You´de need an internationally recognized creativelicense to say that this reef once ran red with blood. But it´s no stretch to call this coastal municipality emabttled – at least historically. Moors and Christians fought to death here in devotion to their respective One True God. Islam was eventually beaten back to the desert, wich goes a long way in explaining why th place names aren´t in Arabic.
In later centuries the local ports coughed up some of the world´s great seaborne explorers, most notably Henry the Navigator. Today moderns in the region navigate the dirt tracks in small, eficient diesel wagons, intent on finding protection from the cape winds, wich can be significant. Scenarios like the one pictured provide relief.
The whole south facing coast is cut with rocky coves, offering protection from the big western blows. Between the headlands you´ll find golden, large grained beaches -suitable for the apreciation of the area´s wine, shellfish, and fierceely protected dark-eyed denizens. And if your skills are especially honed, you can zero in on an empty day
to remember, with sand-bottomed barrels pouring through from exactly the right direction.
And the promontory, sacrum, cliffs lashed by the waves,
land’s end Europe, howling wind, arrhythmic nets
pulled in by fishermen sharing half a bottle of wine
between them, raindrops the size of olive pits plinking
the clay rooftops, mi amor, minarets of the monastery
an architectural oxymoron not based on any gentility
principle that can be parsed in storm, dolmens jutting
from clay, granite eggs crosshatched with scored letters
in an ancient language—druidic?
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