Nazaré – Home of BIG Waves

This adventure should be prefixed by a little credit to my flatmate, Ricardo. Oceanographer, surfer, extraordinaire. Since we started living together in March, he’d been telling me about Nazaré and the waves. I’d read a couple of articles he’d sent me. I was impressed, but just not all that moved. Then I woke up one Sunday with an almighty hangover. Seeing me as a sliver of a shadow of a man with a headache, he made his move and put on the film about Garrett McNamara’s first trip to Praia do Norte and the North Canyon surf area. Since then, I haven’t shut up about wanting to go there. Fast forward about three months and I was in my girlfriend’s car passenger seat, excitedly anticipating seeing it for real. I should point out at this stage that I was not going to surf, owing to the fact that I swim ever so slightly less effectively than a brick, but with equal downward momentum.

The road to Nazaré from home, in Lisbon, is remarkably easy. You find the I-8 road and you keep on going. It has its sweeping turns, but is generally a straight road, and has some lovely countryside either side, dotted with windmills (the old and the new kinds), rivers and streams, and so on.

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On such a clear day, after less than ninety minute on the road, including a few minutes getting fuel, we were coming in to Nazaré itself. I had my google map at the ready, to tell us how to get to the hotel. We wound around tight little seaside streets, stopping to let the old folks of the town pass by as we did. Then, 2 streets from our hotel, we realised that Google were sending us on a path that involved going the wrong way on a one way street. We stopped for a moment, gathered our thoughts, and decided to approach from the sea road, to the south. That was all going swimmingly, when we found that the road was closed to accommodate a Christmas market. Finally, we called the hotel and received some advice. First, that we should just ignore the one way streets and go the wrong way and secondly, that the hotel’s parking area was attached to a partner hotel, which we’d already driven past twice. Fortunately, it’s such a small space, that this entire process took us only 10 minutes, so we laughed to ourselves and dropped the car off for the night. We arrived at our hotel, the Mar Bravo, which ended up being a lovely place to stay and very reasonable, considering its location and their rather good breakfast (more on that later). As we went up in the lift on very much the wrong side of the building, we wondered to ourselves how on earth we might get our partial sea view, and then I opened our window to be greeted by this:

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As partial sea views go, this was about as good as it gets.

With night falling rapidly – it is early December, after all, I managed to persuade Ana to take the funicular to the top of the cliffs and to walk down to the lighthouse to see the waves, even if in the dark. The funicular was open until midnight, even at this time of the year and we arrived with just 4 minutes until the next departure. We paid our 2.40 euros for the return journey and found a seat (after the ticket seller finished his cigarette). Priorities, you know? The ride to the top takes only about 3 minutes, and the view gets more impressive as you go up, but getting a photo is quite impossible, owing to the reed bed, growing alongside the car.

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Once at the top, at this time of the year at least, you are greeted by a slightly insane looking nativity set up. This is made slightly better by the abundance of country folk, who are essentially cowboys in this context. It feels a bit like a Playmobil acid trip, but is at least more joyful than a lot of the more sombre nativity set ups.

 

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But after leaving this technicolour model Bethlehem, the view down to the equally bright Nazaré seafront was quite spectacular.

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Walking on around from the miradouro, we found ourselves in the square of the church of our lady of Nazaré. It’s beautifully illuminated at night, and so we stopped to grab a few photos.

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Checking my google map, I could see that it was not very far from here to the lighthouse so, in spite of the now pitch darkness, I led my lady on the winding path down, alongside what we were later to realise was the steep slope to Praia do Norte on one side and a sheer cliff drop on the other. I used my phone as a torch, so that we weren’t mown down by the occasional cars speeding up the road. When we arrived at the lighthouse, we could see pretty much nothing apart from this sign, affirming the danger there, should we stray too far from the roadway.

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We stood for a few minutes, trying to make out the waves that we could hear so strongly thumping against the rock face below. But it became clear that we weren’t going to see anything that night and so we started to walk back up the hill to the funicular station. It was time for dinner. The hill up to the station was a lot steeper than I’d perhaps realised on the way down, so I was getting pretty out of breath. The cold air burned our lungs a bit and we were glad to arrive and head back down to the level of the south beach. We strolled along and stopped for an aperitif drink at a café while we checked out Trip Advisor recommendations for somewhere to eat. After some discussion, we agreed on the no 5 rated restaurant of the city, “A Tasquinha.” What an excellent decision it would prove to be.

