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Finding Fame.…beside the seaside, beside the sea.

2020 Camino Guides

gerardcarey

Veteran Member
Camino(s) past & future
CFx2, CPx1
The cameras are flashing.
People are getting up from their tables to come look.
Some stand on their chair to find a better position for a photograph.
Some even cheer!
I smile modestly as I glance about. I nod, raise my hand and give a little wave of acknowledgement to my adoring public.
It was only then that I saw the approaching fish.

There is a supposition, currently abroad in this age of celebrity, which states that everyone, in their lifetime, gets to have 15 minutes of fame. And what do you know, it looks like my time has come.
Here in Portugal, of all places.
My inherent talents, which have for so many years lain unrecognised and therefore unacknowledged, are, apparently, at last to be celebrated.

I’m a little wounded after falling over on the road, nearly getting myself runned over.
I spend an initial night and day of my recuperation being grumpy at Fatima, then head out to Nazare, a beach resort town not far away, out on the coast.

Sean, my nephew, had skyped me from the UAE. He’s got a bar in Japan, but as an interesting diversion, had picked up a short-term contract with a professional football team owned by some Sheik.
He’s translating for some Japanese footballers.
He’s also a mad surfer dude.
“Uncle G,” he’d said, “you’ve gotta go check out Nazare. It’s only an hour on the bus. It’s this world famous, big wave, surf spot. Plug Nazare into U-tube, watch the brave ride.”

On arrival at Nazare bus station I am badgered with accommodation offers, persistently but not unpleasantly. After viewing and much haggling I settle on a two bedroom apartment with all facilities, two streets back from the beach.
25 euro a night...is that a deal or what!
I drop my pack and head for the beach.

A wide street, which runs along the beach-front, is lined with shops on the inland side. The beach itself must be nearly a k long and about 100 metres deep. It’s never going to be crowded.
Under a cloudless sky the sea is a deep blue. Unexpectedly calm, not a wave to be seen. A little way up to my right a great cliff extends out into the sea, ending the beach. Up the cliff runs a cable car to a village perched on top.
What a neat town. And not overly busy either it still being springtime.
I may never go home.

Sean skypes again that evening.
“Have you got any photos yet?” he asks. “My boss, the team’s coach, he’s Portuguese and grew up in Nazare. I told him you were there and were sending me some photos. Now he wants to see them. He’s a hard man. He’s always sacking somebody! Please Uncle G, send me some photos!”
“How do get yourself into such situations?” I reply. “I’ll take some first thing tomorrow and send them to you.”
I’m up early next morning. Armed with my camera, I venture forth.
Before 9am Sean has his photos.

He skypes again that afternoon.
“My boss is so chuffed,” he says. “He wanted to know all about you and your pilgrimage. Reckons you must be a great bloke.”
Obviously, even from a distance, he’s an astute judge of character.

That afternoon he skypes again!
“What now Sean?”
“The boss wants to shout you lunch. A mate of his, an old school mate I think, has a restaurant called ‘Sardinha’ in the village on top of that cliff.
Anyway he’s phoned his mate and has booked you a table for lunch tomorrow. You can have anything you want.”
How nice is that!
“Tell him I’d be delighted,” I reply. “Thank him for me. Don’t forget now! Tell him I said Ob-rig-ado!”

Next morning I head off about 11.30am to catch the cable car up the cliff. Here I am standing at the bottom depot. There’s no one around so I read the sign on the door.
Closed Today For Maintenance
That’d be my luck.
I see a long zig-zag path up the cliff. Doesn't exactly look like a load of fun.
Not too bad really, for a pilgrim. I’m just complaining on principal because I was looking forward to the cable car ride.

Now I’m up there. It’s one o’clock and I can’t find the restaurant. Locals are directing me over there, then back again, then back over there again.
Out seawards, where the cliff ends by dropping abruptly into the sea, I recognise a little fortification. I’ve seen surfers on U-tube watching their mates ride the great waves from up there. Got a surfing museum in it I’m told. I’ll go for a look after lunch, if I ever get to have lunch that is.

