Turning the Tide - Birding the Ria Formosa by Boat

"The world is full of magic things, patiently waiting for our senses to grow sharper.”

W. B. Yeats

It took us all of one day off Wind Surf and away from the Atlantic before we found ourselves looking for a way back onto the water. Faro was familiar and beautiful, but after two weeks among only a few hundred passengers and crew, the crowds, streets, and suddenness of it all still felt loud. We did not want spectacle. We wanted quiet, water, open sky, birds, and the movement of the tides. We wanted a place where the crowds faded, and the waters were calm.

Returning to the Ria Formosa

Yesterday, we had crossed part of the Ria Formosa on foot along the Ludo Trail, following beaches, boardwalks, and tidal edges. Even then, it had been clear that this was not a fixed landscape so much as it was a living, shifting ecosystem, one shaped by barrier islands, shifting channels, salt marshes, and sheltered waters. Its location on Portugal’s southern coast, and its importance for migrating and resident birds made it one of the Algarve’s essential wetlands. Yet the simplest way to understand it was also the slowest: by watching what the water revealed, what it shaped, what it covered again and again, and observing what life gathered in it.

Today, we would enter the same landscape from the water, letting the channels rather than the trail decide our route.

Stepping off the ferry the previous afternoon, we had noticed a sign for Lands Eco Tours, and in particular for a birding tour on a solar boat. Beyond the fact that it was two hours long and led by a local guide, we had very little idea what it might involve. We did not know exactly where it would go, what species we might see, or how much of the Ria Formosa it would cover. But those details were almost beside the point.

Despite our adventures usually being undertaken by ourselves, far from others this morning, we decided to try something relatively new to us – a guided tour of the Ria Formosa.

Morning in Faro

We woke around seven and once again negotiated the communal washrooms, which were thankfully no longer quite so full of weekend partygoers. Mondays in Spain and Portugal can sometimes feel a little different from Sundays when it comes to open cafés and amenities, but this morning we discovered that a place we already liked was indeed operating. 

The Pastelaria Cherry had fresh croissants, good coffee, and a beautiful outdoor seating area tucked into a tiled street where we could sit in the morning air, eating warm pastries and talking without needing to hurry anywhere.

Needless to say, we took our time and enjoyed.

Relaxing on the Coast

After breakfast, we set off back to near the ferry dock. In Faro, there seem to be two main areas where you can buy tickets for local tours – one at the marina and the other by the ferry dock not far away. Given that – best as we can tell – you have to board your tour boat by the ferry, we set off in that direction and see what times were available for tours today.

We passed several stands before reaching the small booth for the solar boat tour. It had caught our attention for two reasons. The first was the large, detailed poster of regional bird species displayed beside it, along with another poster showing marine mammals that might be spotted in the area. In fact, the day before, we had spent close to an hour simply standing there, studying the birds and looking at the descriptions of regional marine life. (I wish they sold these posters here!) The second reason was the young woman working at the stand, who had been kind and generous with us over the past couple of days, chatting about local birding areas and pointing us toward places worth exploring. There was no pressure and no hard sell, which made the whole thing feel more appealing. It felt like the kind of operator we wanted to spend time with.

So we bought two tickets for the one o’clock voyage on the Lands Eco Tour Solar Boat and, with nothing urgent to do, sat for the next couple of hours on the nearby benches under the sun awnings. We watched local boats weave slowly in and out of the harbour, felt the warmth of the day around us, and enjoyed every moment of simply being near the coast and water.

Although most of our journeys are undertaken independently, this was not our first birding tour. At the very beginning of the Trans Canada Trail in Newfoundland, we had gone out with Bird the Rock to places like Witless Bay Ecological Reserve and Cape St. Mary’s. Those had been Atlantic landscapes of spectacle: cliffs, colonies, wind, spray, and seabirds in huge numbers. In contrast, the Ria Formosa required a different kind of attention. Its wonder was more subtle and more dispersed. It was found in tidal channels, exposed mud, feeding waders, and the way the landscape changed shape as water moved through it.

By quarter to one, a small boat pulled up to the dock. It was small, at least, compared to the larger tour boats, catamarans, and speed craft gathered nearby. Standing there, we found ourselves once again preparing to board the smallest vessel in the immediate vicinity, which was hardly a new experience for us. Memories came back of “crossing” between Portugal and Spain on a small motorboat during our Camino Portugués Coastal and Espiritual Route. Other tour groups had large zebra-striped motorized catamarans and slick speedboats. We had a quiet solar-powered boat, whose smaller scale allowed us to enter shallower waters, move at a slower pace, and have less impact. It’s fair to say that I loved the vessel immediately.

