Love Portugal

Everyone has always said of Portugal, “I love Portugal,” and I was sure I would too, just as I love all the places I travel. But I’ve just spent the last two months traveling across the country and along her shores and now I say “love” just like everyone else does, with emphasis: “I absolutely loooove Portugal!” 

Covid has a little to blame – and thank – for our extended time in the country. It was our original plan to sail down Europe’s western Atlantic coastline after visiting England by yacht. The thought of sailing Atea up the Hamble River had a nostalgic draw as it was John’s childhood stomping ground, but our two month lockdown in South Africa forced us to cross off that walk down memory lane. Our enjoyment of the Azores also ticked weeks off our calendar and so we also drew a line through France. Spain was seeing a spike in reported Covid cases and was starting to implement restrictions but Portugal had a long bout of low numbers and their doors were starting to open. Spain was crossed off our travel plan along with the UK and France, so we shifted the line on our chart to Portugal. An exciting destination, given everybody love’s Portugal.

We started in Porto, home of port and a fitting first port of call. We pulled into the marina in Lexios after a week at sea and enjoyed the facilities — cold beer, hot showers, electricity and a marine shop. The the marina was situated along a long beautiful beach with a large walking promenade and we spent our initial days in the cold surf and sipping sangria. After a short respite of rest and relaxation, my travel radar started blaring and it was time to get our hiking shoes on. We started locally, taking the bus into Porto’s historic centre and wandering tight winding alleys that lead to quaint street-side cafes. We visited old port houses and sampled ruby, tawny, pink, and white port and wandered through castles and cathedrals steeped in the history of the region. If there ever was a beautiful old town, Porto is it. It has charm and beauty, age and history, old immersed in the new, all in working order. The river that runs through the city is linked by four bridges, allowing easy access from town to suburb. The food is superb, the wine even better, and the people warm and friendly. Given the recent change in covid restrictions, locals were enjoying more freedom and tourists were resuming inbound flights. Masks were required on entrance into a building, but as soon as you found your seat you were free to take it off and there was no restriction to groups gathering outside; as such, the parks were full of silent lovers and friendly banter and we were free to roam the streets at all hours of night.  

While Porto was a highlight, we were in-country to explore and we wanted to experience inland as well as the coast. We rented a car to get further afield; as I signed the rental agreement I asked the woman what her favourite part of the country was and she favoured north — so we scrapped our plans and followed her suggestion to the regional park that borders Portugal and Spain, pulling off on small detours as we went. It was the right call. The north of Portugal is far less developed than the south and the collection of small towns are quaint, quiet and picturesque; curious faces followed us as we passed and my own face was as equally enchanted by the sight of the black-clad women, dressed head-to-foot in the traditional woollen clothing of the region. We pulled off to explore the remains of forts that were scattered around the countryside, open to wander freely and empty of a single other soul. It was amazing to be free to explore important historical sites left to blend into the natural surroundings. We pulled off at natural springs and jumped off rocks into the icy water with locals who where taking time off from the heat. 

We also explored the popular Douro Valley, home of the countries oldest and most renown port houses. The stretch of land along the river was a beautiful and lush, with scattered vineyards and quaint villages along its edges. The Douro Valley is well known and a popular destination, and under normal conditions advance bookings at the vineyards were required. Given the impact of Covid, however, we were fortunate to be able to explore in relaxed isolation areas that tend towards hordes of tourists. Without an agenda, we pulled into vineyards along the way and sample the regions liquid richness. Our bilges are now stored with a variety of very fine port, corked reminders of our time in this beautiful part of the world. 