I finally get a local to walk me to the restaurant.
It has no signage. What? You’d never pick it for a restaurant.
“This is one of the finest seafood restaurants in all of Portugal,” he explains. “It is always booked out. They don't want or need odd people wandering in off the street.”
“Well they’ve got me,” I think to myself, “the system has fallen down somewhere.”
I thank him then enter. A waiter leads me to a table.
Now, what am I going to say? Sean has sent me a photo of his coach.
I pull out my tablet and open the photograph.
“You know this guy?” I ask the waiter.
He explodes with enthusiasm. “You are the man coming for lunch!” he says, “I must tell my boss you are here!” Off he goes then returns with the main man who welcomes me profusely and confirms the meal arrangements.
“Now to start, let me get you a beer or perhaps a wine. What is your preference?”
“I’d like both please,” I reply. “It’s been a long walk.”

It about then that I notice the other diners regarding me with some interest. There’s some whispering and nodding in my direction.
Whatever. After I’ve had time to relax a little he returns with the drinks and menu which he places before me.
“Everything is good,” he informs, “but may I suggest a whole fish for your meal?”
“Of course you may,” I reply politely, “but what sort of fish is it?”
He smiles. “It is perhaps best that I show you.”
He takes his time wandering back to the kitchen, smiling, waving, stopping and chatting to his customers, pointing at me as he does so.
Obviously a popular and well known bloke then.

Back he comes again.
This is when the other diners appear to become obsessed with my presence. The flashes start going off and diners progressively move towards me.
He’s holding a large silver platter in front of him as he weaves thru the now somewhat crowded aisles.
“Well?” he asks, “Is this suitable?....What do you think?”
There before me, in the middle of this huge platter, is the biggest fish head you’ve ever seen.
It’s humongous. Sitting upright, it's sightless eyes gaze up at the ceiling. Must have come off something like one of those giant Bluefin Tuna.

He turns and smiles a knowing smile at the surrounding crowd.
Now he steps back a little. He stoops, then presents the platter out towards me.
He’s ensuring all his customer friends get their photos.
The flashes intensify.
It’s a set-up Gerard! A joke at your expense!
Everybody’s in on what was going to happen except you!
Best join in the fun.

I get up from my chair.
I proceed to study the fish head carefully. First from this angle...then that...then the other. I scratch my head in puzzlement.
“Right,” I finally reply as I sit down again, “so this is the type of fish you’re suggesting.”
“Yes,” he says, “for your ‘whole fish’ lunch. I’m sure you will find it delicious...What do you think?”
“Well,” I reply thoughtfully, “I don’t wish to appear demanding, but I think I'm gonna need a bigger table.”

He turns, and loudly translates for the benefit of his surrounding customers.
Brings the house down, that does. People are laughing, shaking my hand, patting me on the back.

Ah well. Probly never going to be a star am I?
No fifteen minutes of fame for me.
Still, shared a bit of fun with these folks.
After all the kindness the Portuguese have shown me so far on the walk up from Lisbon, it's the least a pilgrim bloke can do.

Regards
Gerard....I'm a Portugeezer

PS
Jose Peseiro - Sean's boss - He’s the bloke who shouted me lunch.
He's the current manager of Emirati club Al-Sharjah SCC.
Wikipedia says he’s previously managed ‘Porto’, and took ‘Sporting’ Lisbon to the 2005 UEFA CUP final.
So, no mug as a coach either.

Only The Brave
A great underwater fissure canyon runs in from the edge of the continental shelf. Up it surge pressure pulses initiated far out at sea by huge Atlantic storms. When weather systems are in alignment these pulses commence. They rear as enormous, unusually thick waves as the canyon suddenly ends at the Nazare coastline.

 
Last edited:

Camino Chrissy

Take one step forward...then keep on walking..
Camino(s) past & future
Frances 2015;
Norte/Primitivo 2016;
Frances 2017;
Le Puy 2018;
Portuguese/FishermanTr. 2019
There is a supposition, currently abroad in this age of celebrity, which states that everyone, in their lifetime, gets to have 15 minutes of fame.
And what do you know, if true, it looks like my time has come.
Here, in Portugal, of all places.
My inherent talent, which for so many years has lain unrecognised and therefore unacknowledged is, apparently, at last to be celebrated.

