Surf on Someone Else’s Turf—Hiking the Rota Vicentina

Hans Faber
Dec 23, 2023
7 min read

Updated: 5 days ago

Moinhos do Paneiro by Frisia Coast Trail

Boxing Day 2022. The Frisian bastard woke up in the small village of Aljezur in the southwest of Portugal. It was day ten of his hike along the Rota Vicentina, with three more days ahead. Like the Frisia Coast Trail, the Rota Vicentina follows the shoreline. A path shaped by wind, cliffs, and the constant murmur of the Atlantic. Today would be an easy stage: just fifteen kilometers to the coastal town of Arrifana. He had spent the night in Hotel Vicentina, named after the trail itself. The place felt a bit worn, a relic from the 1970s, but the staff had welcomed him warmly when he arrived the previous afternoon.

In the sterile breakfast area, the bastard and one other hotel guest were seated at tables facing the closed pool outside. After all, it was winter. The other guest was an elderly man. The girl serving breakfast asked him what he would like. He answered, in a loud, heavy German or Austrian accent, that he wanted “the same procedure as every year.”

“Do you know this?” he added.

“No,” the girl replied, hoping he would leave it at that.

But the man launched into a full explanation of the sketch Der 90. Geburtstag, also known as Dinner for One. When he finished, the girl, expressionless, said she was familiar with it after all. She quickly moved on. “So, with scrambled eggs again then?”

“No. No eggs today,” the man said.

The bastard suppressed the urge to throw him into the empty pool. Or was this procedure repeated every morning in this hotel, just like in the sketch Dinner for One? Let it rest, the bastard thought. It was Christmas time anyway. Peace.

near Almograve by Frisia Coast Trail — near Almograve by Hans Faber

The Rota Vicentina runs from the town of Santiago do Cacém to Cabo São Vicente, the southwestern-most tip of Portugal—and of the European continent, for that matter. It often merges with the Fisherman’s Trail. Cabo is Portuguese for cape, and on its cliffs stands a white lighthouse. Much of the rota—the route—follows Portugal’s dramatic Atlantic coastline, largely unspoiled and an absolute joy to walk.

Along this coast, the massive waves of the infinite ocean crash relentlessly. Especially at the time the bastard was there, since southern Portugal had endured heavy storms from the west and heavy rainfall in the weeks before. Some areas had even flooded. With a delayed effect, the towering waves were only just reaching the battered shores.

“It is comforting that the Portuguese are pious Catholics, otherwise the coast would never have resisted the pounding force of the Atlantic Ocean,” the bastard told himself. The western frontier of Europe. Just like the Frisia Coast Trail, another edge of the world.

Besides hikers, the southwestern coast and its seasonal gigantic waves are also popular among surfers. During much of the trek, the bastard encountered many of them, often driving small Volkswagen vans that doubled as campers, with waxed surfboards strapped on top. Many were brightly painted with flowers and other decorations, dashboards crowded with charms, seashells, beads, Buddhas, Shivas, and more.

These little sunshine vans could be seen everywhere—secretly parked along dirt roads or right at the cliffs where their owners had spent the night, as close as possible to their first love: the waves. Not just vans—the bastard even saw four surf dudes riding a four-wheeled bicycle, all their belongings stashed on it. Surfing was a way of life.

That day, hiking from the small town of Aljezur to Arrifana, the bastard had just passed a llama farm—do not ask—when a small car came racing up the hill on the dirt track. It stopped. The windows were down. Behind the wheel sat a young woman. In the back, a big, happy dog hung its tongue out in joy.

On the passenger seat, however, lay a little, unhappy dog. A large purple ribbon with a bow adorned its neck, but the dog’s appearance belied its state. It was in shock—paralyzed, trembling, and breathing heavily, its chest rising and falling frantically. Panicked eyes stared into the distance.

The young woman had found the little dog in distress earlier that morning and was desperately trying to locate its owner. It was immediately clear to her that the bastard, a foreigner and hiker, could not be the owner.

“Have you maybe seen anyone else? I only have a few hours left before my plane to Spain, to visit my mother,” she explained.

“I only saw a few men at the llama farm,” the bastard replied.

“Obrigada!” she yelled. A second later, the woman and the two dogs sped away in a cloud of dust toward the llamas. No time to waste. Poor little dog—or lucky? The bastard could not decide. And why the fancy purple ribbon? He could not make sense of it all.

