The long road to Lagos

OK, so it's not a laborable (weekday). And it could even be a festivo, although I've never really understood how public transport operators treat the Saturday wedged between Good Friday and Easter Sunday. Regardless, we knew the trip between Sevilla and Lagos would require at a minimum a few buses, a river- and border-crossing ferry, a series of acrobatic manouvres and good luck.

While Sevilla slept through a sun-bathed morning, we found our way to a cafe for breakfast, spending a little more than expected on some delightful jamón in a roll and a coffee to start the day. Our first bus brought us to the border of Portugal, the town on the Spanish side being called Ayamonte which has a harbour full of grandiose yachts. The grandiose owners of these yachts were to be found strolling the quaint and probably expensive streets as we made our way to the ferry port. My conversation with the ticket man was my last in Spanish; the last in which I could make myself generally understood. The junk vessel deposited us on the other side of the river, it may as well have been a new world. Or, more precisely, an old world.

In the little port on this side the boats looked more like bath toys, and about as seaworthy. The buildings lining the promenade may have been once grand, but now are seem chipped and weathered. They couldn't have been attended to since Portugal's heyday of naval prowess and colonisation, and are in a state of semi-colourful disrepair. Every second shopfront is closed, and boarded with bricks or wood. It could be charming and pretty but it's not.

It's lunch time and I want lunch. Not in that English "food is for refueling" sense, but a "I'm in a foreign country (European for that matter); on the coast (I'm thinking seafood), in a cheap country (I can afford seafood) so lunch could be amazing" kind of way. But the next hour saw my hopes evaporate as place after place offered microwaved tourist favourites for prices as over-heated as the food would inevitably be. Poor V and Jane must have become irritated as I vetoed every option. In one such option, when I asked for a menu, the waitress instead offered me a burning stare of contempt she must reserve for times when she knew she should be spending Easter with her family rather than serving sweating, heaving masses of tourists.

In the end, I managed only to secure for us 2 bags of plain crisps and came close to missing our 2 hour local bus ride to Faro. All I wanted was another jamon (cured ham) roll.

The dispirited town of Faro did little to improve the journey. I may yet succumb to food poisoning from an odd item I found at a bakery. The girl serving me was pleasant enough and even wished me a buena pasqua (Happy Easter), although I hope she didn't witness my face contort as I took my first bite.

But Lagos made our worries melt away. Here stands a pretty town of white-washed walls in the South-Western corner of Portugal with coastline jutting into the Atlantic ocean. A sensational local-style meal of octopus, steak, beer and red wine was delicious and cheap and repaired our spirits.

The coming days would relax and colour us as we lay on the beach in a bath of sun.