It was not a ship designed for ocean swells. It was meant for tidal zones, narrow channels, and slow, quiet movement that would not frighten birds before anyone had a chance to see them. Its smallness was not a limitation. It was one of its virtues.

Land Eco Tours Solar Boat

Just before one, we were helped aboard by the young woman who would also be piloting our craft. She straddled the gap between boat and dock, offering each of us a steady hand as we stepped down. At first, there were four of us on board - the two of us and an older couple from the UK - but after a brief delay, two American women joined us as well. We were soon given lifejackets that were actually comfortable and still allowed room to use binoculars and cameras easily, something we would have appreciated during our years of kayaking in Ontario and coastal British Columbia.

Once everyone was seated, our guide asked what language we wanted the tour to be given in. Since the group included visitors from the UK, the United States, and Canada, English was the clear choice. She explained that most tour operators in the area are expected to know three to five languages, and when they have a mixed international group, they often repeat each comment in the relevant language for each person on board. It was impressive to imagine having to lead a tour with that much flexibility, knowledge, and patience. Certainly, her linguistic skills are well beyond my Duolingo lessons.

She then asked whether anyone wanted binoculars, which were included in the ticket price. Each passenger had the option of using a decent pair. When she turned toward us, even before we had anything out of our daypacks, she smiled and said something along the lines of, “I don’t need to get you two anything, do I?” For perhaps the first time in our lives, something about us seemed to suggest that we knew what we were doing. She was good-natured about it and did not say anything when Sean took out his birding scope, though when she saw the magnification on my binoculars, she warned that I might want to use the tour ones instead, because mine were so powerful I could make myself seasick. It was a kind offer, but after navigating four- to six-metre Atlantic swells, I felt fairly confident that I would be alright.

With everyone settled, she untied us from the dock, and we were off, carried once again through landscapes and seascapes for the afternoon. The tide was out, and it was soon clear that the day’s route would be determined more by water levels than by timetable. That was fine with me.

Exploring the Ria Formosa by Boat

As we moved away from the dock, our guide began talking about the ecology of the region and why the Ria Formosa is so important. Her commentary was informal and accessible. She only interrupted her descriptions of the region whenever she or anyone else on board spotted a bird, which she then quickly identified and shared each species' distinguishing features.

The first were a pair of Little Terns flitting overhead. She pointed out the small white triangle on their foreheads and explained how the males bring fish to the calling females along the shore. Their tiny tern size, black caps, slender yellow bills with darker tips, and quick movements seemed perfectly suited to the open sandy flats.

Soon after, she pointed toward the horizon, where a cormorant was perched on a post far out in the tidal area. From a distance, she explained, it was often mistaken for one of the local ospreys.

As we slowly navigated away from the docking area and around the ferries, she began pointing out plovers: Grey Plovers, which we know in North America as Black-bellied Plovers, both in pale non-breeding plumage and darker breeding plumage, with mottled backs and strong black faces, throats, and breasts.

There were Kentish Plovers too, softer in colour, with pale underbellies and a more delicate size.

Nearby Spoonbills moved in pairs and small flocks across the mudflats. Our guide pointed out the colour at the tips of their spoon-shaped bills and explained how it related to breeding conditions.

As we wove through the channels, a glance back toward land revealed just how busy Faro’s waterfront and historic church tower area had become. The distance made us grateful to be on the water again, away from the crowds of the city.

At one point, our guide pointed out a cormorant that had taken to nesting on an abandoned boat, coating it thoroughly in droppings. It was absurd to see, but also familiar too. At home in Canada, cormorant colonies are often associated with vegetation damage because of the sheer intensity of their nesting and guano. Here, this one bird had claimed a derelict boat as its own small island and had proceeded to cover the front end of the vessel.

The next tidal areas brought Dunlins, with their compact sandpiper shape, black legs, and slightly downcurved bills, along with more Little Terns, Kentish Plovers, and Grey Plovers.

The next sandbar had several Common Ringed Plovers. Their bold black breast bands, black masks, white forehead patches, orange legs, and orange bills with darker tips made them stand out beautifully once we had the chance to see them from the low angle of the boat.

As we wove through the Ria Formosa, our guide also spoke about erosion and the movement of the tidal channels. She explained that change is normal in a place like the Ria Formosa; channels narrow, banks shift, and new routes open as others become too shallow to use. Some of the routes she once followed regularly had become impassable, while others had widened. But the problem, she explained, was that boat traffic - especially speeding boats - was accelerating the erosion faster than the system could rebuild itself naturally.