Arrifana by Frisia Coast Trail — Arrifana by Hans Faber

It was still morning when the bastard arrived at his next accommodation in Arrifana. First of all, the broad beaches of Arrifana were a haven for surfers. Nowhere had the bastard seen so many surfers packed together—long hair, tattoos, often bearded, wearing either shorts or wetsuits, girls and boys alike sporting loads of wristbands.

Secondly, the place where the bastard stayed, HI Arrifana Hostel, was popular with these surfers. He arrived too early to check in, so he waited on the terrace with a Coke. A couple of surf dudes sat there too, already smoking marijuana. The smell, the 1970s vibe, and the surf waves within hearing distance, reminded the bastard of the quote of Colonel Bill Kilgore: “I love the smell of napalm in the morning. Smells like… victory.”

When he finally checked in, he was thrilled with his room. It had a huge window offering a wide, sweeping view of the ocean. The atmosphere was great and relaxed, somehow reminding the bastard of his stays on Freak Street in Kathmandu, Nepal, some twenty years earlier.

Finding food was a bit of a problem, according to the staff. All restaurants and supermercados were still closed—it was Boxing Day, after all.

“Try up the cliff at restaurant O Paulo. It might be open. If not, you can always have a surf & turf with fries with us,” the girl behind the hostel bar advised the bastard.

O Paulo was open. Its food was as formidable as its location—a high-end restaurant with damask napkins and non-seasonal waiters in black who clearly knew what they were doing. For a moment, the bastard feared he would be denied entry, dressed in red-dirt-covered hiking trousers and shoes, with his beat-up waterproof bag containing all his valuables. But he was welcomed.

The bastard ordered a beer, the best wine, and a three-course meal—coquilles for starters and a 500-gram T-bone steak for the main course. Compensation for the past few days, when meals had been very basic because almost everything was closed.

While he enjoyed his food, a British woman, another guest, went around asking if anyone had an iPhone charger. Nobody had one—or pretended not to. She asked everyone, that is, except the smelly, dirty, ill-mannered lone hiker in the corner. Only after she returned to her table did the bastard gesture to her. “Why didn’t you ask me?” he said, handing her the charger. She accepted it, somewhat embarrassed.

After three more days of hiking, the bastard reached Cabo São Vicente, the lighthouse at the cape, and then took a bus to the town of Sagres to stay the night before continuing to Faro to fly home. Sagres was a friendly, relaxed place as well, though more touristic. The waves were gentler here, but surfers still lingered—probably those still learning their craft.

Again, the bastard found a good restaurant, Armazém Sagres, just off the main street. On the menu was a tomahawk steak weighing a kilo, meant for two.

“Can I finish a tomahawk by myself?” the bastard asked the waiter.

“I’ve seen people do it,” the waiter replied nonchalantly.

“Please. Together with some vegetables and a bottle of rosé wine.”

It was superb. Nothing left for a doggy bag.

The waiter had spent much of his life in Arnhem in the Netherlands and spoke fluent Dutch. He had married a Dutch woman.

“Nu de kinderen groot zijn, wilde ik terug naar Portugal. Samen met mijn liefje. Ik kom uit een vissersfamilie uit Sagres.” (Now the kids have grown up, I wanted to go back to Portugal. Together with my sweetheart. I come from a fishing family in Sagres.)

A perfect ending to a beautiful hike. After this pleasant encounter with a Dutch-Portuguese, it would be a smooth transition from the Atlantic coast to the North Sea coast, the bastard decided. Or, to quote the Frisian singer Piter Wilkens: “De ein fan eltse reis is it paad werom” (“The end of every journey is the path back”). That was it for the Portuguese waiter, and that was it for the bastard.

Cabo São Vicente by Frisia Coast Trail — Cabo São Vicente by Hans Faber

Note 1 — This hike fits neatly into a series of semi long-distance walks across the territories of Europe’s autochthonous minorities, or along coast trails, undertaken to experience and understand their landscapes and cultures. Exactly what the Frisia Coast Trail is all about, too.

For these reasons the bastards hiked the northwest of Scotland (see our blog posts “My God, the Germans Bought All the Bread!” Cried Moira and A Horsewoman From Harlingen in the Highlands—Hiking the Cape Wrath Trail), hiked the granite mountains of Corsica (see our blog post Support for the Corsican Cause in Jeopardy—Hiking the GR20), hiked the southwest of Wales (see our blog post Croeso i Gerddwyr—Hiking the Pembrokeshire Coast Path), and hiked the Andalucian Coast to Coast Walk in the southwest of Spain (see our blog post Naranjas and Reservoir Dogs—Hiking the Coast to Coast Walk in Andalusia).