The cameras are flashing.
People are getting up from their tables to come look.
Some stand on their chair to find a better position for a photograph.
Some even cheer!
I smile modestly as I glance about. I nod, raise my hand and give a little wave of acknowledgement to my adoring public.
It was only then that I saw the approaching fish.

I’m a little wounded after falling over on the road, nearly getting myself run over. I spend an initial night and day of my recuperation being grumpy at Fatima, then head out to Nazare, a beach resort town not far away, out on the coast.

Sean, my nephew, has skyped me from the UAE. He’s got a bar in Japan, but as an interesting diversion, has picked up a short-term contract with a
professional football team owned by some Sheik.
He’s translating for some Japanese footballers.
He’s also a mad surfer dude.
“Uncle G,” he’d says, “you’ve gotta go check out Nazare. It’s only an hour on the bus. It’s this world famous, big wave, surf spot. Plug Nazare into U-tube,” he adds, “watch the brave ride.”

On arrival at Nazare bus station I am badgered with accommodation
offers, persistently but not unpleasantly. After viewing and much haggling I settle on a two bedroom apartment with all facilities, two streets back from the beach.
25 euro a night...is that a deal or what!
I drop my pack and head for the beach.

A wide street, which runs along the beach-front, is lined with shops on the inland side. The beach itself must be nearly a k long and about 100 metres deep. It’s never going to be crowded.
Under a cloudless sky the sea is a deep blue. Unexpectedly calm, not a wave to be seen. A little way up to my right a great cliff extends out into the sea, ending the beach. Up the cliff runs a cable car to a village perched on top.
What a neat town. And not overly busy either it still being springtime.
I may never go home.

Sean skypes again that evening.
“Have you got any photos yet?” he asks. “My boss, the team’s coach, he’s
Portuguese and grew up in Nazare. I told him you were there and were sending me some photos. Now he wants to see them. He’s a hard man. He’s always sacking somebody! Please Uncle G, send me some photos!”
“How do get yourself into such situations?” I reply. “I’ll take some first thing tomorrow and send them to you.”
I’m up early next morning. Armed with my camera, I venture forth.
Before 9am Sean has his photos.

He skypes again that afternoon.
“My boss is so chuffed,” he says. “He wanted to know all about you and your pilgrimage. Reckons you must be a great bloke.”
Obviously, even from a distance, he’s an astute judge of character.

That afternoon he skypes again!
“What now Sean?”
“The boss wants to shout you lunch. A mate of his, an old school mate I think, has a restaurant called ‘Sardinha’ in the village on top of that cliff.
Anyway he’s phoned his mate and has booked you a table for lunch tomorrow. You can have anything you want.”
How nice is that!
“Tell him I’d be delighted,” I reply. “Thank him for me. Don’t forget now! Tell him I said Ob-rig-ado!”

Next morning I head off about 11.30am to catch the cable car up the cliff. Here I am standing at the bottom depot. There’s no one around so I read the sign on the door.
Closed Today For Maintenance
That’d be my luck.
A lady going shopping points out a long zigzag path up the cliff.
Doesn't exactly look like a load of fun. Not too bad really, for a pilgrim. I’m just complaining on principal because I was looking forward to the cable car ride.

Now I’m up there. It’s one o’clock and I can’t find the restaurant. Locals are directing me over there, then back again, then back over there again.
Out seawards, where the cliff ends by dropping abruptly into the sea, I
recognise a little fortification. I’ve seen surfers on U-tube watching
their mates ride the great waves from up there. Got a surfing museum in
it I’m told. I’ll go for a look after lunch, if I ever get to have lunch that is.

