On the edge

I’d been allowed to escape for up to three hours. Desperate to get to the bottom of the cliffs I pleaded with Lorraine to let me go before dawn and thus I found myself at the steps leading down to Praia da Marinha (praia means beach). It was the last beach we’d reached on our boat excursion and I desperately wanted to see it from the shoreline. I’d made it before the sun came up, which I believed would be an added bonus. Although it is Marinha on the eastern end, at the western end it becomes Praia da Mesquita though the beach is only about 200m long in total.

I move as quickly as I can along the sand noting that the tide appears to be at its lowest ebb. It allows me to get quickly around the rocky barriers and reach the islands and arches that seem so photogenic from up top. I check as many angles as I can and use a variety of lens, ever optimistic that something will work somehow. The main problem is that everything is pretty much backlit and I’m having difficulty trying to crack what I’m after and scramble over the jagged rocks at the same time.

After about a quarter of an hour I figured I’d tried everything I could conjure up but somehow, deep inside, I felt it just wasn’t working and I started back, only this time the tide had turned just a fraction and I tried one too many short cuts but got caught out by a small surge and my feet were drenched. So I squelched back along the coarse sand and up the stairs, looking for what I thought I knew was further east. The path was a non-made but well-worn one, winding through the low scrub and you don’t have to go far to come to a different beach, only the vast majority are less than 100 metres long.

In between, at the rear of the headlands, were log fences in various states of repair; more of a warning than a prevention and beyond them is certain death if you overstep the mark. The holes are awesome, as I discovered when I edged close to a couple, peering into the abyss where the sound of the washing sea rose like a warning from its depths, or perhaps it was the Sirens calling.

Beaches came and went and still I hadn’t fulfilled my expectations and then I reached Porches, where reality dawned. It finally sank in that many of the beaches aren’t beaches as I know them; in fact, some might only be a rocky cleave in the cliffs with about 20 metres width and a handful of sand. Still, at Porches (an area, rather than a beach) is Praia da Estaquina, one of the more amazing apparitions in a coastline of wondrous visions. Here, stretching out defiantly, for who knows how long, is probably the biggest arch on the Algarve. I walked past and it wasn’t until my return journey from the next beach that I decided to explore and dared to walk upon it.

Out on the arch you gaze back onto a set of four caves, the last one on the right is the only access to the beach. It must be special to swim or wade through the waters of the cave and stand upon this beach, something I will never do.

Now I thought of Lorraine, unknowing of the time, and decided I should hasten back. With brisk steps I weaved through the brush and reached the VW in no time at all, noting the couple from a nearby motorhome who had set up chairs beyond the fence line, on the edge if you please, and were sipping a cup of indulgence enjoying their morning repast.

Back in the car, I noted the time and realised I had just enough left to get back to the resort by the appointed time, thus I sped off, reached home base and stormed up the stairs, opened the door and proclaimed my punctuality with a beaming smile… Except that the clock in the car was fast by one hour and I’d arrived back unexpectedly an hour early, much to Lorraine’s bemusement.

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