The end of our stay in Porto marked the beginning of our social life in Portugal. Days before departure I learned that Sue, my previous boss at Noonsite, lived two hours away from us in Spain, and she offered to come meet us with her family; we met in person for the first time and the connection between all of us was immediate, turning a working relationship into a special friendship. We also bumped into an interesting American couple who were achieving a six-year low budget extended travel lifestyle, and we invited them to join us on a cruise down the coast. Rhonda and Ryan stayed for a week, entreated us to their amazing bartending skills and engaged us with stories of their vagabond experiences. We sailed together 150 miles from Porto to Cascais on the central west coast, introducing them to the magic of phosphorescence-encased dolphin at night that resembled glowing torpedoes that showered millions of miniature shooting stars when they broke the surface of the water.  

As we saw them off we welcomed Margot and her partner Rory. It had been fifteen years since our days working together as dive masters in Mozambique and as many years since we’d last seen each other; reconnecting with Margot was a last-minute opportunity to reunite and the fifteen years could have been fifteen weeks — time hadn’t altered the person or the bond. We also had the opportunity to visit them at their farm in Alentejo, where Braca got to shoot a gun, Ayla caught wild doves, I got lessons in home-made yoghurt, and we caught, killed, and butchered our meals straight off the farm. 

At the same time, we also met Fiona and Iain on SV Ruffian and bonded over an unexpected mini-cyclone that hit Lisbon with 50-knot winds. They became our travelling partners for the rest of our time in Portugal as we sailed, explored, ate, and drank our way in union down the Portuguese coast. Iain and I started a regular run club, a relief for my unexercised body and Fiona and I tried to commit ourselves to beach yoga with semi-success. They were far more organised and did their research in advance (as apposed to our lazy efforts), and thanks them we were entreated to a full schedule of events and maximised our time in every town we pulled into.

Eventually, we made it to Portimao on the southern Algarve coast where John and the kids flew out on a quick trip to the UK to visit family. I stayed behind to care for the boat and our two cats, thinking I would settle into a quiet week on my own. As Portugal was proving to be for us, however, it was a week of continuous social activity and varied daytime excursions as I explored nearby towns, cultural sites, and the famous Benjali caves. The Portimao Marina was full of friendly, sociable yachties and thanks in particular to a resident couple in the marina, Leah and Ricardo, it was quick to feel like home. I had to schedule in my down time just to grab a quiet moment onboard my empty boat. But it was as I chose it, and days turned into weeks as we filled our time in the busy hubhub on Portugals south coast. 

As it always is, time to move comes much sooner than desired. The beautiful summer season was starting to turn to autumn, and the weather would soon become unpredictable. As the Covid situation in the Caribbean was still unclear, may cruisers who intended on sailing west turned east towards the Mediterranean. I’d always expected that I would be drawn in myself, however our summer on the outskirts was enough for me to turn my back on this popular destination. As odd as it sounds, for I absolutely loved our time in Portugal, the experience was enough to curb my interest in cruising the Med. I’ve always been interested in travelling to places I’ve not been to before and to have as many different experiences as I can gather on my trips abroad. I’d always said I would enjoy a season in the Mediterranean as it would be a very different kind of cruising than we were used to, but after our time in Portugal I’m ready to move on. I know this will be refuted by others who have travelled through and highly rate it, but for me Europe isn’t the place for a cruising boat. I want to be in Europe, not alongside it. I can get the same experiences by car, train, bus, bike, camper van, tennis shoe as I can by boat, so I’ll save cruising for places I can’t get to otherwise. I will use Atea as a mode of transport to take me to places I cannot otherwise access: isolated islands, remote fishing communities, inaccessible reefs, and the big blue yonder. Europe will call me back one day with a rucksack on my back and a Eurorail pass in my pocket. For now I sail away from the marinas and the malls and the motorways and head for shores where I can set both my anchor and my feet in the sand and be a cruiser in the true sense of the word.

Land Go!

