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encountersincamperland · 6 years ago

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Surfing the Dunes of Estremadura from Sao Martinho to Nazaré

Running from the the Spanish border in the north you have what seems like hundreds of miles of Atlantic beach, broken only by estuaries, framed by low dunes which have been colonised by hardy plants. The vegetation is there to anchor the sand against the onslaught of big ocean breakers which would otherwise invade the land behind the dunes. A lot of effort has gone into creating the optimum conditions for the growth of the plants in what is otherwise a hostile environment.

On this coast, Sao Martinho da Porto is an attractive little town about 50 miles north of Lisboa, that sits in a bay shaped quite like Lulworth cove. Except of course this is Portugal where the sand is finer, the temperature more mellow, the houses white with blue painted timber and red tiled roofs, and the ubiquitous ceramic tiles with abstract patterns and figurative scenes. This was the place we decided to pitch at and we ended up staying there three days.

One of the days I wanted to go up to Nazaré and check the town as it is famed for its surfing and patronised by global surfers looking for the big waves that are common in that area. I was set on cycling the distance which is about ten kilometres.

The ride out of Sao Martinho on the back road is straight up for several kilometres and it's a bit teeth gritting at times but worth it for the views back down to the long, long beach below. I could see that just behind the low dunes that back the sea there was a brown dirt track. As Nazaré is situated on a river at sea level I wondered if I could save myself the inevitable climb out of the town on my way back if I took that track. Several kilometres later I made my descent to the river and crossed it and came round a bend into the town.

The first place you come to is the marina which harbours both working and pleasure boats. The dockside area has been laid out as if on a grid for new build. Instead there's an abandoned air, as if demolition rather than construction has occurred. But this was Republic day, a public holiday, and there were enough businesses in place to suggest that there would be more activity after the weekend.

My bike can handle off road and the soft traction of the fine sand, up to a point so I went over to the dunes and along the harbour mole to the lighthouse at the end. Whatever the wild reputation the sea has here, on this day it was as well behaved as a class of kids in front of their head teacher. This was tested by a jet skier who headed for the open sea at full throttle, sending his own waves either side.

Up on the wall a sprinkling of anglers were casting to sea. As I cycled to the harbour end I was put off the huge concrete blocks chucked and stacked to protect the wall. They looked like gigantic trig points upended and locked or not locked together depending on how they landed. They looked messy and inelegant but probably very effective against a powerful sea that would not find it easy to shift them.

I cycled back round the harbour and along the road further into the town. Nazaré is not a great looking place. It has a big beach but there is no wall to separate it from the pavement. While too much demarcation put me off the harbour, the lack of it here put me off the promenade. Holiday strollers ambled up and down wondering what to spend their money on next and a constant flow of traffic looking for parking reminded me of Brighton. I didn't like it and decided to leave.

So back to the harbour with the hope that I might be able to find that track and save myself an up and down journey. But of course there was the river between me and my road south and the only crossing was the bridge on the N242. After following various destinationless tracks around the dunes I went back the way I had come. It was ok though. I was enjoying the exercise, the wind, and just being on the track.

The way took me back to the semi industrial units of the harbour fisheries. Against the wall that holds back the dune I noticed the graffiti I had ignored the first time. Closer inspection showed it had been done by the crews of various craft that had put into Nazaré over the last twenty years or so, with crude renditions of their boats and tag lines. There were people here from Finland, Ireland, Nigeria,Sweden and the dates they had come. On one there was a caption something like: They said you left it much too late. But you said Biscay's just a bay. I wondered what might have happened. Had someone been lost at sea and this a memorial to the loss?

I crossed back over the bridge and as the main road bent round to the left, to the right there was a rough road with a sign pointing out that there was a ruin of a church called Igreja de Sao Giao along the way. I didn't have high hopes for the church when the way to it was a very broken cobbled trail, reducing to dried mud and then sand. I took it. I had to get off and walk the bike, at times climbing up dunes, a good work out I thought as the sweat poured through my shirt. But then the track would reassert itself and my hopes would increase. So past cultivated fields interspersed with scrub and bush, cane and pampas grass I carried on, not accepting this road might run out and I would have to retrace my tracks. Besides I hadn't got to the church yet. The track would at least take me there surely.

I got to the church and was bemused, as it looked like the wreck of an old adobe farm house, something that might have been left over from the set of 'The Magnificent Seven'. What was so special about this that it warranted a sign luring unsuspecting travellers? It did have a low wall of ten arches or so, that looked like it might have had some attempt at restoration. And someone had put a corrugated cover over it such as you'll see in any suburban street when builders are reroofing a house. But that was it.

Later I looked it up, and get this, it's reputedly one of the oldest churches in Portugal, dating back to pre Visigoth times, discovered in 1961 and classified as a National Monument. This isn't just a title. A building has to be assessed as to whether it is given the status of a National Monument. This one seemed to have faded back into the fauna after the initial excitement at its discovery. Maybe it was considered sanctified enough to look after itself. Comments on Trip adviser suggested it is privately owned. Time to nationalise a National Monument I am thinking.

I left the church behind wondering what Sao Giao might make of it all and carried on the track which became less defined as I went with me reduced to walking the bike, slipping back through the deep, soft sand that filled my sandals.

Then I met a jut of hill, and as the man said, there was no ignoring it. I had to climb it. So what I had tried to avoid had come to meet me. Up I went, this time too steep and too rutted to cycle and made my way towards Praia do Salgado. I didn't know this was its name at the time and a closer look at google maps shows the road runs out here except the one you takes you up the hill which also takes you back towards Nazaré! Well let it be I thought, and went down to the beach thinking what the hell, I'll take that hill on from the bottom.

On the beach people were making ready for going home. Signs saying no dogs on the sand didn't stop the disobedience of a dog owner and his big hound going on, while from the beach came another with her pert little mutt. People wiped sand from their feet and repacked the boots of their cars. It was like a klaxon had blown telling everyone to leave. As I turned and tackled the hill they passed me almost in a convoy with farts of exhaust from their cars adding pollution to the sea air my heaving chest was sucking in. This made me more determined to get to the top. And dear reader I am proud to say I made it without having to get off and walk, and found myself on the road I had originally gone to Nazaré on.

And not only that it was all down hill for, as you will remember, several kilometres. Well I must have hit 40mph on the way down as I hardly touched the brakes and I was back at the campsite in no time, sitting drinking an Estrella and recounting my tale to Madeleine.

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