The west coast of Portugal south of Bayona never fails to delight.  This Atlantic coastline is pretty spectacular, comprising sheer cliffs of ever-varying hues and textures.  One headland gives away to another and the smell of fresh pine from the forests of this unspoiled landscape tingle the nostrils and tell of fresh air and the renewed foliage of spring.  We made first for Leixoes, a few kilometers from the famous city of Porto, so traditionally Portuguese and yet so English too.  The port houses named, Dows, Cockburns and all the other more esoteric brands have weathered the passing of time and are as much a part of the Portuguese and British way of life as ever.  All but Nigel spent the day exploring the history of the city with the skipper staying behind to provide some TLC to the lady who is Oboe d’Amore.  Leixoes is an unpretentious, hard-working town with a container port working round the clock – a real hive of industry but it has a little secret and that is a tiny old town with half a dozen local restaurants serving possibly the freshest fish, perfectly cooked on the planet – and affordable for a change.  Not rip-off Europe this place and long may it stay that way.

Onward to Cascais, merged inexorably with Estoril, Portugal’s Monaco you might say.  A marina charging double, a championship golf course or two, a casino and a Grand Prix circuit, hosting this weekend the Moto GP, where Valentino Rossi, no longer reigning supreme will fail again to catch the new young turks of the sport.  Honda, Honda, Honda, Honda – 1^st, 2^nd, 3^rd, 4^th and then the glorious red Ducati of number 46 – The Doctor.

Sailing gives way to the thrum of the motor, hour upon hour and the mood of the crew drops as monotony temporarily sets in, night falls, watches rotate and dawn breaks off Cabo da Roca, the most western point in continental Europe.  In a flat calm we round the cape with its monument to the Portuguese seafarers and discoverers of old, now surrounded by a thousand tourists or so it seems through our binoculars that pick out buses and coaches lined up in the massive coach park on top of the cliff.  Soon our attention turns to a craggy rock formations riddled with caves, the work of millennia carved into the landscape and just beyond, the purpose built canal leading into the heart of Lagos, the end of the first leg of our journey south.

Engine off, tied securely to a luxury berth in the marina that is so familiar to the skipper from previous visits, work begins without delay on readying the boat for its new guests and helping Paul and Paul to aclimatise to the notion of home comforts only a day or so away.  Cocktails in the cockpit, a meal in town, a well-earned sleep and Paul and Nigel are in a hire car speeding to Faro airport.  Our other Paul makes himself scarce as Oboe becomes a scene of domestic chaos and an oily engineering workshop.  One more day for him, to Vilamoura and we will au revoir to him too.

Follow our progress here:

http://blog.mailasail.com/oboe, where you can see our daily progress on Google Earth.  Email us at: oboe {CHANGE TO AT} mailasail {DOT} com any time you like.  Phone us on +881 631 669 194 and we’ll pick up via Iridium satellite.

Fair winds to you all.

Nigel

Paul

Paul

Tereza

Josef