Second Time’s The Charm

And just like that I was back in Faro, standing on the same nondescript spot I’d been gratefully plucked from almost a week before. I’d been trying to psych myself up for the last three hours from Seville, hoping to overcome my initial misgivings and open my mind to second impressions. We’d got off on the wrong foot, Faro and I, but there was no reason we couldn’t still turn things around. Back on the ground, though, my carefully constructed confidence faltered. It was exactly as I’d left it.

While Faro’s cultural and culinary attractions had been found wanting, however, there was another avenue I wanted to explore on this follow-up visit: specifically Ria Formosa Natural Park. I’d glimpsed it from the plane on our approach, an expansive wetland comprising countless islands, shallows and tributaries that stretched for miles long the coast. If there wasn’t anything left to see in the city, as I suspected, then I would just have to walk until I found something on the fringes.

I deposited my luggage—by which I mean bag of dirty clothes—at a mixed-use portacabin next to the train station and made a beeline for the marina. I arrived at eleven in time to see two boats departing, and checked the whiteboard for the rest of the day’s scheduled sailings. The romantic sunset cruise would likely be wasted on me and the next sealife tour wasn’t until 8:30 the following morning—timed to coincide with the fishing fleet and capitalise on any feeding frenzy. So I tried to shop around.

There were various other operators promoting tours along the promenade but none that worked with my budget or schedule, their own dolphin-watching tours relegated to later in the week and dependent on enough people prebooking to make them viable. I decided to save my money for the next morning’s departure. Depending on checkout times and airport links I might be able to squeeze that original 8:30 trip in before my flight. This left me with a couple of hours before I could check in to my hotel and an evening to try and fill.

I ordered an omelette for lunch, spent a very generous five minutes milking a minimalist tile museum and checked my phone for the umpteenth time since arriving. 11:45. Great. Confident that nesting storks stood a better chance of holding my attention than uncaptioned paintings, I took to the streets and tracked a pair down to the clocktower above the tourist information centre. There seemed to be people on the roof terrace so I set about finding a staircase that would grant me access. They must have got up there somehow.

This is how I found myself buying a ticket to a Portuguese guitar recital in the tourist information centre, due to start momentarily in a small chapel on the first floor. I’ve done some strange and spontaneous things in my time to gain roof access but this was a first for me. I was directed up the stairs and out onto the terrace, where I was instructed to turn right for the show and, once it had finished, left for the clocktower housing the storks. I hestitated at the top of the stairs, but turned right with a minute to spare.

I’d never heard Fado music before and, if I’m completely honest, I’m not sure it’s really for me. The guitar sounded jangly and disjointed to my untrained ears, but the guitarist was a capable storyteller and had concocted a multimedia experience with his computer savvy daughter in lockdown. At points he interacted with himself onscreen, a bit like John Hammond in Jurassic Park, duetting with the recording and soundtracking a series of educational videos and government-subsidized shorts—including an impressive timelapse of a mural being created atop one of the old walls and a boat-shaped guitar bobbing in the surf.

His love of Fado and Faro shone through and both were genuinely infectious. Footage of him performing around town and in the nature reserve persuaded me to go exploring the latter after check-in, and his insights hinted at a side of Faro that hadn’t been immediately apparent: its musical tradition. But diverting though the experience was I never forgot why I was really there, and when the concert finished fifty minutes later I was the first out the door and up onto the roof. From here I could see colourful rooftops, a cloudless sky and—peering over the sides of two enormous nests—a pair of suspicious storks.

It had been a very pleasant surprise when I arrived in Faro and found storks flying overhead. I’d tended to associate them more with Germany and Switzerland than southwest Europe, and had especially fond memories of watching them building nests in Basel and Zürich. I’d seen them in Spain that week, too—not in Seville or Cádiz but in the surrounding areas, perched precariously on top of almost every electricity pylon I passed. This, though, was the closest I’d ever been to them. They’re big, formidable birds, and when a third flew in to join them I decided not to push my luck by getting any closer.

It turns out Faro has something to offer after all. Once I’d collected my belongings from the station and laundered them at the hotel, I crossed the train tracks and headed northwest. It wasn’t especially picturesque—I walked past derelict factories, a caravan park and a children’s playground—but it was full of life. Swifts and swallows proliferated, signs warned of crossing chameleons and the streams feeding the nature reserve were teeming with fish. I’d left it a little late and brought too little water to walk the five miles to the Ludo Hiking Trail but was happy with the distance I’d already covered.

Dirt tracks branched off from the cycle path but they could only be followed up to a point. The airport was an inescapable presence and “privado” wasn’t exactly difficult to translate. I walked as close to the boundary as I could, however, and was rewarded with a spectacle I never thought I’d see in real life: wild flamingos flamingoing wildly, as if it was the most natural thing in the world. I don’t know why I was so surprised by their presence, but they’re birds I’ve always associated with remote wilderness—not a sliver of makeshift habitat between railway and runway. Steadying myself against one of the signs, I watched them contentedly through my telephoto lens as they waded through the shallow water.

Back at the marina that evening I was in for another surprise: Aplysia fasciata—the mottled sea hare—a curious creature that caught my eye when it surfaced by the steps. It was soon joined by more, until the whole harbour seemed to be inundated with them. Flapping their frilly parapodia, they danced across the surface—oddly reminiscent of the flamenco dresses I’d seen ruffling in Seville. It was a surreal scene, made even stranger by the giant stage to my side and the sound check getting underway just as the sun started to set. It was beautiful. I realised I hadn’t checked my phone in ages. I was no longer counting the minutes. I was savouring the moment.

The next morning, after checking, double checking and triple checking the timezone saved on my phone, I turned my attention to my remaining currency. I had €50 left—the exact cost of the dolphin tour—and still needed to buy breakfast and a bus ticket to the airport, where I could easily blow the leftovers on lunch at Paul. I didn’t actually mind; I hadn’t booked so there was no guarantee there’d be space in the boat, and even if there was we might not see any dolphins anyway. I’d made my peace with Faro and didn’t want to risk ending the trip on an unnecessary note of disappointment.

So I left Faro for the second time with a much more positive opinion of it than the first. Live music and urban wildlife can work wonders on a place. While I’m not exactly in a hurry to return, there’s no denying it served its purpose as a transport hub and gave me a long-overdue taste of Portugal. And besides, does it really matter what I think when I know a guitarist and at least three storks that like it just fine? I don’t suppose it does.