Tales of Algarve

I’m back in Portugal, far south in the region Algarve. Faro is my base for now. Quiet and empty, but oddly soothing. After five countries in five days, my body is craving some rest.

Old town of Faro.

Walking through the old town, I squint my eyes as the sun smashes relentlessly into whitewashed walls. It hits so bright it’s almost aggressive. I walk along the cobblestone alleys, where the name Algarve drifts in like a whisper from the past, originating from the Arabic word for west. It’s a fitting closure to continental Europe, as everything wind down here.

Deserted street in old town.

View towards Ria Formosa.

I climb to the top of the clock tower in Igreja da Sé, where I can see the lagoon clearly. It’s is a system of barrier islands, fragmented landpieces caught between sea and sky.

Faro is beautiful, but lonely. It’s the sort of beauty that feels like someone left in a hurry, wowing to come back one day. But never did.