OF WALRUSES AND MECHANICS

Click HERE for photographs of this trip.
This story first appears in the June 2005 issue of Fins magazine. www.finsmag.com

The plaque reads “Here ……. Where the land ends and the sea begins.” A somewhat unimaginative muse to be found at the western most point of mainland Europe, but in one short sentence it seems to sum up, not just the views from these wave lashed cliffs, but an entire country. I, however, was in no mood for musing, for if, at that moment, someone could have put a plaque on my forehead it might have read, ‘Here.......Where the calmness ends and the frustration turns too violence’.

The colours are strong and pure. They are the colours of sun burnt meadows and acres of wheat. They are the pastel shades of olive and cork trees and the ice-cream whites of villages sprouting out of the earth. Across this hazily painted landscape runs a dust laden track which after many twists and turns leads to a beach of peach sand and cascading cliffs. A lone wave breaks evenly down the point and there is not a surfer in sight to fantasise over it. But for Mario this would be perfect.

I shall introduce you first too my travelling companions and our transport and then I shall introduce you to the country that was hosting us. My compatriots were Ben and Claire and the three of us were riding along in a white Vauxhall Astra. Ben, like me, was along for the waves, Claire for the ride and the Vauxhall Astra was primarily there to piss us off. It was after two weeks that Ben and I had made our mistake. We allowed a woman behind the wheel. Already suffering from much abuse from her travel partners, Claire was blissfully leading us down a perfectly good tarmac road towards the beach, when we came upon some workmen who, in the manner of workmen the world over, had decided that this perfectly good tarmac road wasn’t entirely necessary and so had dug it up. Undeterred Claire continued onwards. Now to be fair to Claire and I guess workmen, its normal in Europe for road works and other hazards to be clearly labelled. Unless that is, you’re in Portugal, in which case their will be no warnings of hazards in the road ahead and the first inklings any of you will know about the sump cap having been gently knocked off on a raised man hole cover is when the last of the oil drips out of the bottom of the car and the engine promptly explodes. Welcome to Portugal, Europe’s most idyllic surfing nation - sometimes.

Portugal is no newly discovered secret and there are no surprises in why we sun starved north Europeans get so gooey over it. The sky is unfailingly blue and the wine unfailingly cheap. In fact it was initially with great joy when, many summers ago during my first trip to Portugal, I discovered that it was actually cheaper to drink wine than water. It was only shortly after this discovery that I made a further discovery – one that revolved around what happens to your insides if you sit in thirty degree heat drinking no other liquid but wine for several days, but that is a different, and much messier and smellier story. Aside from perfect skies and perfectly priced wine, tiny Portugal has something else to make a surfer’s tummy turn gooey. Waves, everywhere you look there are waves. It doesn’t matter whether you are sat on a beach in steamy Faro in the south, knocking back a beer in a Lisbon bar or skiing in the mountains of the Serra da Estrela then Portugal’s compact size means that wherever you are in the country it’s impossible to be more than two hours or so from a barrel. Of course the same is true of Ireland, but unlike Ireland it isn’t always necessary to peer at these barrels through sheets of horizontal rain and temperatures brazen enough to make a walrus pack his bags and swim south.

If our walrus were to pack his bags and swim south away from Ireland he’d paddle first past Brittany then cruise on by Biscay’s powerful beachies before slipping on past the gems of northern Spain and then, finally, he’d get his first glimpses of Portugal in the Minho, a beautiful province of green hills, numerous rivers, fantastic cool water waves and more than a dribble of rain. In fact Galicia, the Minho’s Spanish cousin just to the north, is often likened to Ireland. So at least we know that our walrus friend would probably be feeling quite at home, which is considerably more than could be said about Ben, Claire, a certain Vauxhall Astra and I, who were stranded amongst the ochre plains of the deep south.

