Escanciada

Climbing the steep hill out of Porto, once again I am astounded, and pleased, at how empty the roads are! I seem to spend all morning climbing until I reach the rock-strewn highlands of the Parque Natural do Alvão. It feels good to be back on the motorbike :)

Continuing northwards, I pass the spa town of Chaves and head towards the border. Crossing the River Feces, brings me into Spain. There is no fanfare, just a simple sign informing that I have lost an hour of my life. Even the land does not seem to care as the Portuguese patchwork of brown, yellow and green fields continues into Spain.

Shortly after, I turn right and follow the border through the peaceful highlands of the Parque Natural de Montesinho and join the long road to León.

The mountains of the Cordillera Cantábrica, striding east-west along the southern boundaries of Cantabria and Asturias is the final obstacle before my night on the coast. A fantastic road winds its way through these mountains sandwiched between the River Bernesga and a disused railway line. Rising past abandoned mining towns, the road reaches its high point. A stunning viewpoint offering fine panoramas of high peaks and deep river valleys. Every imaginable shade of green seems to have been used to create this view. I take in the view on the steep, narrow descent as I follow the queue of traffic stuck behind a tractor heading back to the main A-road.

I blast along A-road towards the Bay of Biscay and the sweet, sticky, cider covered seaside town of Gijón; where I spend the evening learning how to pour cider like a local... Poured from a bottle held high above my head into a tiny glass held low. You pour about a mouthful into the glass and knock it back before in one before the fizz fizzles out. It does not seem to matter that most of the cider ends up on the floor! :)

Port? Oh!

Pastel de Nata.
Francesinha.
Igreja do Carmo.
Ribeira.
Pont de Dom Luís I.
Port Caves.
Port.
Prison.
Bed.

Just a normal day really ;-)

Wedding Cake

The friendly owners of Casa Pombal Guesthouse offer me advice about my route for today, plus an ample morning buffet in the delightful blue-tiled breakfast room. I am still feeling weary, so I decide to spend a few nights in Porto.

The wonderful advice takes me on a scenic ride along a twisty road that follows a narrow wooded valley. Below is a deep clear river with canoeists playing in big yellow plastic boats. I keep half an eye on them and the other one and a half on the narrow road!

I pass through an old high stone wall into the Serra do Buçaco. The aromatic forest is dotted with crumbling chapels, ponds, fountains and exotic trees. In the midst of the forest stands a wedding cake of a building. Once its conglomeration of turrets and spires was a royal retreat, now it is a luxury hotel.

I continue to ride through the forest along a bone shaking road to the fine viewpoint of Cruz Alta. Descending from the summit, I exit the walled forest and pick up the back road to Porto...

Follow your nose...

Hidden behind the castle walls on the wooded hilltop is the headquarters of the legendary Knights Templar. Having seen Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade and read The Da Vinci Code, I am aware the Knights Templar are associated with legends concerning secrets and mysteries handed down from ancient times and I am determined to unearth them! I roam this magnificent building leaning heavily on each pillar, pushing hard on sealed doorways, bouncing up and down on every loose floor tile; anything to reveal a hidden chamber which holds secrets from this mysterious organisation. Well my career as an adventurous Archaeologist is short lived and pretty unsuccessful as I leave with nothing more than a few strange looks from the other tourists.

Having been less than successful this morning and failing in Évora, I am not going to pass up the chance to try to photograph the impressive Aqueduto de Pegões that is poking out the monastery. I follow the road that weaves between the impressive arches and spy the viewpoint that will give me the photograph which I crave. I park my motorbike by the side of the road and begin to fight my way up the side of the hill through the razor-sharp, densely packed vegetation. Bleeding, sweating and panting in the sizzling heat of the midday sun, I reach the summit and find... the bloody road! I cannot help but laugh. I quickly compose the photograph and stroll back down the road to my motorbike.

It is a strangely pleasant experience, being drenched in sweat and riding a motorbike in 37°C heat. With the ride acting like a huge hair dryer, some might say it is almost refreshing.

I stop in the medieval capital of Portugal, Coimbra for some lunch and soon realise that I am so tired and weary. I am struggling to enjoy soaking in the sights and sounds of this wonderful country. I decide to travel no further today.

After finding a charming guesthouse to call home for the night, I wander the labyrinth of lanes of the compact of old town and explore the grounds of Portugal's most prestigious university. The students decorate the cobbled lanes and houses with a bizarre collection of random items that simply have to be seen to be believed.

Next I have a music lesson... Sung exclusively by men, the full, deep voices of fado singers combine with the haunting metallic notes of the Portuguese guitarra and a nylon stringed classical guitar to produce moving melodies. To show my appreciation I do not applaud, I simply cough as if clearing my throat as tradition dictates.

