ONE NIGHT AT THE END OF THE WORLD
Sagres sits on the cliffs of the south-western tip of Europe. It is a small village built a respectful distance away from the fortaleza - the fortress where Henry the Navigator had a school for aspiring continent discoverers. Sagres was, in Henry's day, the end of the known world. We, the new explorers, pitched up there because it had a youth hostel within the great walls of the fortress, it had fine views, waves for the surfers, plenty of bars selling some of the cheapest tipples in Europe; and fishermen selling dope smuggled in from the Moroccan coast in the stomachs of their catch. The village at the end of the world was far away from the tourist hordes along the rest of the Algarve. In those days it was a travellers' pit stop on a tour around Europe. In those days Lonely Planet called bums like us “travellers”. We carried rucksacks. “Backpacker” is a relatively modern term.
I'd gone down to the Rosa dos Ventos, the bar on the square, with a couple of Germans and an Australian I'd met at the youth hostel. The bar was a perennially popular place, run by a burly, bearded German biker, and the walls were already starting to sweat when we pushed through the door. We found a table by the door and ordered a jug of Sangria, then another, and another. As the evening wore on we fell into conversation with two American girls we'd been keeping an eye on since they'd come into the bar. One of them came and sat down beside me. She told me her name was Jenny. She told me she'd a passion for horses and I told her about the pony we'd had at home as I was growing up; how the pony, a year older than I, was like a big brother to me. You could say we grew up together. 'Aw..! That's nice,' Jenny said, and we talked on. More drinks were drunk and still Jenny and I talked on. I went outside for a piss and it dawned on me that I was chatting this girl Jenny up, that she was interested in me, that she liked me. Possibly even fancied me. I was surprised at myself. I was chatting her up. I couldn't chat up girls. I never chatted up girls. It wasn't something I'd ever learnt to do. I didn't have the nerve, the self-confidence. I was too shy, to gauche, too retiring. But I was winning this girl over. She wanted my company, seemed to enjoy sitting beside me and chatting about back home, about her family and friends and her studies and where she had been and where she was going. She laughed easily with me. Keep this up, I thought, and you'll be kissing her down on the beach later. I looked up and laughed into the stars.
When I walked back into the bar there was Jenny, smiling at me, awaiting me, making room for me again on the bench beside her.
Jenny and I talked on and I found myself losing interest in her stories. I found her naïve and silly, even childish. How gullible she seemed. I still found her pretty, and attractive, but within myself, I realised, I didn't respect this girl from Colorado. I started to make things up, to expand on the truth. But I urged her on to tell me her tales of family life and high school high jinks and I kept thinking: So, this is what chatting up means. This is how you do it. It seemed so easy, and so cynical. Push these buttons and you'll get the prize. This is so easy, I thought, What's been my problem? Where's the difficulty in all this? It's a doddle.
When the bar closed around 1 a.m. our little group decided to walk down to the sea to look at the waves coming onto the beach under the moon. Jenny walked beside me. We talked on. Chatted. I thought: It is possible I could go to bed with this girl tonight. But I also thought: But I won't respect her for going to bed with me. For falling for all my bullshit patter, and nothing meaningful and permanent will come of this. And I also thought: And then I will have to extricate myself.
On the beach we stood about by the rocks and boulders that sat in the sand like Easter Island statues. One of the Germans said: 'I would like to see London but I need to get some sun into my soul first. Germany is a cold country. Portugal is a good place to put some warmth back into my heart.'
The Australian rolled a joint and we shared it. We shared the silver sea and the peaceful togetherness of our little group of well-met strangers on a beach on the south-western tip of Europe. We stayed there for a time and then conversation began to die and the cool night air started to make itself felt and it was time to go to bed. The two American girls were staying in a guesthouse in the village. Jenny said they were leaving for Lisbon the next day.
I gave Jenny a hug. Perhaps I kissed her goodbye. Then I followed the others back up the hill towards the forteleza, where the youth hostel used to be.
A few days later I took the train to Vila Real de Santo António, crossed the Rio Guadiana to Spain and boarded a bus to Seville.
