Laser internet café, Bilbao 09-09-06 (Gracias Alfredo!)
Buzzed Off
Bordeaux to Bilbao (6 cycle days; 477km; 4390m)
Bordeaux to Parentis (78km; 114m) is easy going; long, straight and flat and had it not been for the campsite lying well out of Parentis itself, we would have been sitting in front of the tent well before 3.30pm. Trip is nothing really out of the ordinary except a very large pine forest industry and an overwhelming number of resorts and 4-star campgrounds dotting the lake and coastal regions. Campsite prices are consequently not very good value for cyclists. In fact, if Noah rocked up with his ark, he would be charged the same price. Naturally there would be a surcharge for all the animals.

The event of the day however, is cycling in the vicinity of a hornets nest. Well I expect we were somewhere close, since we were chased for a couple of km's by a bunch of them. They didn't seem particularly interested in Ali: just buzzed annoyingly around him. I, on the the hand, bore the brunt of a number of stings that smarted and weeped long into the next few days. And just after last month's beautiful words about how wonderful the nature world is. Proves that there is always two sides to every story.

From the moment I leave Parentis, my legs seem to switch over to turbo-charge. There are stints along the super-flat and well-paved cycle paths that allow us to overtake some very surprised cyclists at speeds of 29 km/hour. Again, a very easy-going trip and with quite a few scenic spots. Campsite in Soustons (99km; 169m) is nothing special except for it's enormity and the fact that it is the only one in town. In peak periods, it would definitely be one to miss. Go a few kilometres further and there are more choices in some greener areas.

Today is one big climbing adventure. It is warm and sweat is dripping in every direction, but who is complaining about that? Certainly not me. The mountainous nature and steepness of the terrain makes it pretty tiring work though. Our normal routine is to start the morning with a two hour ride before stopping for a well earned Orangina or similar sugary thirst quencher and something to eat. The next stage usually takes one and a half hours though that does depend on the weather and the amount of climbing involved. By this stage we are ready for lunch. Following our early afternoon energising, we put in whatever we can. Well, the frequency of pitstops is generally dictated by me. Sometimes I believe Ali is Superman in disguise.

All roads lead to nowhere
Even though we take minor roads, they are exceptionally busy on this particular Sunday. The traffic streams passed constantly making climbing the hill outside Cambo-les-Baines a total nightmare. Still we make it in one piece to Sare (94 km; 912m); Strangely enough there are signs leading everywhere for campsites: such a delight for a tired cyclist at the end of a hard days pedalin, but each path we follow, ends up ascending us high out of town and far from any likely campground. Several unsuccessful kilometers later, we decide to return to town for the umpteenth time and try our luck by at a farm. Waking to the sound of chickens pecking up the crumbs from our previous night's dinner is definitely a pleasant change to standard humdrum.

Winding down to San Sebastian
We psych ourselves up for the two passes mentioned on the Michelin map: 441m going into Spain; and 480m getting into Donostia-San Sebastian. Unfortunately for us, the cartographers have forgotten to mark the 548m pass in between. The first climb is ok, though steep in parts. You at least have the chance to zigzag your way up the road, since there is hardly any traffic. It is also early morning and the sun is hidden by the forest trees. Makes life a lot easier than the next two climbs to come.

Our cycling trip through the Benelux, Germany and France: click HERE to view a larger map and more details

We cross into Spain and have a beautiful drop into Etxalar before embarking on a long, hard but the most magnificent and exhilarating climb we have done so far. When we reach the peak, we look below and instantly realise that there is another pass and another hour or so of before we can wind down into the harbor havoc of Errenteria. Due to road works, it takes us more than an hour to navigate the five kilometres from the industrial mayhem to Donastia-San Sebastian. Upon arrival, we head straight for the Tourist Bureau and are pounced on by a guy wanting us to book into the hostel where he worked. When we mention that we want to know where the campsite is, he begins with the usual spiel "You don't want to cycle there! It's way too steep. Besides, my hostel is here in town." He made it sound as if there were 3000kms of vertical climbing but being used to hotel hustlers, we decide it is all probably just a ploy to increase his bonus that wee. We head out of town after stopping for some supplies at a Spar Supermarket.

