infinite kilometres welcoming swells in twos and threes, inviting boogie
borders and cleaning up the coastline with transparent tides. Seville feels far away now,
and Rich, separated from the phone line, from electricity, from everything but the hammer
and the tent-pegs, digs into the sand and stares out at Henry the Navigator’s
horizon.
