We’ve finished chasing the River Guadiana, but of course, being us, we don’t follow the direct route home. I’m addicted to detours. So, of course, we drive west, away from the Portuguese/Spanish border, to Tavira.
“It’s the jewel of the Algarve,” I insist to Seán.
Trying to find a pitch to camp in Tavira is not easy, so we bowl up at Campismo Politzei. I’m convinced it’s a police station Google is sending us to. When we get there a policeman waves us into the office. It’s a police officer’s campsite, but tourists can use it up until June.
He’s delighted with our Irish passports and shows us the photo of himself and his friends meeting President Higgins. The grounds are vast and we camp under carob trees, listening to nothing but crickets. There’s wild flowers, olive, orange trees and an infinity pool – all for €12 a night.
Tavira’s white town clusters aroung the Gilao River estuary and the sea marshes of the Rio Formosa which are packed with wading birds.
The birds perform acrobatic flights; skitter across the marsh and chitter all around.
We watch flamingos, avocets, stilts, sanderlings and egrets out on the salt marsh.
The ferry from Quatro Aguas to the Island of Ilha Tavira costs a princely €1.90.
One of the best beaches in Europe, once away from the handful of bars and restaurants around the port, there’s nothing but fine white sand, sea and surf.
Seán is never happier than when using a favourite app, so he checks out the violet flowers of Limonisastrum Monopetalum which carpet the dunes and marshes behind the beach, as well as sea fennel, which we’re informed is a gourmet’s treat, and the towering yellow broomrape. The white pyramids of sea salt glow from the mainland.
Tavira’s centre is black and white cobbled and offers up ancient churches, evocative alleyways, a castle, a Roman bridge and a small, but beautifully stocked, botanic garden within the castle walls. A rampart is never to be resisted and the huddled russet roofs, the church spires and people watching from it is the order of the day.
The Igreja de Misericordia offers up one of those evocative experiences that makes the back of your neck prickle. The Fado concert in the church takes us through its history, the guitarist giving us the history of Fado in Portuguese, Spanish, French and English. He syncs between each language with such skill I’m jealous. I know when I go to Italy next I’ll be talking Spitalian – a deranged mash-up of Spanish and Italian – despite my best efforts.
But the music, the guitars and the stunning powerful voice of the female singer are so stirring. To top it all, the church’s walls are decorated with azulejos (Portuguese blue and white tiles) which tell the story of Christ’s ‘Works of Mercy’ in eighteen panels.
Our days end in the Casa Simao restaurant, where we sample their specials each day: tuna braised in onion and peppers; or pork stew with lemons and olives – all washed down with the smoothest red from the Alentejo region. Tavira proves a stunning end to our river chasing tour through Spain and Portugal – and we’ll be back.
If you want to read my thrutopian story based in Tavira, click on:
Campervan Therapy 
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