Looking up to Superman
In all honesty, the guy's story isn't too far from the truth. At least not as far as degree of difficulty is concerned and especially seeing as we had already crossed 3 passes today. It is in fact, 4 km's or so of 10% uphill battle. Superman in disguise glides up; or at least it looks like that to me. Halfway up and something in my knees feels like it is going to snap, so I get off and push. And if you think that it is easy It's not. And neither is looking up to Superman, way in front.

Basically, the only campsite in Donastia-San Sebastian (73km; 1501m) is at Igeldo and it is full. We get chucked in with the rest of the backpackers on puny plots which can't even accomodate our tent anyway we try. We still have to face the problem of where we should lock up the bikes. A concert in Vitoria-Gasteiz this weekend past has pulled a crowd alright, but dissapointinjgly so, the place has taken on the usual cess-pool charm associated with concert camping: irresponsibly discarded rubbish; dirty washing from arsehole to breakfast; the smell of piss; and general disarray. And for this priveledge we pay 14 euros.

Needless to say, our plans for a two night stay are immediately revised. Perusing the terrain, we decide no matter how tired our legs are, we will push on towards Bilbao, which is another two days riding from here. So, besides avoiding this campground during festive occassions our other piece of advice is as follows: if you should cycle to San Sebastian and want to take in the hustle and bustle of a modern, young, attractive city with every amenity at your fingertips, then do yourself a favour and stay in the town itself. I mean, baggage or no baggage, after a climb like we had, who in their right mind would want to go down the hill for a night out, knowing what was in store at the end of the evening.

The next day we set off with mist completely surrounding us, but soon enough we are miles above it and peering out over spectacular views of pillow soft clouds as far as you could see. To the left winding mountain roads could take you even higher should you dare. Our poor conditioned path has little traffic and the odd few maniacs insist on performing death-defying stunts on blind corners. On the other hand, the majority of Basque drivers are used to pedestrian traffic and in turn, slow down and respect our presence on the road as well. The day is hot and there are several steep climbs before we finally bend our way down around the breathtaking coastline. It's rough, rugged, dangerous and yet so vibrantly charming. A perfect metaphore for the people from Basque Country.

Our destination is a campground just outside of Lekeitio (71kms; 950m) and as we are low on supplies we really need to source a supermarket first. Our plans dont make full fruition since the city has completely shut down for a 'day and long into the night ' festival. Everyone is dressed in blue civvies, so our blue patagonia shirts and dark bike-shorts blend in quite nicely. The bikes on the other hand draw a bit of attention. After swerving in and out of merrily drunken crowds and ending up going round in circles, we settle on seeing what the campsite shop (if any) has on offer. According to the sign at the bottom of the hill, it is 700m further up.

Up, becomes the operative word during this ascent and also worth a mention is the inability of the Spanish to visualise distances. The 700m turned into 2.5 kilometres which continued to go up at an average of 9 % and then we found yourselves at the foot of, what seemed like, an almost vertical climb into the campsite itself. Superman reveals his mortality and steps off to push his heavily laden bike. I watch him stop on several occasions to gain strength in the sweltering sun; his head dropping with exhaustion, before drawing a deep breath and continuing on up the hill. At one stage it reaches a maximum gradient of 26%. Still, he galantly returns to save me, his maiden in distress, and help move my considerably lighter bike up the obstructionl. We manage to find a nice spot in the shade of one of the few trees. The grass is green and fresh and our sopping wet tent takes no time at all to dry out. This evening we are to be rocked to sleep by festive fireworks and the same sort of music local DJs amuse us with all over the world.