It’s at this stage of the story that Mario the mecânico and his rash promises of mending our precious Astra in a week for only six hundred Euros first appears on the scene. “Well”, we thought, “It could have been a lot worse”, so we left Mario the mecânico to work his magic. And, let’s face it, it really could have been a lot worse, for the sultry Algarve and Alentejo regions of southern Portugal are, once you get used to them, not a bad place to get stranded. It’s where all the clichés of surfing Portugal come alive and, ok it might lack some of the wave quality of Peniche and Ericeria up to the north, but the laid back country vibe more than makes up for that and, today, the Algarve receives probably more foreign surfers than any other region in Portugal. They drive down to escape the dreary north European winters in big vans, park up on an empty beach, make fires at night and ride waves by day, living out the surfing lifestyle. Except that nowadays the beaches of the Algarve aren’t so empty, because like I said, Portugal has been turning our tummies gooey for years and the Algarve surf secret got out long ago. Don’t worry though, you don’t have to travel far to find out how the Algarve once was, and those in the know are already going no further than the Alentejo, the quieter but otherwise similar neighbour just to the north.

Mario the mecânico’s week quickly became two and six hundred Euros became twelve hundred, but at last the car was ready. It was not before time, because as beautiful as the Alentejo and Algarve were, our feet were becoming restless and the bright lights of Lisbon were calling. One afternoon, just hours after collecting the car, we set off north again. This time with me behind the wheel, and I wasn’t happy about it, something was defiantly wrong with the car, but opting to live in ignorance we covered up the ever increasing clattering noise emerging from the engine by turning up the stereo and carried on driving regardless. It was just as we had managed to find the most remote bit of countryside between Mario the mecânico’s and central Lisbon that the engine blew up again. Mario and a tow truck turned up after a couple of hours and carted us back to the garage. “Well”, he said, “It looks like your blahdeblah wasn’t blahdeblahed properly” or something. Anyway he’d mend it correctly this time and in just three days and for no extra cost. Decidedly un-amused by this turn of events we bundled ourselves onto a bus and set off north, to the capital, Lisbon, one of Europe’s most compelling and enjoyable cities. For a surfer it means a change of pace, because surfing in the Lisbon area is surfing in the fast lane. The Costa Estoril, which stretches westward away from the city is the Portuguese Riviera and it generally prefers Ferraris and high stakes in the casinos to scruffy surfers living out of vans. Obviously crowds are a constant accompaniment to a surf around here, as is pollution, which can be horrendous, but despite these disadvantages the atmosphere in the water is generally pretty mellow and the wave choice, which runs the whole gantlet from points and slabs to busy beaches is enough to make up for any amount of hassle. As enchanting as the tubes all around it, Lisbon city centre, with its fairy tale castles and cathedrals sitting up high on top of the cobbled and, often painfully steep hills, is a good place for a surfer to kick back and wait for a mechanic. Every morning started for us in one of the classy art-deco cafes gulping down milky galão’s and gingerly sipping head searing bica’s, whilst plucking up the courage to phone Mario the mecânico for a progress report that never seemed to change. Each night we would put the coffees to one side and drown our frustrations in one of the many brash waterfront clubs or intimate back street bars that always managed to keep us awake longer than should be allowed.

Once again Mario the mecânico’s time scale was not in sync with ours and three days grew into a further two weeks, but finally, after a double strength morning coffee and our daily trip to the phone box we heard the response we had been waiting for, “The car is mended and perfectly this time”, before adding, “Though I might have to charge you a little bit”. We didn’t care. We were about to get our car back and the world could not be a better place. We told him we’d be there at midday the following day and that we expected to be able to just get in it and go. What a bounce we had to our steps that day. What joy we felt. For tomorrow we would be out of the dangerously addictive Lisbon bar scene and on our way north to the two words that are the first to spring into most surfers’ minds when the talk turns to Portugal. Ericeria and Peniche. With their complicated reefs and pounding beaches they are the centre of Portuguese surfing and their thirty mile stretch of coast needs no introduction for it’s a wave riding bonanza of the highest status. Spots like Coxos, Crazy Left, Pedra Branca, Reef and Supertubos are only the most famous of dozens of heaving barrels that can send a surfer in this laid back, wave drenched strip of coastline into a state of excited hysteria. And the best thing about these two towns is that we were on our way to them! All we had to do now was get up at five the following morning, hop on the bus south and before you know it we’d be reunited with our car in its perfect new working form. How easy it was all going to be. How upset we were going to be when, hot and tired, we turned up at Mario the mecânico’s at lunch time the next day only to discover that the car was still up on the work ramp and the engine was still in pieces on the floor. Oh how happy we were.

