Sea food & well ... more seafood!

"Ten Euro one Kilogram." I said to the dark bronzed young and very good looking Portugese man stood opposite me with his large plastic re-usable supermarket bag full of freshly picked Barnacles.

He loked suitably crestfallen and glanced across at his equally young, dark, long skirted and attractive female companion. I knew I had a deal when I caught the almost indiscernble nod of her head. He was a male however; so one more go at getting what he considered should be the proper price for his wares was the game requiring completion.

"These good Barnacles. These very very sweet Barnacles. Seventeen Euro one kilogram in shop. Fifteen Euro to you now. Eees good eh?"

Meanwhile I was getting amazed wide eyed looks of horror from the very nice Yorkshire lady stood next to me and who I had only just met. They had also wild camped overnight on this little 'Camper car bay' here at 'Porto Covo' where the huge Atlantic rollers had been entertaining us as they thundered and crashed into the craggy cliff, cove and surfing beach riddled coastline.

"You mean you are going to buy and then eat those things." She muttered to me. "My husband would throw me out of the van if I went in with something like that."

I have to confess I have never encountered freshly picked Barnacles before let alone tasted them. I also had no idea how to prepare them. I enjoy a deal however; and I like to support local enterprise and initiative especially here in Portugal where hard times and material poverty are to be seen everywhere.

I repeated firmly. "Ten Euro only. One Kilogram. OK?"

The despairing look of the trader having a deal in his hand but not the deal he had envisioned briefly creased his face before; "OK, OK." Was uttered as he pulled small plastic scales out from his pocket and proceeded to weigh out the required one kilogram.

I duly paid the ten Euros but crossed female companions palm with a two Euro coin giving her a smile and a wink while inclining my head toward her erstwhile male companion. Bless her, she understood, gave a beaming smile and rapidly spoke a stream of Portuguese to handsome swarthy Barnacle seller. They both laughed and he shook my hand while clapping me affectionately on the shoulder. A useful change of mood as I was then able to extract from them via broken English and gesture that barnacles require boiling for a short time in very salty water.

Out of the occupants of the five camper vans on that park I was the only one they were successful with. I thought that quite sad and quietly wished them both well.

I suppose I would have wished them differently if it were later to be the case of toilet bowl and myself having close aquaintance as I vomited up said Barnacles. Boiled as instructed, however; with some plain buttered potato's as accompaniment they were delicious albeit a little messy. Snipe nosed pliars were the answer. The ideal tool for separating the juicy morsel of muscle from the claw and shell. Very messythough as however you seemed to do it water squirted out from one orifice or another in random directions. Fun though and, as already said, with no after effects.

-  -  -

Now the two young lads called Mario and Coya were after something different. I met them just after I had sneaked into an out of sight wild spot up a little hardcore track with an old 'Camper car Prohibido' sign on it. I could not just pull off the road here as this was 'Peninsular de Troia' which is literally a huge sand dune with a road running down its spine to the plush resort of 'Troia'. Now Sadie is not good at all in soft sand so 'off road' was 'off limits'. Troia though is opposite 'Setubal' and 'Lisbon' which is where I was headed. Conveniently a good ferry service runs between the two.

So there I was settled in this lonely out of the way spot having enjoyed earlier in the day a trek across the dunes to the now calm Atlantic Ocean and a welcome skinny dip from the endless beach.

A car suddenly pulls up. Then another. Five in all. I engaged Mario and Coya in conversation, or what passed for conversation with signs and gesticulations filling in for lost words of both languages. This, I learned, was the favourite spot at low tide for harvesting Razor fish. With buckets, welly's and pots of salt Mario and Coya were very quickly mere specks out on the sand/mud flats of this the 'Rio Sade' or lee side of the Peninsular.

Now a razor fish is called a razor fish because it's shell resembles an old fashioned cut throat razor. This according to my David Le Maistre's book 'Low water fishing' . One of the ways of catching them is to pop a little salt down the tell tale little holes they leave in the sand. This fools them into thinking the tide is coming in and up they pop. But only for a second. They are not slow in realizing they have been conned. So it's salt in hole and grab quick. Razor fish are rarely fooled a second time.

About two hours later as the light was fading they returned. I presented them both with a welcome can of fridge cooled Fanta orange and granted their request to use my outside light to sort their catch. Needless to say it was not long before my fridge welcomed another plastic bag full of new guests. Razor fish, Lovely fresh and still moving and squirting. Ten Euros were  handed over willingly. Coya had a job as chef in one of the hotels and explained to me how to cook them. Mario indicated this foraging for sea life was his only income. Sure enough he was back early next morning this time with his girlfriend also kitted up with plastic bucket welly's (and not your colourful M & S ones either!) And obligatory salt containers.

Well the ferry to Setubal for Euro twenty was very efficient and off I set complete with new fridge guests along the gorgeous mountainous coast road to 'Sessimbra'. Unfortunately no one told me it was 'Liberty day'. A national holiday celebrating the coup that finally ended Portugal's long dictatorship in 1974.

The Portuguese were out in force and wherever there was access to a beach the narrow cliff hugging road was packed with parked cars on both sides. A Motorhome trying to get through was difficult to say the least. The Portuguese are lovely though. No swearing or road rage. Just an agreement between four of five cars to reverse up and allow me through. We even got cheery waves as we passed. Eventually I decided enough was enough and, with difficulty, parked up myself. We then walked down to 'Portinho da Arrabida' A gorgeous little cove where I enjoyed a lovely swim and Tanya got loads of attention from the steady stream of passers by on their way to the main beach area where, as is normal, dogs are not permitted.

"Well Tanya, even though I say it myself, that was a gorgeous meal and lets just hope that, like the Barnacles, there are no after effects!" This was said later the same evening as I surveyed the large basin of empty Razor fish shells and patted a pleasantly rotund but very satisfied stomach.

Coriander I did not have. The substitution however; of Tumeric with a dash of Thai Sweet Chilli sauce had worked wonders with the razor fish. They had flavor and were bigger and juicier, and a lot easier to get at, than Barnacles. OK! So the frying pan was a bit of a mess, well actually the whole kitchen area was a mess, but who cares when you are pleasantly full, have had a wonderful day and are snugly settled in a level parking spot overlooking the beautiful but highly developed bay of 'Sessimbra'.