Not a lot of mileage to cover on this fairly easy run today. Only the very hot conditions and a few hills in the beginning of the day make a chore of the journey, but there are ample park benches lining the small cities we pass through. We stop and rest when we need to. Last leg is also a little difficult as the sun is directly above us but the smell of salt and sea tempt us along the road to Sopelana (63km; 744m). It is situated about 15kms northwest of Bilbao and has a direct metro line into the city. The camping is adequate, with not half as impressive cleanliness as the deco tiling job in the amenity blocks. Ample and full pressurized hot water make up for the lack of hygeine. Restaurant and shop on site also result in the convenience of an ice cold beer in the afternoon sun hard to refuse. We rest here just nicely for the next 4 nights, before taking to the road towards Santander.

Birthday Boy 07-09-06
Ali turned 40 today. Happy Birthday! What a wonderful way to start your "beginning to life" by cycling round the world. He is awoken with lots of kisses from me. His pressies; a half bottle of cognac; a stainless steel flask to store it in; white sexy short-sleeved bike shirt; and of course a deliciously scrummy breakfast lay waiting in front of our tent. He is pretty damned happy! We just hang out at our tent and act pretty lazy as well as exerting a bit of energy on some bike maintenaince and computer stuff.

Onweb internetcafé, Porto 26-09-06
Equipment
Just as we had begun the climb into the Picos de Europa my rapid fire gears decided they didn't want to move back out of my lowest gear. In the rain, we managed to find a small bay on the side of an exceptionally busy road to stop and see what was wrong. We were both dreading having to put on the spare thumb shifts that we had brought along just incase this happened. First thought: we'd loosen the screws on, what at the time appeared to be, a closed system and wriggle everything around a bit. We lost a miniscule screw in the sand and then found it again and miraculously I had my gears back again: although not clicking in as smoothly as before, they are working fine at the moment.

As far as equipment is concerned, we have had to send off a couple of whinge emails to a few suppliers, hoping that they will rectify the problems we have faced. Everyone should be given the chance to replace a faulty product , so e'll fill you in on the progress at the end of the month.

Out of Bilbao and up to a Spanish Plateau
Sopalano to Peubla de Sanabria (8 cycle days; 3 rest days; 565km; 5349m)
We cycle past Bilbao, not actually through it and over the hanging bridge at Portugalete just west of the city. Our day pretty much consists of up, up, up and then down, down, down into Spanish countryside. Considering it was closing down after the summer season the campsite in Laredo (77km; 928m) is pretty good.

Facing the drizzle once again, after a long and appreciated break, we clammer the hill the following afternoon into Santillana del Mar (70km; 819m). By the abundance of hikers, lightly panniered cyclists; and number of ocassions we are asked if we are pilgrims, it is obvious we are on the Santiago trail. Our turning off to Pechón (42km; 526m) the next day, leaves that behind and leads us to a secluded campsite clutching the coast line. We are able to chose a prime spot overlooking the ocean.

During the next three days, we witness the bubbling surf of emerald seas backdropped by a perfect postcard sky turn into dumping waves churning white sands underneath a thundering electrical heaven. Torrential rains accompany the light show. Almost reluctantly, we pull ourselves away from this body surfing haven and begin our ascent of the Picos de Europa.

Up, up and away
The plan is to cycle to Riaño in two days. The climbing is not difficult in the first stages and apart from the near-disasterous start when my gearing temporarily seized-up, the only real comment is that Panes and Potes are very touristy. Okay if you like that sort of thing, but we venture deeper into the valley at La Vega - Vega de Liébana (53km; 591m). Darkness descends early and it is considerably colder than we have been used to. However, we manage to sleep comfortably in our tent pitched at a homely little campsite after warming ourselves by the blazing hearth in their pub.