We arrived, fifty metres up one of the streets running perpendicular from the beach front and found the place half full. Seemingly all of the clientele were Portuguese. A cheerful waiter showed us a few empty tables and we chose a spot in the window. In the menu they had a crudely taped photograph of an “arroz de tamboril” – monkfish rice in English. Both of us widened our eyes at the sight of it and we ordered two of them from the waiter, as he arrived with some bread, olives, butters and cheeses. He stopped us in our tracks, and recommended that, instead, we ordered one monkfish rice pot and a portion of fried king prawns, which were served around a portion of homemade Russian, as they call it here (essentially cubed boiled potatoes, coleslaw-ish vegetables and a creamy mayonnaise-based sauce). His suggestion sounded sensible and also worked out cheaper. We had munched our way through about 80% of the bread and the exquisitely marinated olives, and made a start on our drinks (white wine from Alentejo for me, 7up for her, as not much of a wine lover) when the mains arrived.

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The monkfish rice was full of king prawns, mussels, clams as well as the aforementioned monkfish and rice. The flavouring was tomato based, with fresh coriander leaf and black pepper giving it an edge. The flavours blended really well and even I refused the offer of piri piri when the waiter brought it over. That never happens. The service was exactly what we wanted it to be, attentive when required, but also gave us our space to enjoy the food. When we came to dessert, we were thoroughly full, so settled for just a couple pieces of fruit and a coffee. As we were leaving, fully intending to head back to the hotel, the waiter got chatting to us and asked us why we were there, how we’d got together and I explained that I was now rather rooted here in Portugal and planning to stick around. He then offered to tell us of a bar we’d enjoy, both for decor and music and directed us to the Trombone Voador – the Flying Trombone, in English. So we decided we could manage a drink before heading back.

It was only a couple of streets over and as soon as we walked in, we could see that it was a place that had been together with no small amount of love. There were musical instruments mounted all over the ceilings, the lighting was low without straining the eyes, and the bottle collection was impressive. Feeling incredibly British, we ordered two very different gins and relaxed at a comfy table. The barman took extreme care, as he added fresh fruit and herb leaves to skewers, tailored to the taste of the gins we had ordered, mine stronger and hers a little more delicate and fruity. On the tv and super high quality sound system we had a semi acoustic session video by the Goo Goo Dolls, followed by various acts from Jools Holland, which created a really nice ambience. Our one drink lasted over 90 minutes and I’d certainly go back and recommend it to anyone who visits.

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With our drinks done, though, it was a 5 minute walk back to our hotel, and for a good night’s sleep, ready to wake up early the next morning and go to see some waves. The rooms in the Hotel Mar Bravo were very comfortable, and we slept right through, starting our day with breakfast. It was a pretty good spread, with a variety of cold meats, hot scrambled eggs, cheeses, yoghurts and the usual breakfast fare. Astoundingly though, for Portugal, the coffee was from a diabolical Nescafé machine, and tasted as crap as you might imagine it did. Not to mention that it had no caffeine or awakening potency.

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Fortunately, though, my infantile excitement saw us through, and so we set off after breakfast, first to pick up the car and then to head back up to the lighthouse where we’d been the night before.

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Arriving at the lighthouse, we were delighted to see that the small museum there was open and so we were able to get some really nice views on to the ocean, both sides of the rock that juts out, holding the lighthouse in place between praia do sul and praia do norte. It was just 1 euro to get in and the exhibits there are very nicely put together, with displays on the history of Nazaré, as well as its more recent fame as a hot spot for tow in surfing and huge waves. While we didn’t see any of the monsters that made Garett McNamara so famous around these parts, the waves were still substantial, and the force you could see, hear and feel as the water crashed into the land was quite intense. In the pictures the waves look so small, but the smallest of them was around three metres, the average sized ones around six metres and the biggest we saw in excess of 10 metres. This video will perhaps do them more justice. The real shame was that there was no surfing happening, as I really wanted to see people, ant like in perspective, riding these monstrous waves.

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As time wore on, I had to return to Lisbon for work so, after a tactical stop in a café for a real cup of coffee after that dreadful nescafé rubbish, we were on our way. Just as my break seemed that it couldn’t have got any better, we realised that we were driving through Alfeizerão, the place where one of Portugal’s most famous cakes – Pão de ló – is very famously made. I told Ana to look out for any places selling homemade Pão de ló and, just as we were about to leave the town, we found one, so I managed to bring one back, undercooked, and creamy in the centre, for my colleagues to try. My first visit to Nazaré – but surely not my last – had been a great success!