Our passage notes on our 1,000 mile passage from the Canaries to Gambia

Day 1: John said it, and he’s right: We should have a phrase we say when we watch land slip down past the horizon. Every time we see land again after an ocean passage we greet it with an enthusiastic, “Land Ho!” Rightfully so, as it is uncommon to human nature to go without that beautiful green earth underfoot. So, when we get that first glimpse of a 360 degree view of nothing but blue we should have a universal sailors cry, perhaps something like, “Land Go!” That’s it – I like it. Land Go! There’s an enthusiasm for what lays ahead and a proper nod to the island or continent we leave behind. 

At 9:00am on 7/12/2020 we hauled up anchor and sailed out of Las Palmas, Canaries heading southwest with a distance of 1,000 miles ahead of us. For all of 2020 we’d planned on heading from South Africa to Western Europe to end the year in the Caribbean, expecting to sit under palm trees and be sipping rum when Santa pulled in. But over the past two weeks I caught wind of the possibility of Gambia, and my intrigue was captured. A big muddy river filled with crocodiles surrounded by pristine native jungle filled with birds with overhanding bush filled with monkeys — I’m in! So, with a little persuasion I convinced the crew we should head for a small detour before crossing the Atlantic. Only a thousand miles to the south, a 300 mile river to transit, then back out to that rum. 

Oh, and Land Go! At 13:00 we watched the tip of Teide slip out of sight, the tallest peak in Spain. Land Go feels right – for the land we leave behind, and also for the land that lay ahead.

Our first day at sea is always a quiet one of adjustment. Usually we’ve been running at full speed so the forced enclosure feels like a sanctuary of calm. The movement of the boat also takes some adjustment, as we finalise stowage by securing the odd repetitive knock of things left untucked. Homework is paused. The books come out. We nap. We read. We nap. We read. It is all the pace we should enjoy at anchor, but never seem to find time for. 

But to stir up some trouble, we’ve collected two stowaway elves in Las Palmas. Not as in mischievous elfin-like crew, but two small red and green cotton-stuffed elves that have been entertained the kids since they’ve come onboard. My daughter is a firm believer — these elves are eyes and ears for Santa, though they’ve yet to make the desired impact on bringing out sweet and diminishing sour. I can’t tell if my son, however, is truly gullible or if I’m the gullible one for thinking he’s falling for the magical creatures act. Either way, they are proving to be a lot of entertainment as they mysteriously appear in odd places and odd positions around the boat. I’m also not sure if the kids are having more fun, or the kid in the adults are. Either way, the “elf magic” is helping to keeping things light and entertaining onboard. 

Day 2: We are clipping along at six knots with a consistent 20 knot north-easterly wind, but the rolling seas are keeping things lively onboard. It isn’t comfortable per se, but at least the conditions are reliable and the weather forecast indicates we can expect wind all the way. The day onboard was rather dull as John and I devoured books and the kids got sucked into their tablet. We tend to keep a tight reign on digital time, but somehow today became defined by them. The quiet was good, but the battles that come from it are not – too much time zoned out turns our two angels into little monsters. So, I change the passcodes once again. 

To the rescue was their guardian angels, who come to visit on passage and deliver books under their pillow while they sleep. There’s a lot of magic onboard, usually that twinkles to life when we put out to sea. For those who wonder how we can keep sane while away from outside contact for so long, you obviously haven’t yet been introduced to our magical kingdom of fairies and angels. 

Night watches are still cold. We are at 24 degrees north but the wind is coming down from a wintery Europe. We look forward to the tropics where a blanket of warm wind makes the evenings comfortable. It lays just days ahead of us, and I look forward to sitting out under the stars when it comes. For now, a blanket of wool warms my body as I sit out in the cold wind. 

Day 3: We are now going s l o o o w w w. Two knots slow. In the night our genoa halyard chafed through and our sail was dumped into the sea bringing us to an abrupt stop. It is now lying crumpled up on deck and soiled with antifouling,  like an oversized wet nappie and just as useless. After a few hours of slow progress under jib alone we hoist the main  and gain some speed again. There are alternate halyards that we could use to re-hoist it, but getting it threaded up the foil is not something we want to try at sea. We will  see the rest of the way under jib and main; under-powered but at least moving at a reasonable 5 knot speed with good wind. It won’t break any records to the finish line, but let’s just hope we that’s the only thing we don’t break. 

