One slip—and these fishermen become the bait

Press, 28 January 1986, Page 17

One slip—and these fishermen become the bait

From

ROBIN CHARTERIS,

on holiday in

Portugal

Like ants on a lunar landscape, they cling to the cracks and guts of the towering sandstone cliffs. One hundred metres below, the Atlantic ocean, constrained at last after thousands of kilometres of relentless march, vents Itself in stormy fury on this, the western-most point of continental Europe.

The cliff fishermen of the Algarve, that southern section of Portugal which funnels the waters of the Atlantic into the relative tranquillity of the Mediterranean, are at work. Short, saturnine men of dark and deep-creased faces, they wrap themselves well against the ocean squalls and throbbing winds. Not for nothing did their Moorish ancestors know nearby Cape St Vincent as "the end of the world,” for indeed it was 10 centuries ago until others of their forbears were to venture out beyond the horizons, heading west and south to find new worlds.

It was on this Ponta de Sagres that Henry the Navigator took inspiration and founded his famous school dedicated to navigation. Inside the walls of the old stone fort behind the fishermen still stand the massive stone compass and sundial around which crouched Henry and the leading astronomers, scientists, map-makers, and mariners of the fifteen century. Sir Francis Drake sacked the place 400 years ago; some of the crumbling cannon which formed its sea-ward-facing defences then, still

stare to sea today. The fishermen pay little heed to history. They seek the fruits of the present, far below in the cauldron of the Atlantic.

To fish from such eyries, they require long, willowy rods, plenty of nylon line, and a firm belief in the will of Allah. To fall from here is certain death, as the overhanging rocks are unscalable even should anyone unfortunate enough to fall escape the wrath of the sea.

The tasks of baiting up, casting, and waiting for bites are performed in ordinary enough fashion. Shellfish or pork are the preferred baits and a good, heavy sinker plus float are used to battle the surge.

It is when a fish is hooked that the cliff fisherman’s special technique comes into its own. Holding his now bucking rod with one hand, he tosses over the cliff face with the other a heavy wicker basket tied to a much stronger hemp rope.

The situation now becomes a matter of the left hand truly knowing what the right is doing as the hunter manoeuvres the hooked fish — often weighing up to six or seven kilos and protesting like the devil — towards the basket, or vice versa. Manipulation of wind, tide, fish, and gravity can call for unusual

skills, especially as the Atlantic, seething white with anger, tosses the basket about like the proverbial cork (another thing for which Portugal is famous). Sometimes, the task requires the combined dexterity of two men, and then one realises why the cliff anglers are usually in pairs.

Once — and if — the fish is in the basket, it is hauled up the cliff-face, sometimes destined for the local market, but more usually to be privately sold to a local restaurant.

A variety of fish is caught in this fashion from the rampart of sheer cliffs that surrounds the western and northern comers of the Algrave. Most are bacalbau, or cod, although atum (tunny or tuna) and peixe espada (a very long, thin fish) are also common. Watching the cliff fishermen is one of the many pleasant marine pastimes afforded by a holiday in the Algarve, bettered only by a seafood meal from any of the hundreds of tiny restaurants dotted along this 150 km stretch of the Iberian Peninsula.

Ameijoas na cataplana (cataplana for short) and sardinbas grelbadas are the local specialities. Cataplana is a wondrous stew of clams, sausage or pork, ham, onion, garlic, paprika, chilli

sauce, and white wine cooked and served in an ethnic vessel, the primitive predecessor of the pressure cooker, while the sardines, grilled over charcoal, are reminiscent of small trout grilled on a stick over a back country fire in New Zealand. Larger than tinned sardines, they have bones that are rather more obvious, but one should never leave the Algarve, ’tis stressed, without trying this local delicacy.

And if the main course itself, be it fish, steak, veal, pork, or the huge mixed meat kebabs that the Portuguese love, be not pleasure enough, receiving the bill certainly is. My wife, teen-age son, and I ate out almost the entire week we were in the Algarve and never did a threecourse meal, with beer beforehand, wine during, and coffee afterwards, cost more than 3000 escudos ($3B).

The wines — vinho verde (white, not green) and vinho Unto (red) — are delightful, and very cheap. The verde has a slightly sparkling crispness that lingers on the palate, it seems, until the next restaurant is reached.

The Algarve has a deserved reputation in Britain as a wonderfully laid-back, restful holiday destination. Charter air fares are cheap and the British are discov-

ering the place in droves, so it may not be too long before it goes the way of Spain, where the Costa del Sol and the Costa Brava are about as British now as Blackpool. Still here, however, are mule ploughs and donkey carts, peasants and gypsies, clean cobbled streets, and a quaintness that is fast disappearing elsewhere in the face of modernity. Where else on a wet and windy New Year’s Eve would

holidaymakers 20,000 km from home answer their door to a group of singing gypsies, exchange gestured good wishes, and share a bottle of vintage port .with the locals?

No matter that the patriach of the group, sly grin, grubby trousers, bristly stubble and all, took the other half of my bottle with him, plus 20 duty-free cigarettes; plenty more port in this wonderful storm.