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Adventures in Greece Part 3 – Naxos and Back

As the ferry began to dock in the port at Naxos, we made our way down the series of steel stairs to the disembarkation platform. We walked out into what was now scorching sunshine and took in the vista of the Sanctuary of Apollo on a hillock to the left, the castle and old town straight ahead and the beaches, sweeping off into the distance to the right. But before any of that, there was a huge hubbub of people coming to meet loved ones and friends, pension owners coming to greet those without accommodation with offers, and traders, here to collect things brought over from the mainland. The day before we left Athens, I’d received an email from Stavros – the proprieter of our hotel – offering to come and meet us at the port, so we looked out for signs for “Pension Irene”. We couldn’t see him anywhere. We found some space to one side of the throng and put our bags down for a moment. About to take out my phone to call him, I suddenly spotted a very neat feature of the harbour – a WiFi enabled covered area, with touchscreens that you could use to find the addresses, phone numbers and photos of the huge range of accommodation on the island. Not only that, you could make a free skype call from the booth. I was seriously impressed. I called through to Stavros and he answered quickly, asking where I was. I explained that I was in the Skype booth and he was, naturally, 2 metres behind me. I turned, walked over and shook his hand, introducing myself and Ania. We walked over to his mini van and dumped our bags on the rows of seats at the back. We hopped in and sat down. We moved perhaps 5 metres before he turned to us and said “you may as well walk. In this traffic, it could take an hour to drive to the hotel. I’ll bring your things to you later.” He gave us directions and a leaflet, complete with a map and off we went. We walked through a gap in the gleaming white buildings and along a winding road in the direction he had pointed us. Here, on the map, there were 2 roads. In reality there were 4. It was about to get a bit sketchy.

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We consulted the map and, eventually, agreed on a route. Readers of previous posts to this blog will know that this was the wrong direction. It did however, allow us to get a good look at this side of the island. We found the football stadium (not premier league standard) and the general hospital, which looked like a not particularly impressive shed and made a mental note to avoid injury and illness at all costs, while here. We also saw countless classic Greek island picture postcard views, like this:

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After stopping in a couple of shops and asking for directions with our quite misleading map, we found our hotel’s sister hotel and then were driven around to our home for the next 3 days by the kindly owner, who found our confusion quite amusing. As soon as we arrived, I left Ania to organise herself in the room and went off to pay for our stay. Immediately after I had, the hotel owner’s mother came after me with some cold ice creams for Ania and I. It was a really nice touch and we ate them right away, after so long out in the sun trying to find the place.

After we had gathered our thoughts and taken the weight off of our feet for a while, we decided to go out and explore the local area. Our hotel was on a road which backed straight onto St George beach. This is the second most beautiful on the island, according to Trip Advisor, so we decided to go and take a look while we still had the afternoon sun. It was quite busy, with a variety of watersports and sunbathers covering the soft sand, in front of a line of fairly low-key bars and restaurants, creating a relaxing, welcoming atmosphere.

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From here, we had already decided we would walk back into the town and across the port to the “Portare” – the gate of the Sanctuary of Apollo, which was said to be wonderful at sunset. So we walked back along the beach towards the old city. On the way we saw some interesting sights, starting with this strange fellow.

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After this, we walked along a wide stretch of bars and cafés, brimming with mainly Greek tourists enjoying beers or freddos and chatting with their family and friends in front of the harbour, still crammed full of active fishing boats, the fishermen hanging up octopi to dry and carrying bulging nets of fish to the awaiting restaurants. We continued past the port and on to the stretch of land where the Portare was. Before you arrive at the Portare itself, you have to walk across a thin strip of land at the edge of the port. You can get right down by the rocks at the edge of the water and there is an ancient statue of someone. Sadly, there’s not much of its face left intact, so you can only try to identify it by virtue of its boobs. I had no idea.

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After this and walking past several bathers enjoying the water, you get up close to the great doorway and see what an impressive sight it is, as is the view back to the town and the port. We spent a good hour sitting on the rocks, watching the sea crashing in and the boats coming and going, as the sun sank lower and lower toward the horizon.

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From here, it was time to finally grab something to eat, as we were starving, so we stopped off at a relaxed little pizzeria on the harbour’s edge and ate pizza and drank Mythos as the sun went down. It was a great first afternoon and evening on the island.

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The next day began late, after a breakfast of pastries and coffee in bed (I went to the cafe at the end of the road, like a true gentleman). After this, we decided it was time to check out the best beach – again, according to trip advisor – on the island. So off we set on the bus journey, 15 minutes or so, through Saint Anne’s beach, Paradiso beach to Plaka. As soon as we arrived we could see that it was, indeed, more beautiful than the others. Finer sand, more space, calmer sea, it was a beautiful place for us to relax.