The second phase of the route well and truly tests the muscles. It is a long and steady, 28 kilometre climb up from 460m to the pass Puerto de San Glorio (1609m) at an average of 5 percent. Breathtaking in more ways than one, it takes 4½ hours in total, with three of them in the saddle. Perfect roads give us the chance to look around and except for the occasional young Spanish boy with a little too much testosterone in his bloodstream, traffic isn't too full on. Once at the top, it is basically 27 kilometres of downhill coasting. The jagged, pink-rocky landscape entertains us all the way into Riaño 50km; 1268m, where we once again, have to climb high to reach our destination of Camping Riaño. The trend is that the Spanish like to build their campsites on top of hills.

Here, they spoil us rotten as soon as they get wind about our world tour and we spend a cozy evening in the pub drinking red wine and nibbling on vegetarian tapas. Being at an altitude of 1200m, the air is extremely cold, but the view from our tent is more than awe inspiring. The next day we pedal back down, shivering in 10 degree temperatures and heavy drizzle. Our spirits are dampened and we are saturated for the first three quarters of the journey, but everything returns to normal in the late afternoon sun as we cycle into León (101km; 523m).

Hoping for sunshine
The campsite is difficult to find, due to poor signposting and just so you know, you need to take the turnoff up a poorly maintained road at the roundabout before entering into León itself. If you do find yourself in León, then you have gone too far, so turn around and head back out of town. At the top of the hill, take the road past the metal companies. This campground is no recommendation, just the only one in the near vicinity. After stocking-up on supplies; repairing a few bits and bobs; maintaning the bikes; and doing the laundry which incidently, stunk of chlorine for the next five days, we were ready to continue our path out of Spain. We should hit Portugal in a couple of days and are looking forward to experiencing another culture. Our fingers are firmly crossed for a weather pattern with much higher temperatures.

We leave León along with everyone else, or so it seems. The roads are hellishy busy and the industrial area appears to go on forever. Adding to that big-city syndrom, it is filthy and stinks of either exhaust fumes, fish rotting away in rubbish bins or piss. The state of the roads leaves a lot to be desired as well. Though, on a more posiitive note, as soon as we get away from the sprawl, the N630 is a dream to ride on. As smooth as the day they first laid it adn with liitle or no traffic, owing to the motorway running along side it. We push along at an amazing 27km/hour and even though there is a bit of wind towards the end of our journey, we sail into Mozar de Valverde (93km; 141m), expecting a little more from the campsite than it actually has on offer.

Our guide book boasts supermarket, wifi connection, communal room, etc. Instead we stumble upon a rundown old-fashioned campsite with very lush green grass hosting thousands of mosquitoes. We befriend a very caucious tan tabby-cat, who we call Gerald for the length of our stay and let's just say it wasn't too hard to tempt him with some warm milk and bread ends.

Where has all the money gone?
Although a frosty start follows the next day, temperatures pick up to around 30 degrees centigrade in the early afternoon. We begin by winding along severely potholed roads through miniscule villages, all a few kilometres apart. Mud houses in various degree of deterioration line their streeets. It was quite a surprise to see how deprived the people are here: old ladies pushing wheelbarrows full of vegetables and poorly clad folk working in the hot sun. Hard to imagine that Spain is a first world country when you are staring at such a scene.

Contrassting this image are the council upgrades between a few of these towns. One particular 500m stretch of road parades modern park benches, shaded by purposefully-planted plain trees each sporting a swanky new rubbish bin. The notion that a bus load of tourists might pass through at any moment, stop, sit down and fill the bins is ludricous. There is little reason for anyone to visit these remote villages, which explains the immaculate state of the highway. We, a few pedalling farmers, the old women with farm produce mentioned before and an occassional car have the privieldge of using the revamped path. Does make you wonder if this was money well spent.