Sagres, 1986
Sagres sits on the cliffs of the south-western tip of Europe. It is a small village built a respectful distance away from the fortaleza - the fortress where Henry the Navigator had a school for aspiring continent discoverers. Sagres was, in Henry's day, the end of the known world. We, the new explorers, pitched up there because it had a youth hostel within the great walls of the fortress, it had fine views, waves for the surfers, plenty of bars selling some of the cheapest tipples in Europe; and fishermen selling dope smuggled in from the Moroccan coast in the stomachs of their catch. The village at the end of the world was far away from the tourist hordes along the rest of the Algarve. In those days it was a travellers' pit stop on a tour around Europe. In those days Lonely Planet called bums like us “travellers”. We carried rucksacks. “Backpacker” is a relatively modern term.
I'd gone down to the Rosa dos Ventos, the bar on the square, with a couple of Germans and an Australian I'd met at the youth hostel. The bar was a perennially popular place, run by a burly, bearded German biker, and the walls were already starting to sweat when we pushed through the door. We found a table by the door and ordered a jug of Sangria, then another, and another. As the evening wore on we fell into conversation with two American girls we'd been keeping an eye on since they'd come into the bar. One of them came and sat down beside me. She told me her name was Jenny. She told me she'd a passion for horses and I told her about the pony we'd had at home as I was growing up; how the pony, a year older than I, was like a big brother to me. You could say we grew up together. 'Aw..! That's nice,' Jenny said, and we talked on. More drinks were drunk and still Jenny and I talked on. I went outside for a piss and it dawned on me that I was chatting this girl Jenny up, that she was interested in me, that she liked me. Possibly even fancied me. I was surprised at myself. I was chatting her up. I couldn't chat up girls. I never chatted up girls. It wasn't something I'd ever learnt to do. I didn't have the nerve, the self-confidence. I was too shy, to gauche, too retiring. But I was winning this girl over. She wanted my company, seemed to enjoy sitting beside me and chatting about back home, about her family and friends and her studies and where she had been and where she was going. She laughed easily with me. Keep this up, I thought, and you'll be kissing her down on the beach later. I looked up and laughed into the stars.
When I walked back into the bar there was Jenny, smiling at me, awaiting me, making room for me again on the bench beside her.
Jenny and I talked on and I found myself losing interest in her stories. I found her naïve and silly, even childish. How gullible she seemed. I still found her pretty, and attractive, but within myself, I realised, I didn't respect this girl from Colorado. I started to make things up, to expand on the truth. But I urged her on to tell me her tales of family life and high school high jinks and I kept thinking: So, this is what chatting up means. This is how you do it. It seemed so easy, and so cynical. Push these buttons and you'll get the prize. This is so easy, I thought, What's been my problem? Where's the difficulty in all this? It's a doddle.
When the bar closed around 1 a.m. our little group decided to walk down to the sea to look at the waves coming onto the beach under the moon. Jenny walked beside me. We talked on. Chatted. I thought: It is possible I could go to bed with this girl tonight. But I also thought: But I won't respect her for going to bed with me. For falling for all my bullshit patter, and nothing meaningful and permanent will come of this. And I also thought: And then I will have to extricate myself.
On the beach we stood about by the rocks and boulders that sat in the sand like Easter Island statues. One of the Germans said: 'I would like to see London but I need to get some sun into my soul first. Germany is a cold country. Portugal is a good place to put some warmth back into my heart.'
The Australian rolled a joint and we shared it. We shared the silver sea and the peaceful togetherness of our little group of well-met strangers on a beach on the south-western tip of Europe. We stayed there for a time and then conversation began to die and the cool night air started to make itself felt and it was time to go to bed. The two American girls were staying in a guesthouse in the village. Jenny said they were leaving for Lisbon the next day.
I gave Jenny a hug. Perhaps I kissed her goodbye. Then I followed the others back up the hill towards the forteleza, where the youth hostel used to be.
A few days later I took the train to Vila Real de Santo António, crossed the Rio Guadiana to Spain and boarded a bus to Seville.
Sagres, 1986