Yes, I realize today’s title reference is a long stretch off a short musical pun but it’s what I do and, truth be told, I was at least a little afraid of once again driving in the old town. Fortunately, as the events of the day turned out, I didn’t have to repeat the previous night’s adventure. With my grotto boat tour scheduled for 11:30 I was able to have a leisurely breakfast and a stroll along the cliffs and around the grounds of the resort. Still, I pulled into the parking lot about half and hour early and spent that time absentmindedly wandering about the marina. For some perspective, here’s a look from Google Maps:.
Even without enlarging the screen capture, you can easily spot the marina at the top right of the image.
We motored through the channel and followed the beaches south from Praia de Batata or Potato Beach, (According to the Potato Museum blog, it is so named because of “the potato like rocks on the beach and offshore.”) rounding the Ponta da Piedade (Point of Pity), and possibly puttering as far as Praia do Canavial (Sugarcane Beach) before turning around and chugging back to the marina. (If you enlarge the map, and look at the area between Praia do Canavial and Praia do Porto Mos, you’ll have an idea where I was staying. I used Avenida Paul Harris and Avenida da Republica to reach the marina and thus avoided the old part of the city.)
Sometimes it pays to have a big mouth.
Other than the boat ride I had no real plans for the day and expected it to be a rather ordinary one wandering the old town to gain a sense of what Lagos might be like during this transitional or what some guides call a shoulder season. My expectation turned out to be true and untrue. For the tour, I boarded a small boat much like the one in the photo below (from bookafly). There were eight or nine of us excluding the co-captains.
I sat at the front but overheard a couple at the back speaking with a readily identifiable Irish accent. Having recently written about my trip to London in the Olympic Cities series I told them that I’d never been to Ireland but my trip to London nearly 50 years ago was made particularly memorable by a young Irish lass named RóisÃn.
Although my ears heard a bit of a brogue, it turned out that Mary was from Seattle and had met Ken about half a century ago on a trip to the UK but, where I returned home and left my lass behind, she stayed and married her Irishman. We enjoyed some pleasant banter and some spectacular views and as we pulled into the channel on our return, the captain pointed out a restaurant and suggested it as a particularly authentic local place to eat fresh fish and seafood.
It was a short walk from the marina so I sauntered over hoping to have lunch. From the outside, the restaurant, A Barrigada (A Full Belly) was rather isolated and certainly had a down to earth appearance. However, when I arrived, there were no places available even for a solo diner.
As I was leaving to walk into town, I saw Mary who had come over to reserve a table for dinner. She and Ken kindly offered me a lift back to the marina and, though it was less than a kilometer, anticipating I’d be on my feet most of the day, I happily accepted. During the ever so brief ride, they invited me to join them and their friend Alison for dinner which I again happily accepted.
In with the old.
After taking my leave from them, I walked around the marina and crossed the footbridge into town hoping to get a better sense of Lagos as a potential landing spot for a possible European home. It was certainly more easily navigable on foot than it had been in the car but while I discovered a certain charm and a sense of intimacy I’d missed the night before, I also felt as though it lacked, in some ephemeral way, the character I’d hoped to find.
(For those of you who don’t know, I’d initially considered Malta as the ideal landing spot – a notion that my visit there about a decade had ago only reinforced. A subsequent visit to the island after a change in government left me with a more troubling impression of the country – one that has me searching for a different spot. Later, after a chance for some reflection, I realized it might have been my expectations that led me to a mistaken conclusion about Lagos.Â
On my first visit to Malta, I’d rented a flat in the small capital city Valletta. My landlord occupied the flat immediately above mine and a British expat named John rented the apartment above that. I quickly connected with both of them, creating an immediate sense of community when we shared drinks and meals. The small size and layout of Valletta intensified the feeling of intimacy and the views of the Mediterranean from both the rooftop patio and the nearby Upper Barrakka Garden enhanced my experience of the place. I think it was a combination that I’m unlikely to ever truly recapture. Thus, I concluded it’s my expectations that require an adjustment.)
Some hunger surfaced after wandering the interestingly tiled streets for a bit,
but I also wanted to go to dinner with an empty belly that the restaurant could fill, so I opted for a true vacation only sort of lunch. I first stopped at the 87 year old Taquelim Gonçalves (a house of regional sweets) where I dined on a scoop of pistachio and a scoop of almond-fig gelato while sitting on a bench observing the passers-by. Of course, the ice cream left me thirsty so off I went to another small café and a different point from which to watch the town pass by while sipping an ice cold Sagres. Ice cream and beer. A perfect vacation lunch.
After lunch I left the old city to walk along the main market street
that lines the channel and is just outside the old town. I followed that past the castle and the fort to Praia de Batata before crossing back to the marina to my car. I wanted to make the short drive back to the hotel to rinse off the day before heading off to dinner.
Our hearts are warm, our bellies are full.
Okay, so it wasn’t a real nice clambake but it was a real nice dinner. I returned to A Barrigada a few minutes before the appointed time and enjoyed watching a seagull appear to play in the breeze – letting the wind blow it about until it had to work its wings to remain aloft whereupon it immediately sought another spot where the wind had the same buffeting effect.
Once inside, our conversation was animated and broad ranging. I learned that Alison was a widow who enjoyed traveling alone but not eating alone. Her late husband was a minister of some sort and she had traveled widely – mainly to southeast Asia including a stint in the quite reclusive country of Bhutan. She’d also spent some time in the southern U S mainly Alabama and North Carolina where one of her six children was born. Ken was retired but I’d forgotten his profession by the time I returned to the hotel and made my notes. I did recall that he had razed and rebuilt the house that he and Mary were living in at present.
Over several different kinds of grilled fish we talked a little politics and a little gastronomy. We had some minor differences in our political views but were all agreed that butter makes everything taste better. (I related a story about how my mother used to serve us matzo with butter and sugar as a Passover treat and that I’d recently seen a video with Allison Roman whose childhood Passover treat was matzo with butter and anchovies. The ability for butter to enhance two such different flavor families is the q.e.d. of its ability to enhance the flavor of anything.) We also agreed that it’s almost impossible to use too much garlic in any recipe that calls for it.
At points during the evening I felt as though I was monopolizing the conversation but when I offered to pay for everyone’s dinner, Mary told me that Ken had already done so. Apparently, my big mouth was entertaining enough for my generous Irish acquaintances to buy me dinner. I wish them well wherever they might be.
You can see all my photos from the day here.