Later on, the fun of the first half of the day turns into a bit of a nightmare: dead straight roads; irritating ascents; and malicious head winds. Even going downhill requires plenty of pedal power. We reach an abandoned campsite just outside of Puebla de Sanabria (81km; 553m) . After a quick peruse up and down the cobble streets in town, it is not hard to tell that we are back on the Santiago trail. A renovated train station, a kilometre away houses a funky cyber-cafe/bar, where we while away a few hours, before shopping for dinner, cooking it, divulging in some chocolate and falling into a deep sleep, only to be awoken by gale-force winds in the middle of the night.

Our cycling trip through northern Spain: click HERE to view a larger map and more details

Raindrops keep falling on my head- entering Portugal
Puebla de Sanabria to Madalena - Porto : (4 cycle days; 212km; 2705m)
This is one of those days when you wish you had never got up. We only have to do a few kilometres to reach Bragança and under normal circumstances, it would have been a perfect cycle trip: going up isn't too steep and going down long and winding. The rolling hill countryside is spectacularly lucious. If only the heavens hadn't opened up.

Winds start howling while we eat breakfast and fast moving clouds move in on an offensive that is going to transform my very jolly mood into something considerably sombre. Earlier on, I had decided that I wouldn't be beaten by the weather-thing today. After all, we had been blessed with two absolutely glorious days of sunshine, so at this point a few dark clouds seem marginly damaging .

Thirty minutes into the journey and the raincoats are a necessity as the light drizzle turns into battering rain. It continues non-stop for seven hours. Somehow, I hadn't ever imagined that entering Portugal would be like this. Well, at least not in the middle of September. Sporting two lightweight thermal shirts, a sports-bra covering my whole midriff, a raincoat, bike shorts and gortex shoe covers over my steel cap boots, I am carted down the mountainside. On occasions, I can't feel my fingers at all and have to pump them vigorously to get the blood supply moving. Subsequently, shifting gears and braking is really difficult and neither of us dare go over 30km/hour. This sort of cold is unbearable: especially for a warm weather lover like myself. Ali tells me later that day that he too thought it a little on the chilly side too.

Got to be moving on
Resembling a couple of drenched water rats, we are swept into Bragança (37km; 421m) very early in the afternoon. Immediately after checking in, we down a port and coffee in the campsite bar, hoping the rain will ease off. It doesn't let up and we resort to sheltering under the washing-up area for a couple of hours. In between torrential downpours we eat lunch, have a shower, air our dripping clothing on taps on any jagged edge available, and set up the tent.

Up until this point, I have managed to stay jovial, but when the clouds decide to dump even more water on me, just as I am trying to arrange things in the tent, I lose it. Though not quite as strong as the words used at the time, I scream: "Stop bloody raining!". Now in the bar, I'm nice and warm and much drier than our saturated coats, shoes and clothing. And even though it is being hogged by the two languid girls running this place, there is a fire going. Service is far from their thoughts. Too much good food to eat, snacks, games to play and soapies to watch. Tomorrow we'll definitely be moving on.

Why am I here again?
We had heard from a young Belgian guy in Bragança that, while he was hiking, an old lady in a farming village told him the storms would continue at least until Sunday. We can't hang around waiting for the dreary weather to turn fine. Campsites are closing around this time of the year and so our goal is to make the coast within a week.

One frustrating stop after the next punctuates today's trip. We shelter under cork trees, bus stops: anything that will stop the rain from dousing us. It is also cold at 10º C. By lunchtime, I have almost flipped and am wondering what I have done to deserve feeling so damned miserable. We seem to be jinxed in someway: carrying a perpetually black rain cloud above our heads everywhere we go. Here I am shivering from the cold, wet and doldrumry, when I have a bank account full of money and potentially the choice to go anywhere I want. Honestly, what am I doing here? You know, I can't actually answer that question.

Getting out of Bragança isn't as easy as it would seem, since they have cordoned off the town for a reason unbeknown to us. After circling the hilly town centre only once, we resolve to ask a policeman, who directs us to the N15. This becomes our highway for the next couple of days and although the first sections are in poor state they are still all right to cycle on without too much hassle. Having no cars on the road lends itself to this sort of pedalling bliss and in Portugal, the general trend is to drive very fast with maniacal tendancies.