Other than gear failure, all else remains calm for the day. I am months behind on organising photos, editing video clips and writing since my computer died on the long-distance haul across the Atlantic, and now that I’m digitised again with a new computer I’m catching up while on passage. I’m not sure what the pace of life on other boats is like, but for John and I we remain incredibly busy when we are cruising — boat maintenance, the general upkeep and homeschooling combined with maximising our time in a country and socialising — that our down time gets completely absorbed. I was amazed at how many people we met in the Canaries brought crew onboard for the passages, as well as how many people asked to be our crew… No thank you! Give away the only quiet time we get to enjoy onboard? You got to be kidding me! 

Day 4: We finally turned the corner of the western “Horn of Africa,” or just rounded her continental rump, depending on which way you look at it. The only significance being we worked so hard just four months ago to cross this point heading north from South Africa, and now we are retracting our steps south. if you’ve followed our route through the years, we do seem to run backward before moving forward. New Zealand – Tonga – Fiji – New Zealand in 2011 (and from New Zealand back up to Vanuatu in 2012, Fiji’s western neighbour). Australia north to south in 2012 and north again in 2013. Malaysia – Thailand – Malaysia in 2014. Chagos – Maldives – India – Maldives in 2015. Mozambique – Madagascar – Mozambique in 2018. Africa – Europe – Africa – Caribbean this 2020. When are we going to learn just to travel in a straight line?! 

It appears that our cat – the more inquisitive of the two – has turned into our first truly qualified fisherman onboard. I write this surrounded by the pungent aroma of fish and my cat running wild around the spot in which I just saved (or more likely, half-saved) a very large flying fish. Yesterday I was not the honourable saviour; I caught Ingwe with just a fish heed, all other parts devoured. I sat and watched him as he ate that head down, leaving behind nothing more than a tiny jaw full of miniature teeth. While I prefer fish in the ocean, at least our mog leaves no waste.

Day 5: The kids have been on good form, but seems the two of us picked up a minor stomach bug and have been worst for wear this trip. John and I are finally starting to round the corner, though I do confess John is rounding a little slower than I. Today I woke feeling back to normal, so it was board games with the kids in the morning followed by school and then catching up on some of the advent calendar activities I’d put together for the kids. Each day they cut a square out of their paper calendar and a message is revealed; little treats, small activities, the sort. I was cunning and put in a few self-serving items like the massage I got from Braca the other day and the cup of tea Ayla made me for breakfast. But on low speed, tasks like baking cooked, puppet theatre, and making Santa and elves were delayed. So today we crafted in the afternoon while devouring hot baked cookies, enjoyable for child and adult alike.

To add to the perspective comment earlier, our new House batteries that we bought in the Canaries to replace our old dying ones seem to have their shortcomings. Regardless that they are just off the shelf, they seem not to hold their charge. So, while we are sailing all the way (good), we have to listen to the thump thump thump of the engine for a few hours every day while the engine charges the batteries (very annoyingly bad). 

Three out of seven. My cats look at me in disgust every time I ply a fish from their mouth and toss it gasping and flapping back to sea. I get it — its their catch and I am depriving them of their glory. But if John, kids and I are going to abstain from fishing for “the cause,” then so too must they.

Day 6: We are now at 19 degrees north and truly in the tropics. I felt it the moment I woke up (correction, was waken – you never get the luxury of waking up naturally on passage) as I was sweating in the clothes that had been keeping me warm the past few days. I peeled off the layers and sighed my contentment; there is nothing like that moment when you have sailed clear of the colder weather. Unfortunately, with it went the wind and without our genoa, ten knots wind was giving us three knots through the water. 