I finally get a local to walk me to the restaurant.
It has no signage. What? You’d never pick it for a restaurant.
“This is one of the finest seafood restaurants in all of Portugal,” he explains. “It is always booked out. They don't want or need odd people wandering in off the street.”
“Well they’ve got me,” I think to myself, “the system has fallen down somewhere.”
I thank him then enter. A waiter leads me to a table.
Now, what am I going to say? Sean has sent me a photo of his coach.
I pull out my tablet and open the photograph.
“You know this guy?” I ask the waiter.
He explodes with enthusiasm. “You are the man coming for lunch!” he says, “I must tell my boss you are here!” Off he goes then returns with the main man who welcomes me profusely and confirms the meal arrangements.
“Now to start, let me get you a beer or perhaps a wine. What is your preference?”
“I’d like both please,” I reply. “It’s been a long walk.”

It about then that I notice the other diners regarding me with some interest. There’s some whispering and nodding in my direction.
Whatever. After I’ve had time to relax a little he returns with the drinks and menu which he places before me.
“Everything is good,” he informs, “but may I suggest a whole fish for
your meal?”
“Of course you may,” I reply politely, “but what sort of fish is it?”
He smiles. “It is perhaps best that I show you.”
He takes his time wandering back to the kitchen, smiling, waving, stopping and chatting to his customers, pointing at me as he does so.
Obviously a popular and well known bloke then.

Back he comes again.
This is when the other diners appear to become obsessed with my presence. The flashes start going off and diners progressively move towards me.
He’s holding a large silver platter in front of him as he weaves thru the now somewhat crowded aisles.
“Well?” he asks, “Is this suitable?....What do you think?”
There before me, in the middle of this huge platter, is the biggest fish head you’ve ever seen.
It’s humongous. Sitting upright, it's sightless eyes gaze up at the ceiling. Must have come off something like one of those giant Bluefin Tuna.

He turns and smiles a knowing smile at the surrounding crowd.
Now he steps back a little. He stoops, then presents the platter out towards me.
He’s ensuring all his customer friends get their photos.
The flashes intensify.
It’s a set-up Gerard! A joke at your expense!
Everybody’s in on what was going to happen except you!

I guess I could feel insulted, belittled perhaps.
Not me. Best join in the fun.
I get up from my chair.
I proceed to study the fish head carefully. First from this angle...then
that...then the other. I scratch my head in puzzlement.
“Right,” I finally reply as I sit down again, “so this is the type of fish you’re suggesting.”
“Yes,” he says, “for your ‘whole fish’ lunch. I’m sure you will find it delicious...What do you think?”
“Well,” I reply thoughtfully, “I don’t wish to appear demanding, but I think I'm gonna need a bigger table.”

He turns, and loudly translates for the benefit of his surrounding customers.
Brings the house down, that does. People are laughing, shaking my hand, patting me on the back.

Ah well. Probably never going to be a star am I?
No fifteen minutes of fame for me.
Still, shared a bit of fun with these folks.
After all the kindness the Portuguese have shown me so far on the walk up from Lisbon, it's the least a pilgrim bloke can do.

Regards
Gerard

PS
Jose Peseiro - He’s the bloke who shouted lunch.
He's the current manager of Emirati club Al-Sharjah SCC.
Wikipedia says he’s previously managed ‘Porto’, and took ‘Sporting’ Lisbon to the 2005 UEFA CUP final.
So, no mug as a coach either.

The Beach at Nazare


Only The Brave
A great underwater fissure canyon runs in from the edge of the continental shelf. Up it surge pressure pulses initiated far out at sea by huge Atlantic storms. When weather systems are in alignment these pulses commence. They rear up as enormous, unusually thick waves as the canyon suddenly ends at the Nazare coastline.

Loved this story! Another chapter for your book, Gerard! ;)
I toured Portugal this past June by car after walking the Camino Frances. I too, went to Nazare with its amazing beach and beautiful cliff view. By the way, the only Portuguese word I learned as a tourist was "obrigado" and I said it many times each day. :)
 

gerardcarey

Veteran Member
Camino(s) past & future
CFx2, CPx1
Andy Warhol, said everyone would have 15 minutes of fame.
So far it looks like somebody's been nicking my share ☺
I too, went to Nazare with its amazing beach and beautiful cliff view. By the way, the only Portuguese word I learned as a tourist was "obrigado" and I said it many times each day. :)
It's the most important word in any language right? Tks and always good travels
if you publish that book you might get another 15 minutes of fame. :p (And I thought we had big waves where I came from...?
Reckon I should get serious eh?
Regards
Gerard
 

