Wind, and a Village on a Ledge

The northerly here has a name — the Nortada — which is always a sign. It gets up mid-morning, builds all afternoon, and by two you have stopped trying to keep a hat on.

Walking south it is behind you, which is the single best argument for doing this trail in this direction. Eighteen kilometres today and the wind did about four of them for us.

Zambujeira sits on a ledge above its own small beach: a church, a square, three restaurants, and a drop. In summer it hosts a festival that quadruples the population. In April it hosts us and a great many gulls.

We ate percebes — gooseneck barnacles — prised off these exact rocks by people who do that for a living in this exact surf, and paid what they cost, which is a lot, and which after watching the sea for four days seemed entirely reasonable.