La la Loule

Loule, home of the space age cathedral and a weekly gypsy market. South American pan pipe band playing Angie. Churrros,  churros, lovely lovely churros, yery very nice. Once a car boot always a car boot  I am afraid.

In to town and hot head deflecting shades.

Far more appealing to Titular Head the produce market, fish featured heavily. Scad are big here, along with of course sardine, bream, tuna and mostly farmed bass. And great slabs of horrible,  smelly salted cod. A Portuguese staple,  rather like Spanish hake.

The perimeter outside is ringed by further produce stalls. Mainly fresh fruit and vegetables

This stall had limited and different stock, trapping and snaring seemingly a big draw up here in the Hinterland.

Arty Alte. The Hinterland at last.

Chief Worrier @walshamboy had been angling for a trip to the Hinterland even before we left Blighty. The Hinterland. A region that heads up above the developed coastal strip into the impressive Serra do Caldeirao  that reach to nearly 1000 metres. Which poses some problems. Firstly July sees temperatures hovering just under the 40C mark.

Which for Commander in Chief means one thing. Hot Head.

Titular Head in the other hand does not do edges,  And heading up into the Hinterland would entail lots of edges. And other people not so so shy of the oblivion of edges hurtling towards Titular Head further entrenching his white knuckled terror. And the ever present spectre of the A2 and it's lesser cousin the A22 which were the littoral of this promised Nirvana. Pleased to get on to the ridge and the N124.

Alte. First port of call. Built around  a watercourse and Fonte (fountain/springs). This gorge bisects the village. Spectacular colour and smell of the Portuguese version of the Maquis.

The village is named after it's watercourse  the River Alte. Which Titular Head was most excited to see contained these Portuguese barbel variants:

Along with a viperous on-looker.

Entranced by water..

Known perhaps more for it's one time poet in residence  Candido Guerreiro the village is a magnet for those of artistic bent.

Essex Scribbler may like some of the street art (more of which another day) which is a bit more considered than the Jaywick oeuvre.

And Alte even has a roadside restaurant that met the approval of Commander in Chief. And even here, high up from the coast fresh Atlantic fish were the order of the day. I enjoyed five lovely Scad and the comedy head, bones and tail left overs.

Nice, but not Sagres. This is the dominant Brazilian Super Bock which is probably Fosters level

Loule beckons, even if only Hot Head briefly.

Day in the Villa

First day in Portugal turned in to a day in the villa day. Titular Head had to set out on a provisions run. No biggie then......


On our last Portugal trip Titular Head and Balearic House Radio1 DJ @bain3z had been sent out on a similar errand clutching a 20 Euro note, no actual address of our villa  and no phone. Confusion on the slip led to being penned in on a concrete  central reservation cannonball run (A22) and worse another slip, large signs saying Lisboa and Espanha (A2). And yet worse. A set of impressive and seemingly automated tollbooths (Portagem) and no offslip. I might have said feck once or twice. Have you seen the film where Michael Douglas has a melt down on a jammed freeway? Spotted a cowering (or sniggering) figure in a distant toll both and tried to ask politely for some change and directions back from hell. This had previously involved dodging 5 lanes of traffic seemingly flying through tolls at will, and at speed...No  comprendo, no joy. I did spot a change giving auto booth at last  and set off with trepidation. Bizarrely  I was accosted by some equally stressed Portuguese who seriously expected me to give them clear, concise direction to somewhere. Why? Through the toll
and on a long journey to Lisbon or possibly Spain. And no prospect of provisions delivered to hungry hordes.  15k,  a slip and a long buried herd instinct had me and Balearic House Radio1 DJ smelling out the sea and back to a hungry, tired and pissed off Bureboy Tribe.

So it was unsurprising that Chief Worrier @walshamboy was deputised to ride shottie with me. We had change and a phone. And Baby Lamb. Off to Continente (Apolonia schmonia) and the Algarve Mall experience. Bureboy Tribe had eats and drinks. And a  nice cooling pool to leap into for Chief Worrier. Baby Lamb had been a bit of a one it has to be said. You will notice the restraining wall
of sun loungers edging the spongy grass, electric fencing being so passe.

After a bread, beer and lots of fizzy pop based lunch Commander in Chief pronounced it too hot to venture afield so the Hinterland would have to wait.

Cue a wonder around the perimeter of the Crib. Pool as above. 3 metres past the drop-off

Almonds

Vines

And these lemons were from the garden too.

Figs

Morning glory

 And of course what the brochure still fondly called the Mediterranean.

The Hinterland. Ponder on that. And orange sellers. And sad plastic chairs under the shade of roadside trees. And their sometimes occupants.

Crib.

Summer time and Tribe Bureboy departed for more pleasant climes. Benfarras. Just outside Vilamoura on the Portuguese Atlantic Coast. Off the N125 and across  the rail line from Faro and beyond. Gear one narrow lane and big green gates. We had found another MTV stylee crib. Casa de Campo. Electric gates. Pool. 3 stories high. And as the brochure proudly, views to the Mediterranean. What? Surely not. No, it is the Atlantic.  Night time swim and our adventure starts tomorrrow.