Today was a social one for our little pack, energised by the change in weather and the decrease in roll inside the boat. We did artwork and crafts, schoolwork with unusual cooperation and played Monopoly for hours. I’ve been enjoying the time we get together on passage, so different than the more busier life we tend to have when in country, maximising experience and exploring the sites while trying to inject a modicum of routine. Routine? As if. When you know you only have a few weeks or months in a country, it is hard to let the days roll by without feeling the push to take in as much as possible. But on passage we have our roles, our timeframes, our routine and for a short period of time, the regularity of it is nice. 

Oh, but never expect this life doesn’t throw its curveballs! We were sailing along comfortably today when in the near-distance an orange float and black form floated past, just out of sight to catch the detail. All hands on deck as we whipped Atea about face, Braca hollering all the while, “I’m scared! I don’t want to see a skeleton!” The hint of death put an urgency in it, but alas, after our quick response to save the day it was only a torn orange lifejacket that we plucked from the sea. It was enough to cause pause and reflection, however, and bow in reverence to the sea.  

Moths. An acceptable replacement to flying fish. One hundred miles offshore and they were fluttering into the cabin, drawn in by the light. The cats have hit payday, and we applaud their acrobatic leaps and summersaults as they manically tried to soar to new heights to reap their reward. We don’t have the most agile cats, so the display was of particular hilarity as they bumbled around, falling off the companionway steps and landing on each other in an escalating fever to catch the moths.

Day 7: I concede. If my cats choose to be pescatarians, so be it. I’ve tried my best to help protect the continuous stream of fish that make they way onto our boat, but when they jump the six feet to clear our freeboard and then manage to get through the netting that surrounds our guardrails, then somehow bump up and additional two feet to get onto our topsides and then wiggle across the deck and flop through a six inch square hatch into the heads, then they have a death wish I won’t interfere with. For the first time, our male cat who usually gulfs down his food and then shoulder-badges into his sister for his share of her food, now takes a sideward glance at this bowl at mealtime and then saunters off indifferently. He has eyes on a bigger prize. 

Today’s Christmas calendar instruction was to perform a song and dance. After our midday game of never-ending Monopoly, we pulled out the ukuleles but failed to pull any talents out and brought the speakers out on deck perform every style of dance we dare not to ever perform in public. For the first time in days, there was an absence of flying fish on deck — seems we even managed to scare the fish away.

But what did fall on deck was a long, thin VHF antenna aerial. Seems Atea is in a slow, continual state of disintegration this trip. The irony is we spent an extra week in Las Palmas working on sorting out all our comms, bringing on an electronics expert to work on our long range radio and buying and reinstalling a new VHF. After years of crappy comms, we now loose the simplest component that brings us right back to where to started: Mute and uncommunicative.

Day 8: We are 70 miles east of Dakar and have turned in towards land and a direct line to our destination, the town of Banjul which now lies 130 miles in front of us. As if that weren’t excitement enough, soon after we were broadsided by a breaking wave that hit our hull at exactly the right angle and sent a wall of water upward and sideward, flooding our cockpit and aft cabin. The bed and carpeted floor were soaked and the kids came bolting out in fits of laughter as they stood drenched in salt water and holding up the dripping teddies they’d been playing with. For the kids, it was as if the boobie traps they’d been setting throughout the boat over the past few days had finally escalated into a grand finale, the ultimate practical joke being laid on both parents who were looking around the boat in mute astonishment. 

Day 9 : As we continue to close the coast during the night, various fishing boats and floats are seen – some are lit, some are not, and eventually we heave to until daylight so that the last 20 miles are in the light of a hazy African dawn. By midmorning we are anchor down off Banjul, and another 1,000 miles have passed under Atea’s keel.  The heat rises along with a cacophony of noise from trucks belching smoke and fishing vessels preparing their nets. As we listen to the cheerful hubbub of noises and bubbling voices, we realise that we have left calm controlled Europe behind and are about to dive once more into the chaos and reward of Africa.