PEI_Heather

Canadian Member
Camino(s) past & future
2016 - Voie de la Nive
2012, 2016 - Frances
2013 - Portuguese
2012, 2013 - Finesterre & Muxia
There is a supposition, currently abroad in this age of celebrity, which states that everyone, in their lifetime, gets to have 15 minutes of fame.
And what do you know, it looks like my time has come.
Here, in Portugal, of all places.
My inherent talent, which for so many years has lain unrecognised and therefore unacknowledged, is, apparently, at last to be celebrated.

The cameras are flashing.
People are getting up from their tables to come look.
Some stand on their chair to find a better position for a photograph.
Some even cheer!
I smile modestly as I glance about. I nod, raise my hand and give a little wave of acknowledgement to my adoring public.
It was only then that I saw the approaching fish.

I’m a little wounded after falling over on the road, nearly getting myself run over.
I spend an initial night and day of my recuperation being grumpy at Fatima, then head out to Nazare, a beach resort town not far away, out on the coast.

Sean, my nephew, has skyped me from the UAE. He’s got a bar in Japan, but as an interesting diversion, has picked up a short-term contract with a professional football team owned by some Sheik.
He’s translating for some Japanese footballers.
He’s also a mad surfer dude.
“Uncle G,” he’d says, “you’ve gotta go check out Nazare. It’s only an hour on the bus. It’s this world famous, big wave, surf spot. Plug Nazare into U-tube,” he adds, “watch the brave ride.”

On arrival at Nazare bus station I am badgered with accommodation offers, persistently but not unpleasantly. After viewing and much haggling I settle on a two bedroom apartment with all facilities, two streets back from the beach.
25 euro a night...is that a deal or what!
I drop my pack and head for the beach.

A wide street, which runs along the beach-front, is lined with shops on the inland side. The beach itself must be nearly a k long and about 100 metres deep. It’s never going to be crowded.
Under a cloudless sky the sea is a deep blue. Unexpectedly calm, not a wave to be seen. A little way up to my right a great cliff extends out into the sea, ending the beach. Up the cliff runs a cable car to a village perched on top.
What a neat town. And not overly busy either it still being springtime.
I may never go home.

Sean skypes again that evening.
“Have you got any photos yet?” he asks. “My boss, the team’s coach, he’s Portuguese and grew up in Nazare. I told him you were there and were sending me some photos. Now he wants to see them. He’s a hard man. He’s always sacking somebody! Please Uncle G, send me some photos!”
“How do get yourself into such situations?” I reply. “I’ll take some first thing tomorrow and send them to you.”
I’m up early next morning. Armed with my camera, I venture forth.
Before 9am Sean has his photos.

He skypes again that afternoon.
“My boss is so chuffed,” he says. “He wanted to know all about you and your pilgrimage. Reckons you must be a great bloke.”
Obviously, even from a distance, he’s an astute judge of character.

That afternoon he skypes again!
“What now Sean?”
“The boss wants to shout you lunch. A mate of his, an old school mate I think, has a restaurant called ‘Sardinha’ in the village on top of that cliff.
Anyway he’s phoned his mate and has booked you a table for lunch tomorrow. You can have anything you want.”
How nice is that!
“Tell him I’d be delighted,” I reply. “Thank him for me. Don’t forget now! Tell him I said Ob-rig-ado!”

Next morning I head off about 11.30am to catch the cable car up the cliff. Here I am standing at the bottom depot. There’s no one around so I read the sign on the door.
Closed Today For Maintenance
That’d be my luck.
A lady going shopping points out a long zigzag path up the cliff.
Doesn't exactly look like a load of fun. Not too bad really, for a pilgrim. I’m just complaining on principal because I was looking forward to the cable car ride.

