Helpful Coincidences at Tavira, on the Algarve of Portugal

I am not a religious person but sometimes it seems like the universe is trying to tell you something. Take what happened to me today for example. It all started yesterday when I was coming out of Tavira market. My dog (called Santen) was waiting impatiently in the motorhome when I got to the car park with the shopping bags. Among the bags was some meat for him. Strangely, he paid no attention to the meat in the bag. Instead, he was so keen to escape from the motorhome that I could hardly get the shopping bags in, with all his pushing and shoving to get out. Since the car park at Tavira market is huge and mostly empty, I decided I would let him out for a walk. Santen tore out of the door and across the tarmac to a group of French people standing by their motorhomes.

The French people had a dog, a female dog, and this was the big attraction. So, mystery over, I wandered over to see what kind of trouble Santen was causing. The dogs just played and the owners were quite relaxed about it. Soon we got talking, as you do. One lady remarked that they had been parked near me at a free campsite. Because my motorhome is Burgundy with silver ships, dolphins and compass points on the side, I often get recognized. I lamented with them that one of my favourite free camping spots in Tavira did not seem to be accessible anymore. They were curious about alternatives and so I told them about Forte Do Rato (where I am writing this article from tonight).

Forte Do Rato is a ruined fort near the water front to the East of Tavira town. There is a small beach, a shallow lagoon that attracts shellfish collectors at low tide, and a rocky outcrop popular with local fishermen. I told the two French couples that if they go there they will likely be the only ones there, since the place has always been deserted on the nights I had been there. They seemed interested in the spot and thanked me for the tip. We separated the dogs and said our goodbyes. I left thinking, wow, I must be getting the hang of this motorhomeing lark. I actually told them something that seemed useful to them. The irony of this proud thought will become clear shortly.

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So to tonight. It has been very hot today. At least in the high 20s. It was about five o'clock when I arrived at Forte Do Rato but the day was still hot. I normally park in front of the fort but today I was looking for a cooler spot. I saw that the fort walls were providing some shade and decided to park close to the wall on the left of the fort. The ground around the fort varies from grassland to loose sand. It was relatively hard to see in the shaded area and I wondered to myself if the ground was firm enough or if there was a danger I would get stuck in a sandy patch. I did tests and found that I could drive in and out of the area no problem. However, when I started to look for a position that would be level and forced the motorhome over a small bump, I found I could not move.

On inspection, my rear right wheel had dug a big hole in the ground. I realised that the ground consisted of only a thin layer of grass covering loose sand. I got out the trowel (pitifully small for the job, as it turned out) and began to dig the wheels out and look for boards to put underneath them. I then tried to drive out of the sand, without success. Having repeated this several times, I was stripped off at the waist and underneath the motorhome digging the wheel out again when a French woman I know came riding up on her bicycle. I had met the woman and her husband at another site earlier today. Both must have been in their early seventies. As so often happens, she looked at my situation and smiled as she took in the extent of the trouble I was in.

Having seen my strategy, she advised me against the wood I was using in favour of rocks. The wood was not working so far, so I decided to see if there was something to her idea. We collected large flat rocks and tried them instead of planks but, alas, it did not work. The lady's husband soon cycled up and we talked over the best strategy. He advised me to first dig some more around and in front of the wheels, then reverse onto rocks placed behind the wheel. This should be followed by the planting of more rocks in front of the wheel (to fill the hole the wheel had dug) and then, finally, a charge out of the sandy area. I followed his advice. The couple did not just advise me. In fact, with me often in the driver's seat this pair of seventy-somethings lugged most of the rocks. I made it out of the cab in time to do the digging. Santen, for his part, rolled in the grass and generally ignored all the work going on. So, with rocks in place and sand barriers cleared; I was finally able to reverse onto the rocks. Now for the charge forward.

Crucially, the French man told me not to use first gear to get myself out (as I had been doing) but, instead, to use second gear with as high revs as I could manage. The problem with first gear, he explained, was that it just digs you in further. Sadly, the fuel injectors on my diesel engine have been modified for maximum fuel performance and the result is that the engine stalls easily. So, every time I tried to pull away in second the engine stalled. Still, even with all the stalling, I made more progress than I had done in first gear. Each time I made any advance, I used the hand brake to stop me slipping back down into the hole that my wheels had dug. Once out of the hole and on rocks, and with the generous French couple pushing from behind, I was able to use first gear to try to drive out of the sand without stalling. As advised I kept my wheels straight and did not stop until I was well clear and on firmer ground. With a final dash I made it. What a relief to be out of that hole.

My relief quickly turned to gratitude towards my helpers. They had already had a big bike ride here from where they were camped and I was concerned that this had been some unexpected, extra exercise. They said they were fine and glad to help. I offered them a glass but they declined, giving the reason that alcohol has a deadening effect of on the leg muscles. They were keen to be starting back but they stopped for a bit of a talk, as you do. I told them that, only today, I had started to think about going to Morocco but now I saw I had things to learn about sand before I go. I also told them how lucky I thought I was that they had come by when they did. At that the husband asked me, “Do you remember telling a French lady in a motorhome with a 16 number plate* about this site?” I said I did. It was the woman from the market. “Well, that woman told us about the place and that is why we came out here today, to look for ourselves”. “So that is why we were here to help you.”

So, if it hadn't been for the French lady in the market car park, or perhaps Santen's yearning to meet the bitch, then I would still be digging sand under my motorhome instead of writing this to you now.

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On a final, practical note, I resolved to get a better shovel (folding spades sold in army surplus stores seem solidly built and easy to store) and some boards that can be put under my wheels if it happens to me again. I also made a mental note that it takes much less time and energy to get out of the van and check the ground than it does to make an empirical test, like I did today. I am not the first. A man wanted to find out how fast his car could take the curves on the road that runs through the Big Sur in California . To determine the maximum speed the man just kept speeding up until, you guessed it, he crashed (using his method you have to take the speed he was doing when he crashed and minus one to get the maximum possible speed). What I did today was a bit like that. “No, I wont get stuck in the sand, see I can still go in and out of the area no problem. So, now I'll go further. Ooops.” Perhaps the Universe was telling me something like, “It is better to be more careful than to count on being lucky”.

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