Some of the participants in these events just informed me that I got everything mixed up, and we actually went to Loulé and Praia da Marinha on different days. This is surely true, but in ten years, who would've known how it really happened? A blog is an ephemeral, yet written piece of evidence, whereas human memory is so unreliable that it's laughable to count on it.
I got things mixed up because the cameras were set to different times, making it hard for me to sort the photos from here, hence the timeline issues.
At Praia da Marinha, there was a warning that the path wouldn't be suitable for everyone—too rocky and steep in places. For a battle-hardened tourist like me, this would be laughable, had I not lost my shape and gained back the weight I had shed with such effort.
The limestone coast washes away easily, forming all sorts of cool holes.
For some reason, a dead rabbit is lying right on the path. Why it appeared exactly here is a mystery.
Periodically, the path pops out into civilized spots where you can grab a bite and wet your whistle.
I might've wanted to write you something interesting, but I went to bed at six in the morning yesterday because of insomnia, and I only have enough juice left for photo captions.
Sometimes you come across massive sinkholes, but taking a good photo of them is not that simple.
The track "Zakat" (Sunset) came to mind just in time.
Anita and I walked for about three hours and change. When we reached the final point, it turned out the girls were still far behind, so we went down to the beach to admire the sunset. Like a true gentlehomo, I couldn't help but buy the lady a cocktail, even if it was 5 euros. The cocktail was Brazilian, their national one—a caipirinha. With cane sugar moonshine, lime, and so much ice that the other ingredients were barely visible.
Sipping the cocktail, we lazily watched the waves and the sunset. I rarely get this feeling anymore—the pleasant fatigue from physical activity in the fresh air—which is a pity.
Piling into the Black Jeep, we set off to get some dinner. It was a long drive home, so, arming ourselves with TripAdvisor, we found a nearby pizzeria called "O Forno do Fraser".
I don't have a photo, but the pizzeria turned out to be really cool: the owner told us how he makes the dough and the Piri-Piri sauce himself. This sauce is native to Portugal and is made from the eponymous pepper (African Devil), lemon, and spices. Funnily enough, Piri-piri translates as "pepper-pepper" in Swahili. Where the right pepper is hard to get (and it's not easy to grow), as is usually the case, they substitute it with whatever was lying around nearby.
Funny that the whole species of hot red peppers (chili), just like the tea bush (Caméllia sinénsis), is called Chinese in Latin (Capsicum chinense). In the case of the pepper, it grows in Africa. Tea, as you know, is mostly known in our parts as coming from India. All of this is thanks to imperialism and colonialism—British in one case, Portuguese in the other.
The pizzas were very tasty, the crust was toasty and crispy. Even though we ordered without the sauce, he brought some to try anyway—for Anita, because she's a foodie. Perhaps, as a well-known libtard and Gayropean, I should write 'gourmande', but I can't quite bring myself to do it yet.
Lastly, if that's still not enough for you, here are some of Vika's photos. Both her skills and her camera are much more serious, so I just don't have the strength to hide them.