Now I’m up there. It’s one o’clock and I can’t find the restaurant. Locals are directing me over there, then back again, then back over there again.
Out seawards, where the cliff ends by dropping abruptly into the sea, I recognise a little fortification. I’ve seen surfers on U-tube watching their mates ride the great waves from up there. Got a surfing museum in it I’m told. I’ll go for a look after lunch, if I ever get to have lunch that is.

I finally get a local to walk me to the restaurant.
It has no signage. What? You’d never pick it for a restaurant.
“This is one of the finest seafood restaurants in all of Portugal,” he explains. “It is always booked out. They don't want or need odd people wandering in off the street.”
“Well they’ve got me,” I think to myself, “the system has fallen down somewhere.”
I thank him then enter. A waiter leads me to a table.
Now, what am I going to say? Sean has sent me a photo of his coach.
I pull out my tablet and open the photograph.
“You know this guy?” I ask the waiter.
He explodes with enthusiasm. “You are the man coming for lunch!” he says, “I must tell my boss you are here!” Off he goes then returns with the main man who welcomes me profusely and confirms the meal arrangements.
“Now to start, let me get you a beer or perhaps a wine. What is your preference?”
“I’d like both please,” I reply. “It’s been a long walk.”

It about then that I notice the other diners regarding me with some interest. There’s some whispering and nodding in my direction.
Whatever. After I’ve had time to relax a little he returns with the drinks and menu which he places before me.
“Everything is good,” he informs, “but may I suggest a whole fish for
your meal?”
“Of course you may,” I reply politely, “but what sort of fish is it?”
He smiles. “It is perhaps best that I show you.”
He takes his time wandering back to the kitchen, smiling, waving, stopping and chatting to his customers, pointing at me as he does so.
Obviously a popular and well known bloke then.

Back he comes again.
This is when the other diners appear to become obsessed with my presence. The flashes start going off and diners progressively move towards me.
He’s holding a large silver platter in front of him as he weaves thru the now somewhat crowded aisles.
“Well?” he asks, “Is this suitable?....What do you think?”
There before me, in the middle of this huge platter, is the biggest fish head you’ve ever seen.
It’s humongous. Sitting upright, it's sightless eyes gaze up at the ceiling. Must have come off something like one of those giant Bluefin Tuna.

He turns and smiles a knowing smile at the surrounding crowd.
Now he steps back a little. He stoops, then presents the platter out towards me.
He’s ensuring all his customer friends get their photos.
The flashes intensify.
It’s a set-up Gerard! A joke at your expense!
Everybody’s in on what was going to happen except you!

I guess I could feel insulted, belittled perhaps.
Not me. Best join in the fun.
I get up from my chair.
I proceed to study the fish head carefully. First from this angle...then
that...then the other. I scratch my head in puzzlement.
“Right,” I finally reply as I sit down again, “so this is the type of fish you’re suggesting.”
“Yes,” he says, “for your ‘whole fish’ lunch. I’m sure you will find it delicious...What do you think?”
“Well,” I reply thoughtfully, “I don’t wish to appear demanding, but I think I'm gonna need a bigger table.”

He turns, and loudly translates for the benefit of his surrounding customers.
Brings the house down, that does. People are laughing, shaking my hand, patting me on the back.

Ah well. Probly never going to be a star am I?
No fifteen minutes of fame for me.
Still, shared a bit of fun with these folks.
After all the kindness the Portuguese have shown me so far on the walk up from Lisbon, it's the least a pilgrim bloke can do.

Regards
Gerard....I'm a Portugeezer

PS
Jose Peseiro - He’s the bloke who shouted lunch.
He's the current manager of Emirati club Al-Sharjah SCC.
Wikipedia says he’s previously managed ‘Porto’, and took ‘Sporting’ Lisbon to the 2005 UEFA CUP final.
So, no mug as a coach either.

The Beach at Nazare


Only The Brave
A great underwater fissure canyon runs in from the edge of the continental shelf. Up it surge pressure pulses initiated far out at sea by huge Atlantic storms. When weather systems are in alignment these pulses commence. They rear up as enormous, unusually thick waves as the canyon suddenly ends at the Nazare coastline.

Holy Toledo!!!
(I know, nowhere near Toledo, right?! )
 

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