Discovering the Algarve; a sign of the times

Oh, the joys of sleeping in a bed in which you can spread out with little fear of hitting your head on a table. Of course, it’s not without its dangers: Mrs. Ottawacker’s stray elbows occasionally hit their mark, and it is better to be wary. But we woke up after a long sleep, without any condensation plopping onto our heads, in a clean and comfortable apartment overlooking the Atlantic Ocean, with warm sun streaming in through the curtains, soft winds turning the plastic flower/wind gauge on the balcony, and a vista of empty beaches straight below us. It was hard not to be giddy.
 
After a breakfast of boiled eggs, toast, cereal and coffee, we decided to head out as far west as we could. So, we hopped into the so-far-so-good Kia, and made for Cabo de San Vicente, which is the westernmost point of Portugal and, indeed, of mainland Europe. What can I say? It was… OK. The lighthouse was closed and the cliff views, while being decent enough, weren’t really that spectacular. Apparently, this part of the world was once attached to Canada – Prince Edward Island – and the red PEI clay soil is everywhere. Maybe that explains my “underwhelmedness”, if that is a word.
 
Anyway, we wandered along the cliff top and stopped to look at the vendors of tat, before succumbing to the general ambience of relaxation and deciding to go somewhere else. Somewhere else, in this case, happening to be a small fort-like place called Beliche, which also happened to be closed. But at least they had placed this sign strategically, so people (a) knew the reason why and (b) could keep safe. The perils of travelling off season. So, we gave up the idea of cultural sightseeing as a bad job, and headed for Sagres. Sagres seemed quite nice, in that sleepy sort of late autumn way, and there was a nice café at which we stopped for lunch (the Restaurant “Batedor”). Here, despite my best efforts to order in Portuguese, I ended up having to do it in English and, so, apologised. “That’s alright,” said the waiter. “I’m learning myself.” He was from Syria and had only been here for a couple of months.
 
On the way back through Raposeira, I saw a sign for “monumentos megaliticos”. Now, I know these are ten-a-penny in Portugal, but I am a mug for a menhir, so we drove off the road and up into the hills. I looked high and low, and found what might have been a circle of very small stones, but there was no telling. I thought about excavating, and called Ottawacker Jr. over, but he said he felt he ought to be somewhere else. Made sense. If he hadn’t pulled his “I-need-to-go-for-a-pooh” trump card out of his pocket, I’d still be looking for them. I found a sign, but the whole site was so badly overgrown, the only thing of interest we saw was an infestation of snails resting vertically on a grass stalk.
 
The afternoon was spent on the beach. We attacked the left overs, and some of us might have had a little too much wine.