The countryside was even more beautiful than the day before: valleys and hillsides filled with contrasting colours of olive and cork trees, but we barely see any of this through the mist and constant rain. Hence, there is no film or photos to confirm the beauty, and even though there are short bouts of normality, when the sun does manage to shine, we are off like shots to get in as many kilometres as possible. before the next downpour. Luckily, the sun stays with us while we cycle the last kilometres into Mirandela (77km; 872m), which means we are dry on arrival. We manage to do the shopping, cook dinner and enjoy a beer in the local restaurant before hitting the hay. At about 3am that morning the rain begins and doesn't even look like stopping until around 9am.

A very black day
As soon as there is a break in the weather we leave, but at 10.30am, it is really late for a mountainous journey to Vila Real. the roads seem to be going up and up the whole way. Luckily, there are enough downhill patches to give the legs a rest every now and again. I take back what I said to Ali, a dayor so before, about Portugal being pretty clean. The roads, especially those close to cities and towns, are lined with rubbish of every shape and form. That said, I'd still recommend any bike enthusiast to come to Portugal. The conditions, weather pending, are excellent for cycling and while some road surfaces are in disrepair, the obvious presence of roadworkers is a good sign of things to come. Furthermore, the views are simply breathtaking: hundreds of variations of green against red stony soil, distinctively bordered farm fields carved into extreme slopes leading up to villages precariously balanced on jutting hillsides. It has captivated us the whole way. At least, when we are able to appreciate it.

After a lunch stop we continued climbing. I was up front and thought I was doing fine but according to Ali, I was having an off day and of course when the very black sky that we are heading towards bucketed down upon us, he is not very happy that we were on that side of the mountain. One problem you face when cycling together is individual capabilities. Ali just simply has greater strength in his legs than me and when push comes to shove, he can pull more out. So it was my turn to not be very impressed, when he sarcastically (at least I thought so) asked if I had another gear. Did he think I was enjoying the torrents of rain and cold wind? I was honestly giving it all I had. By this time, the dark clouds had obviously rubbed off on our humour and we had an argument as roaring as the thunder directly above us. We made it into Vila Real (76kms; 1248m) that afternoon, very late indeed, and headed straight towards the Intermarché on the outskirts of town. As well as the usual stock, we purchased a cheap bottle of Portuguese brandy, which was actually pretty good considering it cost only 7 euros.

That evening, after setting up tent and dodging the numerous episodes of rain while trying to cook dinner, we divulged in a swig or three while talking about the days events. We kissed and made up and agreed that we both still wanted to do this and for that matter: together. All appeared amorous until the rain started pounding the tent again. Ali got up to visit the toilet and made some comment about us sitting in the middle of a lake. I thought it was a joke and laughed. But when he yelled back, "No serious, Son!", I noticed the river that was flowing through our front tent. While Ali tapped tent poles into the rock-like clay to try and drain the newly formed lake, I was mopping the inside up and putting as many things as possible on a higher level. Next thing I knew, Ali was at the back of the tent building what we later termed The Delta Works. I came out to help armed with an empty bottle to assist in digging. We eventually got to bed at about 2am that night.

a flooded night in the tent at Vila Real Portugal

It continued raining and stopped just as we rose that morning. A little later than usual and we are both not sure if that was due to the digging or the brandy. We managed to get everything packed though it took forever because everything was soaking wet and needed cleaning or wiping down. We ate breakfast and then the drizzle began again. By the time we reached reception to pay for our damp lodgings, it was absolutely pissing down. We made an executive decision: we cycled straight to the station and waited the 2.5 hours until the next train headed to Porto (3 hour, 132km train journey; 21km; 164m). It was well worth the wait. We went chugging up and down the mountain sides and again we were both awe struck at the beauty and diversity of this country. The weather on the other hand, remained the same until just before Porto when the sun began to shine. The old lady who spoke with the Belgian guy was dead right. Since Sunday afternoon we've been basking in sunshine.