I’ll give Mario the mecânico and his mecânico mates their dues. They really didn’t give a toss at how exasperated and frustrated we were and instead of jumping up to attention they continued to fiddle with something totally unrelated to our car. An hour passed and my hopes of staring down the line of a Coxos tube by the end of the day began to fade. “It’ll be done in a minute” was as good as we got. A further hour passed and suddenly Mario and his cronies downed tools and disappeared over the road to the pub to watch the football. As I stormed off after them, blood boiling, I pondered over the waves we would miss if we were never to get our car back. Ericeria and Peniche were only the tip of the ice-berg, beyond them was the unknown north of the country. It was wetter, colder and greener up there, perfect territory for a holidaying walrus really, but, believe me, the waves are good. Firstly there’s that huge and deserted beach stretching onwards for miles. It’s this area of the country that receives maximum swell and ok, so winter is not an especially good time to be here, but the summertime is full of empty fun in the form of epic beach break barrels. However, even if you were here in the dead of winter you’d still find waves to turn your tummy gooey. Nazaré is only just beginning to open itself up as a respected surf destination, but mark my words, in a few years time we will all regard Nazaré as one of Europe’s heaviest big wave beach breaks. And that is only half the story for the waves continue onwards from this long patch of beach break, right up to the mouth of the Douro River and Porto, the city that gave the nation its name. If you can handle the caustic pollution levels then this city is just a much a gem for surfers as Lisbon, but with crowds a fraction of the size. And then, so far away from the starched colours of the south, you finally reach the Minho, the end of the country and, as our walrus friend has already explained, one of the least known and most enticing surf zones in all of Western Europe.

I confidently burst into the bar and, in front of most of the village who’d also come down to watch the game, yelled at Mario the mecânico to go and mend the car. Mario regarded me through uninterested eyes and settled down to a beer, and then another and then another one after that. As the final whistle blew on the game him and his fellow mecânico’s reluctantly got up and started back to the garage. Halfway across the road and a car pulls up. It’s one of Mario’s mates and as they stop to chat someone else heads back into the bar to get them another beer. We meanwhile are reaching bursting point, but just before we finally pop Mario and his fellow mecânico’s wave goodbye to their friend and kindly grace the garage with their presence. A collective sigh of relief is emitted by our small group as the mechanics actually set to work on our car, but it’s not too last as, to our complete astonishment, fifteen minutes later they all down tools and start to go off for lunch. As calmly as possible we try to point out that the two hours spent in the pub was their lunch break and would they please get on with mending the bloody car. The exact course of events that followed I’m not entirely sure of, but, within minutes, a mini riot is taking place in the garage. Drunken mechanics are attempting to beat me around the head with an exhaust pipe, Claire is doing a fine job of trying to lay out Mario the mecânico and Ben, I seem to recall, was doing his utmost to avoid any violence at all by hiding behind a wheel. Meanwhile everyone in the pub has tumbled over to enjoy the entertainment and you can almost hear the gurgles of delight they make when a van full of police in full riot gear arrives on the scene and bundles into the fray with battens swinging. The spectators are heart broken when the fighting dies away, but their happiness is momentarily regained when the police try and arrest Claire, Ben and myself for breach of the peace and obstructing a mechanic from his lunch. Reluctantly we back down, the crowd disperses, Mario the mecânico and his buddies disappear upstairs for their lunch, the police go back to sitting around drinking coffee and we’re left standing in the road wondering what on earth our next move should be. After sometime a car pulls up and out steps a man in dark glasses flashing an I.D. card. It turns out that he’s an undercover police officer come to investigate and, much to our surprise, he seems to be on our side. So much so, that he disappears into Mario the mecânico’s house and five minutes later all the mechanics embarrassedly file out and set to work in silence on our car.

And after all that effort do you know how long it took them to finish mending the car? One hour. One bloody hour! Portugal, but for Mario it could be perfect.....

When not fighting Portuguese police or searching for waves in such far flung destinations as Yemen, Colombia and India, Stuart Butler puts his hand to the authoring of the Oceansurf Guidebook to Portugal, www.oceansurfpublications.co.uk and writing the Portugal section of the new Stormrider Europe Guide, www.lowpressure.co.uk.