It was a familiar story. Like so many places around the world, including at home in Canada, there were rules, but limited enforcement, especially when tourism money and development pressure were involved. As if to make her point for her, a large speedboat raced past, throwing a wake that rocked us violently. Nearby, in striking contrast, a local shellfish worker moved through the shallows in an improbably small rowboat, carrying a bucket and tools. Beyond his footprints and his harvest, he seemed to leave almost no trace.

Continuing on our guide slowed the boat to point out plovers and Dunlins on a sandy bar, another boat sped through. We rocked sharply again, and the birds flitted from the shore. This time, our guide let loose a few colourful words in Portuguese. I did not know exactly what she said, but I entirely agreed with the tone of the sentiment.

Above us, a kestrel passed through the bright noon light. It may have been a Common Kestrel, though the bird was backlit enough that I would hesitate to claim absolute certainty. Its movement, slender body, pointed wings, long narrow tail, and streaked underparts all suggested that identification, but the light kept it in the realm of “likely” rather than definite. On the sands below, we spotted a Whimbrel, its long downcurved bill giving it a distinct profile as it moved along the tidal edge.

Further along, we came to what, to us, looked like a series of fence posts with material strung between them. Given our guide’s recent explanation of erosion and boat wake, we initially assumed they might have been placed there to protect the shoreline and tidal channels. But she quickly explained that they were actually part of the Ria Formosa’s shellfish farms.

These intertidal aquaculture plots are used for farming shellfish such as clams, oysters, mussels, and cockles, depending on their location and setup. At low tide, the beds are exposed, and workers can access them directly. The mesh strung between the posts helps reduce disturbance and protect the shellfish from predators and currents. Juvenile shellfish are placed in these netted areas, where they feed naturally as the tides bring water, plankton, algae, and nutrients through the beds. Unlike farmed fish, they do not need to be fed by people. They grow by filtering organic material from the tidal waters, which is why estuaries like the Ria Formosa are so well suited to this kind of work.

Our guide explained that mussel farms, along with clam and oyster collecting, remain an important part of the local economy and local cuisine. Then she laughed and told us that both her father and boyfriend collect shellfish, while she herself is severely allergic to it. She showed us the harvesting knife or hand-dredge tool used to dig for clams and described how skilled workers can read the soil, recognizing the faint light-brown trail that shows where a clam has been. It was one of those details that immediately made the landscape feel less abstract. What had looked, at first glance, like posts and netting became heritage, culture, knowledge, food, family, and a way of life.

Next, we passed a local fish farm and research station, where a number of Yellow-legged Gulls had gathered, perhaps drawn by the fish. Two gulls argued noisily over something one of them was trying to eat, their calls cutting sharply across the water.

We ventured down one channel but soon had to turn back because the water levels were simply too low. Our guide apologized for backtracking through an area we had already seen, but there was no need. Nothing about the Ria Formosa felt repetitive. The angle changed, the light changed, the water moved, the birds shifted, and even a return along the same channel felt as though it revealed something different.

On the horizon, one of the other passengers spotted a large flock of birds near the airport. At first, they were distant enough that it took a few moments and a turn in their direction to be certain. Then the shape and colour revealed that they were flamingos! Here, likely a flock of Greater Flamingos in pink breeding plumage. We learned, or perhaps simply remembered with delight, that a group of flamingos can also be called a flamboyance, which seems almost too perfect for the dramatically large pink birds.

By this point in the voyage, we were seeing many of the same species again and again: Little Terns, three types of plovers, Dunlins, Spoonbills, and even a duo of storks. That did not bother anyone on board. Repetition in birding is not the same as redundancy. Each sighting is slightly different, shaped by distance and behaviour. Regardless, I loved simply being back on the water, as the Ria Formosa passed by our small boat.

Near one sandy edge, we spotted a Bar-tailed Godwit, its long, slightly upturned bill pinkish with a darker tip. As we followed the bends in the channels, the boat responded constantly to the realities of moving tidal waters and shifting bars of land.

As we approached the end of the tour and the historic city walls and dock came back into view, the last species we noticed was a small flock of Black-winged Stilts along the tidal shoreline. With their long, fine black bills and impossibly long pink legs, they stood out clearly against the shallows, elegant and slightly improbable, as if drawn with a line too delicate to hold.

Terrific Experience, Unique Perspectives

Since we had been slightly delayed in setting out, our guide more than made up the lost time, and we did not return to the dock until around 3:30. She brought the boat in slowly, jumped out, and had us tied up with impressive speed. Then she helped each of us out of our lifejackets and off the boat. We thanked her and chatted for a few moments before making our way back up the gangplank to land.