Sky video club & internet service, Aljezur 08-10-06
Equipment continued
This month we had a few breakdowns and I suppose the most concerning was the snapped and fractured tent poles, all within 6 days. However, after a couple of mails to Helsport, they are sending us a complete new set. I'd also like to mention that before we left, Helsport also sent us extra materials so I could adjust the front opening of the tent to allow more air to flow-through. So, as far as customer service is concerned they are certainly tops and after chatting with other campers, we are truly grateful for this!

As most of you who dedicatingly looked at the site on the first of the month noticed: the update was not on time this month. Unfortunately, planning the internet cafes (or more like those where we can plug in our hard drive and that have a fast enough system) is more difficult than we imagined. Another fault in the system is the power supply: although the solar panel works well, it does need sun and since there has been very little of this element, we are forever low on battery power. Sitting in the toilets is also not a lot of fun, so we tend to skip that option. Occasionally we ask for electricity but then we are limited to the spells when it doesn't rain! Consequently, there are no films this month: making them chews power. However, it's not all bad news. We intend to stop a few days in Spain and then I'll manage to get a few uploaded for those that are interested :-)

With all the rain and the fact that we are travelling along the coast, our bikes are rusting fast and it has become a bit of a concern. We are on the lookout for a small tarp or something that can give them a bit of protection. Good camping stores are few and far between and we now realise we were spoilt for choice in The Netherlands.

One of the eyelets that holds Ali's back panniers broke off the main frame (22-09). Luckily his bike has two sets. We will be searching for a welder in the next largest township.

Porto to Peniche (3 cycle days; 1 rest day;277km; 1222m)
Porto gave us the couple of days of sunshine desperately needed for the spring clean. When a tent remains wet for longer than a week, it gets that stale musty odour. Not very pleasant to sleep in. Therefore everything (groundsheet, inner and outer tent and all the clothes that kept being placed back in a bag wet because they never got the chance to dry) got the scrub and wash yet again. The bikes also got a good maintenance check and clean. It was a whole days work for us both, but very satisfying. There was just a little time over in the afternoon to do some grocery shopping and over a tap-water cooled beer in the late afternoon, we planned our cycle trip to the city of Porto the next day.

It really is an eye-catching city with monuments and severely steep climbs everywhere you look. You won't see many local cyclists though and the reason is probably due to the annoying but fitting cobble-stoned streets. A few years of riding on them and you would develop severe RSI for sure! Nonetheless it was a fun day out, even though you have to keep you wits about you. The Portuguese are maniacs on the road! We were staying in a campsite out of town: Madalena. You just have to cross the river and follow the coast right along until you hit it. It is a wonderful combination of rackety old factories on one side combined with the magnificent view of the houses moulded into the sloping side of the city. On a clear day it's quite spectacular.

Riding along the river in Porto (Portugal), until we hit the ocean

There's two sides to Portugal: the young and the old. The younger generation are just like any other from a wealthy western culture: modern in every way thinkable: car, phone, fashion, music, shops, etc. The older generation on the other hand are a world away from this scene: shabbily dressed and often in traditional getup. They still go about there daily tasks as if they lived 50 years ago. In fact some areas were so poor I could hardly believe I was travelling in Europe. In one northern village earlier on in the trip, where we stopped to eat lunch, we were greeted by the toothless smiles of two old dears taking their wares down the road by cart and mule. Talk about a time warp and a damned shame the camera was in the bag. But they all seem to blend into together and it certainly makes for interesting viewing as an outsider.

