Beyond Lisbon, a Saramago moment in Portugal

It was our third day in the Portuguese capital and the three of us – my husband Alex, friend Al, and I – were feeling more adventurous, having conquered the intricacies of the Lisbon metro system and easily finding our way back to our hotel in Campo Grande at the end of the Green Line. Why not visit Estoril and the rest of the Tejo River coast, I suggested, pointing out an interesting-looking seashore path in the map that the Tourist Bureau gave us. It seemed that the beaches of Estoril were famous for their beauty. The place itself was home to several stately estates, and a famous casino. After walking around the steep streets of Lisbon and enjoying ourselves in its maze-like streets and old world charm, we felt we needed some breath of fresh air, and what better way to do this than to be by the Tejo River? And so that morning, we went to Lisbon’s Estação do Sodré (Sodré Station) to take an early train to Estoril. In no time at all we were going out of the metro station and were greeted by a wide vista of white sand beach that seemed to stretch endlessly. The water was blue, and the sky cloudless. Chilly early spring breeze from the Atlantic Ocean stung our cheeks as we started walking along the shore, the morning sun warming us in the 150C weather. We passed by a marina full of expensive-looking yachts, most of them white with colored trims, some of them with furled sails, looking smart and well-kept. I took off my shoes and immediately felt the warm powdery sand on my soles. Barefoot, I maneuvered the sands of Estoril, with palatial homes overlooking the beach at a distance, and palm trees lining the streets completing the picturesque scene. After around half an hour though, I noted that the beach was getting rocky, and sharp stones reminded me that we were approaching large boulders that looked like a demarcation of sorts.

I slipped back into my rubber shoes and made my way along the stony outcrops, squeezing through small tight passages. Suddenly we found ourselves in another open beach area, the sand more reddish than yellow-white, now with a handful of sunbathers and children playing in the sand. A sign told us that we had reached Cascais, another vacation resort of the well-to-do, although the area was open to the public. Perhaps because it was still cold, the atmosphere was tranquil, and it was a good invitation to sit down for a while in one of the stone benches facing the sea and contemplate the ocean. It was around merienda time, our Filipino stomachs warned us, so we hied off to the center of town to find some coffee. The town center was a genteel area of chic shops and art galleries, and the first thing that caught our attention was the familiar undulating pattern of stones in the wide street, a snake-like design that can also be seen in the Rossio area in central Lisbon. We found a free-standing coffee shop in the middle of the street and comforted ourselves with tiny cups of espresso, no cream or sugar. We took our brew like the locals, starting with a small sip and then throwing one’s head up to finish the coffee in one fluid but refined gulp. The sudden caffeine rush emboldened us to go back to the shore and walk some more, the sun warmer now, and the beach more populated. We were following the curve of the shore, and must have walked more than a kilometer for the better part of the hour when suddenly we were greeted by the signs to “Boca do Infierno" (Mouth of Hell). The very name itself was difficult to resist, Dante Alighieri’s opus suddenly coming to mind. What we saw when we reached the place were tall rocky outcrops that were sharpened and carved by the sea itself: a huge crevice in the rocks where the strong tide of water kept crashing into, and as the second wave of water came in, huge amounts of water were pushed back into the sea from the very same crevice. It was a blow-hole, a name used to describe a defect in a rock from where a large amount of water was forced out. It was said that this torrent of water could reach two to three stories high during storms and high tides. A stone balcony protected visitors from falling down into the roiling ocean waters, and looking at the churning sea from this vantage point had a strange, mesmerizing effect —it seemed one wanted to jump down and be one with the angry sea! Alex and Al laughed aloud when I told them this, and they promised to keep a closer eye on me lest I succumbed! Poetry on Cabo da Roca One of the more interesting spots, our trusty guidebook told us, was reached by Bus#403 from the Cascais Shopping Center. We walked back to the town center and waited for the bus which deposited us, together with three Japanese couples, in a rocky hill station. As we descended from the bus we were nearly thrown off our feet by a very strong wind — we had to hold on to our hats and keep our jacket flaps closed or risk being carried away by the gale. A few meters beyond was a tall marker made of rocks piled one upon another, with some markings on it. This monument proudly quoted poet Luis Camõens: “Aqui/ onde a terra se acaba/ e o mar comença" (Here/ is where earth ends/ or the sea commences!) on the spot that was called Cabo da Roca (Rock’s Head), supposedly the westernmost point of continental Europe. We were on a hilly outcrop, and we could see the ocean from afar. Immediately a poem learned by heart during our elementary days came up: “Behind him lay the gray Azores/Behind the Gates of Hercules;/Before him not the ghost of shores,/Before him only shoreless seas." (Columbus by Joaquin Miller). For indeed if we squinted enough and added a healthy dose of imagination, it seemed as if we could see the Azores Islands from that hill, as the sun was bright and the sky clear. Further away we noted a lighthouse, colored cream with reddish-pink trim rising on a hill. It looked quite familiar, and a déjà vu moment flashed before my eyes. As we approached it, our hands deep in our jackets to keep the lapels from flapping, I suddenly knew why: Jose Saramago, the Portuguese Nobel laureate of 1998, was photographed exactly in this place, his hands also deep in his jacket’s pockets. An exciting moment indeed, as I think of the writer laureate in this very same spot; I had to make the same pose with the lighthouse, a literal Saramago Moment! At the Palácio Nacional The next day dawned with some rain which intensified as we went to Sintra, a mountainous area, to visit the Palácio Nacional do Pena. It was accessible, among many ways, by an uphill climb which was made more difficult by dense fog and chilly weather, with the rain getting stronger by the minute. The smells of damp earth and leafy moisture were invigorating, and Al had to purchase an umbrella by the roadside; we were starting to get soaked. The winding climb seemed unending until after nearly an hour, we found ourselves in front of a Moorish entrance shaped like a keyhole with blue tiles, bricks, and carved bas-reliefs on both sides. Walking further we found ourselves looking up at a tall fairytale-like castle with interesting details: it looked like Sleeping Beauty’s castle in Bavaria with Moorish minarets and windows; onion domes not unlike St. Basil’s Cathedral in Russia, and Gothic turrets, plus two large chimneys. Lush carvings at the entrance took our breaths away. We had time to go around the palace, but the challenging climb and the wet clothes took their toll, and we felt chilly. We sought refuge at a modern-looking restaurant on the third floor with a good heater. Our clothes were still soaked in some areas, and it was cozy and warm in the dining room. We enjoyed a gourmet meal of lamb chops, risotto, potatoes, mushrooms, and asparagus; for dessert we had tocino del cielo (a sweet egg flan) and coffee. Severe fatigue finally caught up with us as we looked out at the unrelenting fog from the large glass windows. We slowly sipped our coffees, enjoying the post-prandial lull. Our legs had turned into jelly after several hours of walking by the seashore the previous day, and the steep climb. This the three of us sheepishly admitted as we rested, burrowing into the soft cushions of the restaurant’s seats. Finally, we succumbed and decided to call it a day, taking Bus#484 back to the capital’s train station, by-passing the joy of a downhill trek. We walked out into a cloudy and rainy Lisbon, lively and vibrant as ever. – YA, GMANews.TV