We claimed a spot, got out the suncream and got on with the business of sunbaking (thank you Australian students for this wonderful term!). We alternated between sitting, some light swimming and the obligatory burial of the girlfriend in the sand. She kept smiling and didn’t kill me afterwards, so it must have been fine.

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After a few hours of mucking about there, we were a little peckish, so we walked up to a nice little café opposite the beach and ate some Greek salads with feta and Naxian sour cheeses. Both were superb and washed down with a bottle of coke. After we ate, we decided to explore a little further down the beach, where it was a bit quieter. So we did just that. We found a beautiful spot and sat down on our towels. Just at that moment, Ania gave me a sideways glance and smirk crossed her face as she said “can you see that?”. She was referring to the naked man to our right. This part of the beach was a nude area. Gripped at first by a wave of my Britishness and almost gesturing to go back down to where we were previously, I took a hold of myself (not literally) and decided we should take a “when in Rome” approach. So we stripped off and made sure everything was suitably protected from the sun and, pretty soon, realised that there was less gawping here, than there had been in the bikinis and shorts area. It was all quite comfortable. So we spent an enjoyable time in our first nudist experience and, after a few more hours of bronzing, dressed and headed back to find a bus. It was at this stage that I remembered I had not really put any sunblock on the tops of my feet. This in a place where the sun had been blazing down all day long at temperatures of around 38 degrees. Already I could feel the skin tightening and it was only going to get worse. Nevertheless, I got on the bus smiling from a day well spent.

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The next morning, I realised that my feet were in fact like 2 giant red steaks. I was sure they would drop off at any moment, at which point I would have to sell them to a restaurant and spend the rest of my life hopping around on my ankle ends. This was not something I was looking forward to.

When I woke up the next day though, it turned out that I had been exaggerating, which is most out of character for me. But cheerfully, my feet were burned and suffering a bit, but not beyond repair. As Naxos is an island with an awful lot of beach and not an awful lot of anything else, and our plans for these 3 days revolved relaxation together, we went to the beach. This time St George beach, opposite our hotel. I worked out an ingenious way of protecting my burnt feet from getting worse:

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I’m sure I looked positively hilarious to all passers by, or like I had some kind of utterly unfathomable form of OCD, but the important thing was I didn’t burn and began to feel better.

The following day though, I really didn’t feel like spending time sunbathing. 2 days was quite enough for me, so I picked up my camera and did some climbing on the rocks, while Ania stretched out on a secluded stretch of beach. We only had 5 hours until our boat was due to leave, but I still managed to see some terrific sights.

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After all this wandering, there was only time for a quick souvlaki back at the Relax restaurant and an ice cream in the shade before we got back on the boat. This time, rather than the “every man for himself” experience we’d had on the way to Naxos, we’d been forced to pay an extra 3 euros for airline seats, due to a lack of availability of economy seats. When we found our seats, we wondered why the premium was so small. Row after row of lazy-boy-like faux leather armchairs, fully reclinable and with deck windows, this was going to be a much more comfortable journey.

This was just as well, as when we arrived back into the port of Piraeus at 11:30, we had been unable to rebook our fabulous hotel from our first stay there. No, we had had to book another, similarly rated hotel, on the other side of the marina. ‘How different could it be?’ we thought, as we crossed the road and began to walk slightly uphill, along the marina walk. We took a left and then a right onto the street where our hotel was located and there, before us were two not-particularly-upmarket looking prostitutes. Fortunately, you could smell their perfume from so far away that it wasn’t hard to avoid them. They walked towards us, as we carried our bags, with fully drunken smiles on their faces. I felt pretty sorry for them, if I’m honest. We found the hotel quickly enough and walked inside. The place seemed ok, and we bundled our things into the lift and went up to our room on the 3rd floor.

While Ania was smoking on the balcony of our room, she noticed a titty bar across the way, which looked as run down and depressed as the hookers in the street. It was a surprise, as it was so close to where we had stayed before, where everything had seemed so pleasant. We decided it didn’t really matter as we were here only to sleep before our flight the next day. In the morning we rose, got breakfast at a nearby store and then jumped on our bus back to the airport. There had been so much to take in, so many things we had seen and experiences we’d had. It was a truly fantastic week and Greece is certainly a place we’d return to. Now though, our minds were already turning to the next adventure.

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