Our next destination along the coast was Praia de Mira (92km; 179m). Fairly flat and easy going. After weaving in and out of small and rather poverty ridden fishing villages along the coast, we decided to take the inland N109 before hitting hooker territory in the nearby pine forrest. The day was glorious and from Aveiro onwards, after crossing from Sao Jacinto by ferry, I was completely mesmorised by the colours and patterns of the completely tiled houses. If there is any place that has mastered the ceramic bathroom tile, then it's got to be Portugal. House after house of tiles. Some very quaint and pretty; others over the top and not to everyone's taste, but you have to admire the originality of design, colour and not to forget the architecture itself. The campsite at Praia da Mira was just as quaint as some of the houses I had seen earlier and hence I was quite shocked to learn that in the height of season almost 400 caravans and tents stood in the serene grounds where our tent was now pitched. It is one advantage of travelling out of season; but then the disadvantage is that all the usual amenities are not available and quite often the villages look like ghost-towns. This was much the case here as well. We took a short stroll along the beach towards the very small town, looking for a cafe or restaurant to sit in and enjoy a coffee and the beautiful view of the ocean. The only place open, was unfortunately glassed in with not so great views and the owner was throwing the most animated tantrum we'd both ever witnessed. Stream was literally puffing from his ears and spit bubbling from his mouth. He stomped his feet as he stormed around and left and entered the restaurant several times, not forgetting to shake his fist at the two younger girls doing some sort of business transaction on the table in front of us. His wife tried to calm things down and the tears were pouring from her eyes. We have no idea what it was about as everything was in Portuguese but it felt like we were in the middle of the set of "Goede Tijden, Slechte Tijden (famous soapie in The Netherlands: trans: "Good Times, Bad Times"). Needless to say the atmosphere was not particularly cosy.

The rain seemed to be back on our track and from roughly 3 till 8am for the next four days it rained constantly. Always starting with an ever so light drizzle, which gave us time to wake up and make the dash outside to save the washing from an unnecessary drenching. The only good thing was it seemed to stick to this time slot and the rest of the day was fine and sunny. Just meant the tent was often packed away wet.

From Praia de Mira to Sao Pedro de Moel (101km; 460m) we experienced every possible sort of road imaginable. From perfectly flat gliding highways to the bumpy nightmare of patchworked globules of bitumen. We literally followed the N109 until just after Figueira da Foz and then headed straight towards the coastal road. Surprisingly enough, we even came across a few spanking new cycle paths which was instant relief from the hair-brain antics of some of the truck drivers. There are also more cyclists in the coastal regions but still not very many women on bikes, so expect to get stared at should you embark on a similar journey.

By this stage in the trip, the cold temperatures, the damp clothing and sitting surfaces had had its toll with me and a UTI (Urinary Track Infection) was on the cards. Coupled with a bout of diarrhea, stomach cramps and nausea, I wasn't in the best of moods. The campsite had obviously had its own bashing from the weather and there were channelling grooves dug by frantic campers all over the place. After previous experiences, we chose a high and dryish spot hoping that the overcast skies would clear. It was obvious we were in the middle of a tourist area as the prices in the supermarkets had almost doubled and the bread at the campsite store cost more than in a Dutch bakery. In general, Portugal is really cheap (coffee: 50cents / beer(tap): 80 cents/ 200g baguette: 40 cents/ fruit and vege for the day 4.00 euros).

We left the next day for Peniche (86km; 583m) and were blessed with beautiful blue skies. The coast line was stunning and you could see why this was a tourist spot. Plenty of apartments for sale and being built for any of you wanting to invest. In fact the whole of Portugal is up for grabs by the looks of it. We wanted to stay a couple of days at the campsite on a beachfront road but the non-stop barking dogs, sand flies, mosquitoes, snails that thought our tent was a highway direct to the fig tree behind us forced us to cut it short and the next plan was to get to Lisbon as soon as possible. One thing going for the campsite was the restaurant; it appeared to be a favourite with the locals.

Country info directory	Want to know more details about the route we took, the hotels we stayed in, or the altimeters climbed? Check out our country information pages for:
top	previous / next month