To view photos of our trip, go to our Atea FB page.

The Azores: Ey Ey Bro!

I’ve spent a notable time on the sea but don’t consider myself much of a seaman. Not in the nostalgic sense of the word – weathered old souls with salt-imbued rags who sit in old bars scratching their matted hair telling tales of their conquests and mishaps. Of course, I’ve had my share of adventures worth telling over a cold pint, but somehow I don’t feel I fit the mould. I sail a boat. I live on a boat. I raise my kids on a boat. I transit oceans by boat. But seasoned seaman? I don’t think so. 

But for the first time I felt like I’d earned that right as I sat sipping a frothy pint in Peter’s Bar, with decade upon decade of captain’s hat (and the occasional captain’s bra) above my head. Peter’s Bar overlooks the main harbour in Horta on the island of Faial in the Azores and is as old as the volcano it is built on. It is currently run by its third generation of Azevedo who continues to supply transiting mariners with more than just ale: Peter’s Bar has been the main support for ships and people passing through, supplying provisions and parts, mail collection and delivery, medical supply and local gossip since 1918. It might’ve taken me ten years, 55,000 miles and a few dozen ocean crossings, but I finally got it — that feeling of what it is like to be an old saltwort worth her lick. 

Of course, having just completed a two-month passage was a factor. I didn’t really feel the gravity of what that meant until we pulled into Horta at the conclusion of our 6,000 mile trip from South Africa to the Azores and people gave their congratulations as we sailed in. We shook hands ashore with people who already knew about us and were impressed by our recent time at sea. So, when I sauntered into Peter’s Bar and ordered a pint and sat down amongst the painted faces of patronage from generations past — Chichester, Montessier, Knox-Johnson — I felt that welling of pride. Yeah Shackleton, I gotcha bro. 

After two weeks swaggering around the streets of Horta en simpatico with those cruising legends, it was time to refocus on the reason I spend all this time on a boat: To explore. For me the beauty of boats isn’t weather routing, reefing sails and clocking ocean miles. I like all that — particularly the ocean miles surrounded by the beautiful silence of that endless, endless sea. What I like most, above and beyond it all, is what lays at the other end. I like charting the destination and then rolling in and discovering the truth of a place beyond my expectation. Or often, my lack of expectation. Maybe my high school history told me more than just its geography, or perhaps the news has revealed some current catastrophe. But often a country means no more to me than a name on the map. Then I draw a line between where I am and where it lies. I point my boat in that direction and spend weeks watching my progress on the plotter as it gets closer and closer. And then one morning, bam, I am there on her shores — everything new and unknown and waiting to be discovered.  

The Azores was like this for me. I’d heard of the Azores. Perhaps in the news. Perhaps in a lesson given by my 11th grade teacher. But I hadn’t learned about the Azores. I marched my kids around the streets and the countryside, to the popular sights and through the museums and they were as gobsmacked about its rich history at seven and nine as I was at forty-six: The sad plight of the Sperm Whale and Azorean involvement in the near decimation of the species, its longtime influence in maritime history and its significance as a trade hub between Europe and the Americas, its ever bubbling and exploding volcanoes. How did I miss all that fascinating history? How cool to be learning about all of it now. 

Neither did I have any current knowledge of the Azores when I arrived, but everything I was hearing on getting there had me itching to explore. Volcanic craters, lava tubes, black lava pools, lava rock vineyards, the barren exterior, the lush interior, the bulls and the bull fights. Highlight after highlight — it was time to bring my modern-day explorer into action.

