Camino Portugues. Day 3. May 25, 2016. Vila do Conde to Marinhas. 29kms

Sophocles long ago

Heard it on the Aegean

How the surf was pounding on the beach this morning! Huge breakers rolling in to shore, bursting into foam on the sand, or spouting like geysers on rocky outcrops further out to sea. And always the roaring of the surf.

I continued along the promenade towards Povoa do Vazim, another station balneaire. Little cafes squatted on the sand, empty at this early hour. On the beach beside the town itself, huge earth movers were scooping up the sand and rearranging its natural contours. Lines of skeletal bathing sheds, bereft of their canvas covers, stretched out to sea. 

The promenade became a boardwalk. Walking on this is not as easy as you think. Plodding on the planks becomes monotonous after a while, and where the lower parts are covered in sand, passage is nigh impossible.

The sand is grand

When it's in your hand

Or on the strand

In time that's planned

For frolicking fun and farce.

But when you trudge

Through the heavy sludge,

And can hardly budge

In the viscous fudge,

It's a veritable pain in the arse.

But then the terrain changed. As I left the outskirts of town, the path veered inland along sandy tracks and cobbled lanes, harder on the feet than even the bitumen road. Greenhouses stretched out in rows towards the sea.

I met a couple of Irish girls, one of whom was from Tipperary. You can guess what I said to her, and you can imagine her response. And then a Hungarian woman, wheeling her backpack, paused at her Slough of Despond, a black muddy bog which crossed the road. She retreated into the woods, presumably to lighten her pack in some way, and put it back where it belonged.

For much of the way, I was walking with Jacques the Swiss. The East Anglians have joined the Central Camino. After four hours of walking, and desperate for a coffee, we eventually arrived at a crossroads in a little town. "Cafe," we said to an old lady on the corner. She pointed in both directions. We tossed a virtual coin, and headed to the left.

It was a happy choice. The cafe was owned by a family that had lived in France. They took a liking to us, and fed and watered us well. It was there that I learned the answer to the mystery of the picket pens. Apparently, they were used by farmers for storing and drying seaweed for the garden.

We had been travelling inland to cross the river from Fao to Esposende. At the hostel we met a couple who had missed a turning and continued along the coast as far as they could go. They had to flag down a passing fisherman to take them across.

We are staying at the Alberge St. Miguel at Marinhas. A good meal, where I ate a very fine Polvo (Pulpo) in congenial company, ended in a comedy of errors as the proprietor grappled with our attempts to pay separately. One of our number, a Brazilian, took the patron to task for failing to serve his customers.