With the weather predicted to be in the mid-seventies, we figured it would be good day to head west along the coast and scope out the resort town of Cascais. It’s an easy train ride, and we went early enough to avoid fighting for seats. (By early, I mean any time before noon. After twelve, tourist numbers multiply significantly; before twelve, everything feels off-season.)
For instance, here’s a shot of the Cascais beach when we arrived at 10:15.
Then later, after lunch, the same beach.
The beach where it was interesting to note that arms were superfluous when it came to volleyball.
From what I observed, this particular restriction wasn’t conducive to extended volleys.
After we moseyed around the marina and skirted yet another fortress wall, I caught site of a lighthouse that seemed accessible. I have a minor obsession with lighthouses. It’s that lonely beacon of light fighting against the fog, the romantic power of the Fresnel lens pulsing into the night. I realize of late there have been some major movie releases featuring men going mad inside these isolated towers, but all I can say is that they brought the wrong reading material.
This lighthouse was the Apollo rocket of lighthouses…
…with an Escher-like stairway leading up to the observation deck.
There’s the Atlantic.
And down at the foot of the lighthouse drinking sparkling water, sits Ella, just out of view below.
The lighthouse had a museum with these tremendous Fresnel lenses.
The smaller version of these Fresnels are used as 1 and 2 K lights on movie sets.
So, hey, that’s the high point of my day, and we haven’t even hiked up to the Boca do Inferno yet. The Boca is a hollowed out seaside rock that allows slopover from the Atlantic to trickle into a steep cove.
We had considered traveling down to the Algarve coast of Portugal where there were similar resort beaches and scalloped window rocks, but it was a three-and-a-half hour train ride and an overnight stay. This seemed a little excessive for gazing at sea-worn stone; if we wanted to thrill to the sight of dramatically sculpted rock, there’s always the amazing Navajo landscape between Fort Defiance and Tuba City.
Underwhelmed by the Boca, the monotony of walking along the rocky sea coast growing on her, Ella expressed a desire for lunch. (Our running joke this morning had been, “Do you think they have any sea food here?”) Caiscais might have overhyped their eroded cliffs, but when it comes to lunch they rule.
To walk off our meal, we followed the blue dot through crooked cobblestone streets to a Pritzker Prize-winning design of a museum that featured paintings by Paula Rego.
Paula likes to paint dogs as people, and people as dogs.
And just because we’re in Portugal, she doesn’t want us to miss out on another chance to absorb religious artwork.
