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 by John Clare
A Day on the Dunes
At Alvor there is another estuary meandering thru a flat area of
marshland. It is a bird sanctuary, and like the bird sanctuary at Faro,
they are thinking of running a commercial airport right thru the middle
of it. No-one seems to notice any incompatibility.
There are the egrets, bee eaters, and many kinds of marsh bird. There
are even flamingos scooping around in the mud. And on the paths are
bird watchers with field glasses and telescopes on tripods.
Great basins have been dredged, and the locals breed shellfish to sell
to the markets. Further down towards the coast the river debouches into
a great lagoon. Here the local peasants fish, and scrape in the sand
and mud for crabs and clams.
If you sit very quietly on the edge of the beach and watch carefully
you will notice small holes everywhere. After about two minutes of
silence you will see a sudden movement, then another, and suddenly
there are ten or fifteen crabs poised at the top of their burrows. They
move forward is short bursts, walking tilted up sideways like a ship
with bent masts. There are hundreds of them as far as the eye can see.
The lagoon is very shallow, and on a sandbank there is a husband and
wife team fishing. Further down the beach is a man with a bucket and
spade. He is digging for clams. This evening they will be in the
restaurants as the locals order a dish of clams cooked with parsley, or
pork and clams alentejo style.
Beyond the lagoon are two great dunes of sand with the estuary mouth
between, and beyond that is the ocean stretching down to Tristan da
Cunha and the Southern Cross.
On the mounds to the side of the estuary are a few ruins. I poke about
inside and wonder who owns them. This would be a wonderful place to buy
a plot to rebuild. There is the view across the estuary, with the birds
swooping everywhere, to the hill on the other side with a small
development where the lights twinkle at night. Inland is a great sweep
to the railway line that cuts across the marshes and over the river on
a minute version of the Sydney Harbour Bridge. Beyond that is the
perfectly symmetrical hillock of Mexilloeira Grande, and beyond that
the hills of Monchique. To the south is the wide expanse of the lagoon,
the dunes, and the great ocean.
The main road is two kilometres away. You can hardly see it, and
certainly not hear it. I sit on a rock overlooking the lagoon and dream
about buying the ruin, and getting a boat, fishing in the lagoon, and
just messing about in the boat, as the warm afternoon lengthens into
evening.
John Clare
(This is an excerpt from my book on
life in the Algarve)
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