This is the western-most stretch of our Algarve tour. We are on the A22, trying to cover ground, on our way to the village of Almancil (pop 10,677 in 2011), where there is a special church, the Igreja de São Lourenço de Almancil (seventeenth century). José Saramago himself does not really paint a picture of the church, but the pictures online promise domes, tiles, and gold.
The traveller has a long way still to travel: if he can, he will go down to the beaches; if he can, he will have a swim. And he succeeded in doing so in Monte Gordo, in Armacão de Pêra and in Senhora da Rocha, in Olhos de Água and in Ponta João de Arães. Reading this list makes it sound as if it became a way of life, but each time was barely more than a quick dip, hardly enough time to get wet. And he deserved his reward, as on these beaches he is the palest person to be seen.
There is one person paler than him, however, and that is someone who will never travel again. As the traveller was climbing up to the church in São Lourengo de Almansil, he could see groups of men in black standing chatting in the atrium and the street next to the church. Then he saw the women, all sitting on benches outside the church waiting for the Funeral Mass to start. A sign on the door said in three languages: “To visit the church, call next door”. The traveller is a specialist in this kind of thing by now, but does not need to put his skills to the test on this occasion, because the church door is already open. The person they are opened for is inside, in his coffin. The traveller did not bother to find out whether it was a man or a woman, he was not really interested. There are wreaths, the priest has not yet arrived, the women are sitting there whispering to each other. What should the traveller do? He can’t walk up the side of the church because there is no room between the benches and the walls. He is worried he might never get any further than the threshold, when suddenly he gets the feeling (he can’t explain it, but it is real enough) that nobody will mind if he does go in, if he makes his way between the mourners, makes his excuses, and as far as the unusual situation allows him to, admires the famous tiles by Policarpo de Oliveira Bernardes, the magnificent cupola, the jewel that is the entire church. Without offending the people waiting, and even with the discreet, silent permission granted by all those who move out of his way, he is able to admire these works full of life. As he left the church, the bell started tolling for the dead. (José Saramago, “Journey to Portugal,” 1990; trans Hopkinson-Caistor, 2000)
The story of São Lourenço is, of course, not a merry one; he was martyred by fire on a gridiron. However, during the Christmas season, it is important to remember the reason: São Lourenço was the deacon of the early church, a kind of accountant, and gave money to the poor rather than to the authorities in Rome. His is a story of giving, and his martyrdom makes him the patron saint of cooks and chefs. Uniquely, Almancil boasts three Michelin-starred restaurants – so he appears to be an effective saint.
The church-people assigning patronage also have a dark sense humor.
The persistent appearance of the gridiron in every portrait drives the story home. Unfortunately, the church is closed for Christmas, which is (maybe) better than a funeral. But like Saramago's, today's schedule also includes a stop at the beach. We plan to meet friends further west, in Praia da Luz for lunch, so we move on.
Since the Igreja is closed, we have more time to spend in Loulé (pop 70,622 in 2011), one of the largest cities in the Algarve. We find parking near the Castelo de Loulé (second and thirteenth centuries), and like Faro, we walk through the Praça Dom Afonso III. Unlike Faro, rather than encountering a statue of the King, we find a sweet Eskimo village with an itty-bitty, five-car ferris wheel.
Suspended between the bastion towers of the Castelo is Pai Natal (Santa) in his sleigh, and the words, Aldeia dos sonhos (dream village). Along with the walruses, it's all very disorienting.
Entrance to the Castelo is around on the other side. An inconspicuous glass door leads to a small loja and bilheteria (Rua D Paio Peres Correia 19), shared with the Museu Municipal de Loulé. Admittedly, there's not much left of the Castelo, just three cramped towers and the parapet between them. But it's always fun to climb the walls and look down on the sleigh and the igloos.
What would the crusading knights think of Santa and the Eskimos?
The Museu is also quite small. Nothing is labelled as expected. For example, one label says, "Escaparate com tachos de 'arame' e cantarinhas" (showcase with wire pots and little songs) – no dates, locations, makers, etc. It is more like the museums where we have been guided on tours, but perhaps there are no English-speaking docents during the holidays. Or they are all busy stringing lights, and we are impatient American tourists.
However, the collection does have a little of everything: a traditional kitchen, a library, painted ceramics, medieval ruins under a glass floor, and Roman artifacts. If there is a system, it is not obvious. The stone block with the carving of a woman with a knife has a story to tell but remains mute (and scarier for her silence).
Across the street is the Ermida de Nossa Senhora da Conceição (seventeenth century), a tiny chapel covered in azulejos except the ceiling, which bears a painted image of Nossa Senhora da Assunção. The altarpiece features a figure of Nossa Senhora da Conceição. At the altar, just below Nossa Senhora, is Sant'Ana, holding an open book, perhaps solving yesterday's Saramago mystery (translation from the e-cultura.pt web site):
The image of Nossa Senhora da Conceição occupies the main place in the center of the tribune. This is followed by the Child Jesus, placed in the upper niche. Then comes Sant'Ana, the mother of the Virgin, in the center of the stool. The father and husband of the Virgin (S. Joaquim and S. José) fill the pieces of the intercoluneos. Not connected to the Marian theme, the Guardian Angel and the Archangel S. Miguel, on the stool next to Sant'Ana.