It had been a terrific experience, and much of that was because of her. She moved slowly, stopped as often as she could, and gave us time to see each species from a respectful distance. She introduced herself as a local resident who knew the area very well, advocated for slower travel on the water, and offered context that went far beyond simply naming birds. She explained behaviours, migrations, shellfish farming, fishing, tidal change, and the importance of the outer beaches that help protect the city itself. She helped us see the Ria Formosa not as a backdrop, but as a working, living, changing place.

Being on the boat also changed how we saw the birds. From land, birding is often a matter of stopping, standing still, and letting a species come into focus. On the boat, everything was in motion: the tide, the current, the birds, and ourselves. The angles and distances continually shifted. Sometimes we drifted closer. Sometimes the bird moved away. Sometimes the light changed just enough to reveal a detail that had been hidden a moment earlier.

Most unexpectedly, the low angle of the small boat placed us almost at water level. It made the differences between species easier to read, especially among the plovers. Seeing Kentish, Grey, and Common Ringed Plovers from that perspective helped their relative size, structure, and behaviour stand out in a way that felt surprisingly instructive.

Collective Experience

It was also unusual for us to bird as part of a small group. So much of our travel and time in nature is self-propelled and self-directed, just the two of us moving at our own pace. Today, however, we bought tickets, stepped onto someone else’s boat, led by the knowledge of a local guide, and set off with four other passengers. We pointed birds out to one another, chatted about our time in the Algarve, and collectively enjoyed the afternoon as species appeared along the channels and mudflats.

There were moments when our attention was interrupted by other voices, other questions, and the shared experience of a group. But there were far more moments when that attention was expanded. Species we already knew were given a new context. Birds we were already watching were described through the experiences of others. The result being that the landscape we had already begun to feel became more layered than we had previously experienced. 

Sunset and Music

When we returned to shore, it was close to four o’clock, but neither of us felt ready for the day to end. Instead, we drifted back toward the restaurant by the marina, where we sat with a pitcher of sangria and ordered a large vegetable paella to share.

It turned out to be both incredibly good and truly massive - easily enough for three or four people - but we did our best.

Nearby, a busker played music, and once again the evening around us was wonderful in that gentle, unhurried way that seems to happen at times – when you let it.

As the sun lowered, the warmth of the day began to fade. The marina bar turned on heaters beneath the umbrellas, and we slipped into sweaters and windbreakers while the music continued.

By eight o’clock, the responsible thing would have been to return to our room and pack for the early morning ahead.

Lingering into the Night

And, initially, we did return to the hostel. But only to put on warmer clothes.

Then we went back out again, wandering back along the shoreline, past the historic city walls, and through narrow alleys and streets. By midnight, we found ourselves at a local establishment having another glass of wine, not because we needed anything, but because we did not want the day to be over.

Half an hour later, we wandered on again and eventually ended the night at Aperitivo, a cool-looking tree-shaded tapas restaurant whose cooking smells called us in. We were not really hungry for food. We were simply hungry to hold on to the moment.

So another glass of wine, and another hour, passed before we finally admitted that this journey was nearing its end and returned to the hostel. We had to be at the airport by six in the morning, which meant waking up around five to pack and get ready. It was perhaps an irresponsible night. Through for us, it was definitely a necessary and wonderful one.

Evening Reflections

The day felt as though it had given us several small, unforgettable gifts. Yesterday, on foot, we had moved through the Ria Formosa under our own power, watching crabs, birds, salt pans, and tidal edges from the trail. Today, on the water, we had entered that world differently, carried by a solar boat through channels shaped by tides, work, birds, and human use.

In a world that moves so quickly, journeys like those on Wind Surf and places like the Ria Formosa remind us how essential slowing down can be. Sailing the Atlantic, watching birds along a coastline, and seeing tides rise and fall are all experiences that feel both essential and timeless. Countless people before us have crossed oceans, travelled along coastlines, followed birds, worked shellfish beds, and watched the water change. For a brief moment, we had been allowed to join that long continuity.

As our brief spring voyage nears its end, I recognize that it would be easy to call these last days in Faro sightseeing, but that is not quite what they felt like to us. We were not here simply to count birds, collect facts, or turn the Ria Formosa into a checklist. We were here to hold on to the ocean a little longer, to readjust before heading home, and to remember that travel is not only about movement through places, but about learning how to pay attention to the moment we are living in right now. Neither the past nor the future can be resolved or controlled – but the moment we are currently in can be lived to the fullest.

Whether by Trails, Rails or Sails...see you out there!