We were tired and hungry and without accommodations when the three of us arrived in Tavira, a small coastal town in Portugal’s Algarve region. We had crossed the eight-mile-wide Strait of Gibraltar from Morocco to southern Spain and journeyed over to continue our trip to Portugal; the winter sun had set and many were sitting down to dinner.

My husband, Miles, and my mother-in-law, Annetta, were traveling with me as I researched the influences that the three cultures of Portugal, Spain, and Morocco have had on each other over the millennia. Annetta was in her eighties and had a white shock of short hair, cut in layers that wisped in all directions like the ocean’s waves. Everywhere we went, she attracted kindness, curiosity, and comedy. If I learned one thing about these three cultures, it was that they respected and engaged with older people: In Tangier, the competitive, jostling young men seeking the attention — and money — of tourists stopped to carry her bag from the platform to her seat, refusing any money to do so. In Cáceres, in western Spain, during the pre-Lenten Carnaval, a citizen dressed as a purple rabbit hopped over to my mother-in-law and insisted on buying her a brandy while the bar owner, a man a little younger than Annetta, offered her a cigar and proceeded to flirt with her for the rest of the evening. 

But in Tavira, the best was yet to come.

We stepped off our bus and followed the Rio Gilão that flowed through the town’s heart, passing white- and ochre-toned stucco homes capped with pyramid peaked roofs of terracotta. As we crossed the river at its Roman bridge, we spied an inn and a neighboring restaurant pulsing with patrons. We left my mother-in-law to rest at a nearby bench and forged ahead to inquire about accommodations.

Perhaps because Tavira is a winter getaway for other Europeans, we soon learned that all the hotels and hostels were full. The innkeeper apologized and shrugged his shoulders. He was about to turn away when he saw a woman with a shock of white hair approaching behind us.  As someone who had organized a family in the army for several decades — including during the attack on Pearl Harbor — she wasn’t keen on waiting. She had come to help.  

“Is she with you?” The innkeeper asked.

“Sim,” we both said. Yes.

He rubbed his chin, and decided. “Listen, my family is restoring a new apartment in the building next door. It’s almost ready for moving into but is spartan. We’ll give you the whole apartment for the price of one room.”

He led us to the apartment. Spartan by Taviran standards meant elegant, open, airy, and clean, allowing the Atlantic Ocean and sun to decorate the sun-starched walls with nature’s own palettes of blue, white, and translucence. We booked it for two nights, already enchanted by the place and people, and soon were settled in, looking through the windows at the terracotta rooftops of Tavira, and its medieval castle hill.

Soon we were back out on the street, happy, and seated at a communal table in the restaurant next door. The waiter quickly announced that we would eat what was on offer that night: flounder hauled in fresh from the fishing boats, grilled crisp and served with lemon. It came with olive-oil sautéed potatoes with fresh parsley, and a tomato and red onion salad with local seasoning: tarragon and oregano, sea salt from the salt flats down the river, and red wine vinegar and olive oil from the nearby groves and vineyards.

We declared that we would eat every meal at that restaurant while in Tavira: Why go farther when the ingredients had not?

Culture and Generosity at Every Turn

The next morning we explored the medieval castle ruins, and all the layers of history beneath: Below the castle were ruins of an 8^th-century North African Berber fortress, and two mosques. These had been built over a two-millennia-old Roman fortress, which stood over Phoenician remains, which were themselves over Neolithic farms from some 5,000 years ago.

We then ambled along the worn and polished cobblestone streets, following the river down to the harbor. There, just two kilometers across from the fishing port, we glimpsed an island of sweeping yellow beaches and sand dunes with a spine covered in a salt resistant pine forest, but no buildings.

We approached a fisherman standing near the harbor. He wore a dark wool cap against the damp; his skin was sunbaked and leathery from decades of seafaring, sun, hardship, and freedom. We asked about the island.

“It’s the Ilha de Tavira,” he said. “You can visit. I can row you there,” he pointed to his rowboat nearby. “The ferry doesn’t operate in winter.”

We accepted his kind offer and soon found ourselves on the easternmost tip of a series of islands off Portugal’s southern coast. The islands run parallel to the land for 60 kilometers and form the Parque Natural da Ria Formosa, an important home to both bird and sea life.

We immediately fell under the island’s spell. The yellow sands, up close, revealed a rainbow of shells and pebbles formed by the forces of water, wind, and sun. The three of us fell silent, wandering the wild, wind-swept dunes, seeking and reflecting on our own.

Sometime in this enchantment, I looked up to see a dark blue and tan speck approaching from the horizon. It soon took the form of a cheerful man speaking Exeter English. In his hand he carried a cloth sack the size of a pillowcase. He wore a porkpie sun hat, had cheeks so rosy they were soon to form a sunburn, and a broad smile that invaded the rest of his face, including his eyes.

“I’m Terri,” he said, as soon as he was within earshot. “Isn’t this a fairy realm?” he added, more as a statement than a question, and simultaneously jiggled his sack with delight.

“It is,” I agreed.

When the fisherman returned, he rowed all four of us back to Tavira. We decided to have lunch with the cheerful Exeter man, and went straight to the only restaurant we were eating at.

“Today, you will have the fresh sardines, grilled on a charcoal grill,” the waiter said cheerfully upon seating us, setting down platters of green salad and the signature Tavira tomatoes, onions, and herbs, as well as a crusty, chewy loaf of bread.  Knowing he had worked the night before, I asked, “Por que você sempre está trabalhando?”

Why are you always working?

He looked at me nonplussed. “Porque você sempre está comendo!” Because you are always eating!  

After recovering from the whole restaurant’s laughter, we ordered a round of Portuguese blond beer. As we waited for the fish, I asked Terri about the sack.

“I teach English composition in Exeter,” he began. “The sack is their next lesson: I’ve gathered all sorts of things from that magical beach — natural and manmade — all altered by the elements. When I get back from our winter break, I’ll ask each student to close her or his eyes and reach into the sack and take out one item. Without looking at it, they will have to feel, hold, and guess what it might be, and then write whatever comes to them.  I hope to teach them to see beyond their conditioned ideas.”

With that, the sardines arrived and lunch continued with lively conversation. The easy-going mood of the place triggered deeper creative insights and relaxed us in the way that only sea air and sunlight can.  

Tavira remains vivid in my mind and when I think back on the magic of that place, I think of the light and saturated colors of blue and orange. I think of the innkeeper and the fisherman, so ready to share their homes, be it an apartment or a boat. I think of the waiter and his easy cheer while serving fresh and local fare as if for the first time.

Tavira also remains the first deep lesson I received about Portuguese generosity, something I found everywhere else in the country I ventured, from its southern tip to its northernmost border, from its tiny villages to its historic port cities of Lisbon and Porto and everywhere in between. And I marvel that a seemingly far-flung place at the intersection of three cultures is so open to the world, rather than closed, and welcomes that wide world in with easy grace — and that this grace permeates the nation as a whole.

Ready to experience Western Europe’s hospitality for yourself?

When you travel to Portugal or any international destination on a Small Group Adventure or Private Custom Journey with Off the Beaten Path, you’ll find yourself emerged in every culture you cross paths with and making personal connections with the local communities. Contact us to learn more!