The tile panels are also explained:
On the side of the gospel is represented the birth of Jesus with worship of the pastors, the Circumcision and Adoration of the Magi; on the side of the epistle, in front of the previous one, we have represented the Birth of the Virgin, the Presentation of the Virgin and the Marriage of Our Lady.
A small door leads to a second chapel, where the folks here have setup a Nativity. Quite fun, they have added a few animatronics: the windmill in the back spins, and the fellow in the workshop on the left hammers.
Saramago's recommendation also sends us in search of the Vestígios do Convento da Graça (thirteenth or fourteenth century):
In Loulé nobody had died, it seemed. The parish church was locked, so was the Misericórdia, so was Nossa Senhora da Conceição. The traveller was at least able to compare their portals and their façades—the former, all beautiful, the latter nothing special. But the finest portal of all was that of the Convento da Graça, with its richly ornamented capitals and archivolt. It’s a shame that the building is in ruins, and that what is left has been damaged. (José Saramago, “Journey to Portugal,” 1990; trans Hopkinson-Caistor, 2000)
Passing the lively Praça da República and the Mercado Municipal, we find the Convento – though perhaps not as Saramago found it: an island of stone in a sea of parked cars, 'eroding' into the back of an unimpressive residential block (?). At least the portal is still there, and it's clean and in good shape.
However, for giving us a destination and drawing us through this wonderful city, the portal is much appreciated.
The drive to Praia da Luz (pop 2,545 in 2011), a few minutes west of Lagos, takes just about an hour. The fog gets thicker as we continue west. By the time we arrive at the praia, we are in a cloud. Our friends find us and apologize, "it's never foggy like this". But the misty views are marvelous.
The palm trees, streetlamps, and seawalls mark the distance, as does the rock face splitting the haze. As we get closer, the strata reveal their depth and variety.
We get re-acquainted with our friends as we walk, our conversation mixes with the lapping surf and the warm winter air. Holes remain on the beach where dogs have been digging, so we try to watch the sand. We marvel at the earthy hues spilling from the hills: mauves, ochres, olives, opals. We are amazed to discover the entire muted spectrum within several of the loosed rocks.
Lunch is in Lagos (pop 31,049 in 2011); its beautiful old town is still ringed by fragments of the fortified medieval walls. Great for walking, the area is full of attractive shops, cafes, toy stores, and restaurants. We stroll to the edge of the Ribeira de Bensafrim and the Marina de Lagos.
After lunch, we decide on a hike at the Ponta da Piedade. This place is popular with YouTubers, so we've seen it in our research. Today, the fog gives it an unexpected new character.
We pull up to the muddy parking lot near the bright red, substantial, and handsome Farol. We turn by a roadside chapel with the figures of a pietà: "Nossa Senhora da Piedade rogai por nós" (pray for us).
The 'top deck' of the Ponta is laced with thin trails in the grasses and wildflowers. There are no railings and there are plenty of 'holes' in the spongiform rocks, where less-graceful tourists might drop. In the murk, we make deliberate steps, do our best to hold steady, and shoot our 'dizzying' photos.
A long escadas lies just to the east of the Farol (top image of this post). The fog has minimized the crowd, but there are others entering and exiting the miradouro at the top of the stairs. The escadas zigzag to the south and terminate on a little terrace with a view of the small, walled-in lagoon, with several natural arches.
The crowd ebbs and for a moment the terrace is ours alone, which is quite a treat. We trade the intense greens of the grasses for the shifting greens of the sea, the shimmering foam, and the damp, dark crags at the waterline.
Tucked off to one side is a lower landing, wet with spray. There are old tie-ropes where some of the tourist boats may pull-up and take the curious into the caves (Google Maps says the service is called 'Grotto pioneers').
Maybe we should be disappointed with the day's adventure: the closed church in Almancil, the meager remains of the Castelo and the Convento in Loulé, and the foggy beaches near Lagos. But this is all fresh to us, with unforgettable textures and earthy shades. When the calendar and the climate conspire to drive down the crowds, we have the sites to ourselves, a privilege that yields a singular day. We pledge our return, and as Saramago proposes, we "start the journey anew".
NOTE: This is the enticing image that sent us to Almancil – hopefully we will return and see it for ourselves:
photo credit: Loulé Concelho (www.cm-loule.pt)
Lagos is the last town before Saramago's 'Viagem' ends. In the book, he makes a dash from Lagos to Sagres, and notes a few sites along the way. We'll let him finish the chapter:
But now the traveller is headed for Finisterra do Sul. This is the world’s end. Of course, there are villages, such as Espiche, Almadena, Budens, Raposeira, or Vila do Bispo, but they are increasingly few and far between, and were it not for all the holiday houses in their clusters, this could easily be the deserted wastes of the ends of the earth. The traveller is anxious to reach the end… From up on the cliff down to the sea is a vertical drop of fifty metres. Down below, the waves sweep silently against the rocks. Everything is like a dream. (José Saramago, “Journey to Portugal,” 1990; trans Hopkinson-Caistor, 2000)
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