We focused our time in the seven islands that make up the Azores on four islands: Faial, Pico, Sao George and Terceria. Faial was a highlight for its volcanic formations. We anchored in the main harbour and took day trips throughout the island from there – the north was wet, lush and tropical with dense forest, high altitude lakes and fantastic views of the island. The south was dry and developed, with the capital Horta as the economic and social centre. Town was a twist of small winding streets that led from the town basin to the hills with a fantastic botanical garden at the top of it. The architecture had the look of a quintessential small European mountain village with uniform architecture and colour, however on close inspection was a mix of well-maintained homesteads and dilapidated ruins. Apparently, the most recent volcanic eruption in the 1950s sent most of the population to Canada and the United States; some of the population had returned over the years but many had chosen to stay, leaving their houses abandoned but still in family ownership. To the west lay the dramatic Capelinhos volcanic crater and a labyrinth of underground lava tubes. To the east lay black sand beaches and running all around the island was a succession of volcanic lava pools, stunning in appearance and unique in structure. 

The neighbouring island Pico is a singular volcanic cone that juts out from the sea with cooled lava flow visible down its sides. There is a small harbour with a busy ferry terminal and swinging room for a yacht or two within. The island is know for its local wine production and tourists flock there to see its unique method of growing grapes — individual plants separated by a square fence made from intricately stacked lava rocks, protecting the hard earth from erosion and the plants from wind burn. We spent our day measuring 32,000 steps with the periodic pinch of grape and dip in the sea. Given two of our team have legs that measure just 75cm in length, the fact that we marched around a volcano in the heat all day is something to commend them for. 

From Faial, we sailed for the long southern stretch of `Sao George’s dramatic coastline. Hunkering down in a tiny one-boat harbour, we enjoyed crystal clear waters, a small local village and a forested mountainside that came alive with the sound of birdlife at dawn and dusk. There was very little to do in the five-shop village and so we spent our days away from the business that had defined our experience in Horta and enjoyed the quiet quaintness of our little spot. We took a holiday from cruising and treated the boat as a pleasure craft rather than mobile home. We enjoyed slow mornings and midday swims, spent the afternoon amidst toys and tonic and ate our meals as picnics on deck. Life as a live-aboard cruiser can often be fraught with boat jobs and normal life requirements that leave little of the idyllic lifestyle. So, it was with great pleasure and enjoyment that we put all tasks on hold and just enjoyed the quiet, simple life.

Our last main anchorage was in Praia de Victoria off the southeast corner of Terceria, where yachts tend to wait a suitable weather window for mainland Europe. This became a social hub for us, reconnecting with several yachts we’d hung out with along the way and meeting several others. We rented a car and toured the island, wandering again down lava tubes below the earth and getting lost in the labyrinth of caverns of old extinguished volcanoes. The villagers throughout the island were clearly bull-centric, as each village had a bull ring and many private estates had bull rinks and stables. Due to Covid, the usual September bull fighting festivities had been cancelled but we were fortunate to be able to attend the only fight that was held for the year — while animal cruelty is usually something I like to avoid, cultural traditions are a privilege to observe as a foreigner. Sitting amidst the enthusiastic Azorian crowd, we watched bull after bull be taunted and tormented to the dance of the skilled matador and the beauty of his trained horse, and joined in with the jeering, cheering crowd. 

In times of Covid, it was as foreign an experience to be sitting in tight confines with strangers. This time of year would usually see half of Europe flocking to Terceria to experience the daily bull fights, done village by village and fought on the streets and beaches amid amateur bull enthusiasts and intimated observer. But this year brought only one professional show, done to bring funds into the Catholic Church and appease the demands for this centuries-old tradition. While travel this year means minimised social engagements, reduced cultural events and restricted tourist sites, it also means fewer tourists, fewer lines and no need for reservations or bookings. It also allows a more natural, relaxed local atmosphere that is often thwarted by the influence of tourism. So, I count my blessings to have been able to travel around the Azores this year when tourism is running at a fraction of its normal rate. Our interactions were with locals and our outings were low-key and authentic, and our travel was free and happily rambling during a confined state for most of the globe.

Photos of the Azores by island: Faial / Pico / Sao George / Terceria