A true restaurateur is a miracle you happen upon in the strangest of places. Evidence starts with the greeting. Chef Gil, the owner of this one-of-a-kind restaurant has been waiting all his life for my arrival. There is no menu; Chef Gil decides what to cook and what wine to serve, he explains in a firm and polite manner. What follows in each of the six courses is an explosion of flavours from the fruit infusion of lemongrass, grapefruit and peppermint to the chocolate mousse and beehive dressing; resulting in the best dining experience of my life.

Should you ever pass through Coimbra, you now know where to eat. Good luck finding it in the tangle of lanes. There is no sign or no indication that it is even a restaurant. Just follow your nose ;-)

If Carlsberg made Castles...

With its rippling mountains and dewy forests shrouded in the early morning mist, Sintra seems, even more than yesterday, to have been lifted from a page in a fairy tale. With an abundance of palaces, castles and monasteries to choose from, I have a difficult decision to make as I simply do not have the time to visit them all. I ride my motorbike along the cobbled, narrow, tightly twisting streets. Continuing past the iconic twin conical chimneys of the Royal Palace of Sintra and into mist-filled forests. The higher and higher I climb, the tighter and tighter the turns become until I finally feel the warmth of the morning sun. I am above the clouds. I am above the forest. I am here.

The Moorish Castle would not have been many folks first choice. Many more would have continued two hundred metres along the ridge to the wacky looking Palace of Pena or stayed lower to sample the splendour of the Royal Palace of Sintra. For me, I want a castle to look like a castle, not like a wedding cake. The Moorish castle's crenelated ramparts stretch across the mountain ridge and loom high above its surroundings and other adjacent towns; like a proper castle should.

I am here early and, with the exception of a few workers, have the castle to myself. I have always wanted to live in a proper castle and today, in a small way, I am living the dream! With the enthusiasm of a young boy, I scamper along the castle walls. It is clear to see why this was chosen as the observation post for monitoring the coastline. The vistas over Sintra and its palaces to the deep blue of the Atlantic are, like the climb, breathtaking.

Back on my motorbike, I continue westwards along a remote, wooded road. The tree-lined ridge descends to the coastline until I can go no further West. Cabo da Roca is Europe's westernmost point and, despite some tacky tourist additions to the site, it still has a feel of windswept remoteness. That said, when the second coach load of tourists arrives, I take this as my cue to leave.

First, another tough decision needs to be made; stick to the coastline or head inland. I choose the latter. Fourty-five minutes later, I begin to regret my decision as my magical mystery tour takes me through ports, rundown suburbs, across numerous bridges and through many nondescript towns and villages. I have no reason for choosing the route, I guess this time my luck is running low...

Until, that is, I roll into Tolmar. With its historic buildings and pretty riverside park filled with swans, herons and families of ducks, it looks like a good place to stop for the night. I cast my gaze skywards to the crenelated walls of the Covento de Cristo, a beautiful backdrop to this appealing town. Maybe Lady Luck is doing me one final favour.

We Bones Here, For Yours Await

Another early morning begins with a visit to church! Though the mesmerising Capela dos Ossos (Chapel of Bones) is not what most people would expect find in a church. The eery feeling begins with an inscription above the entrance that translates as: we bones here, for yours await. The walls and columns of a small room, tucked behind the huge Gothic structure of Igreja de São Francisco, are lined with the bones and skulls of some five thousand people. Whether you find it artistic, ghoulish or beautiful, this invitation to reflect on the transitory nature of the human condition is certainly thought provoking.

With much to think about, I hop on my motorbike and follow the aqueduct out of town in search of the perfect photograph of this impressive structure. Despite not finding the picture that is in my head, I happily follow the aqueduct for several miles as it carries water across this arid land.

My journey also unearths another impressive sight. The Cromeleque dos Almendres stand in a beautiful landscape of cork trees at the end of a rough sandy track. The Iberian equivalent of Stone Henge is a collection of huge oval standing stones spread down a rough slope which seem to have some astronomical alignment.

I continue on a country route that brings home the unspoilt nature of much of rural Portugal and play spot-the-differences between Spain and Portugal. The blue-and-white tiles and terracotta roofs of the Pueblo Blancos in Portugal are the most distinctive difference and, dare I say, more picturesque.

It is not only time that differs between the Spain and Portugal; it is also timing. In Spain, everything starts later. Shops there open at about 4.30 after the long siesta; in Portugal it is after lunch at 3pm. Staying at a Spanish guesthouse near the mountains, I am told that dinner would be served from 10pm; now in Portugal, they stop serving at 10pm. My belly is beginning to get confused!

Satiation is found in Restaurante O Primo Chico. Chico appears to be something of a local celebrity when I count the number of framed articles featuring his smiling, round, moustached face that adorn the walls of his charming restaurant. He rustles me up another one of Colin's suggestions: Bacalhau à Brás. Another bloody good feed :D

I decide against staying in Lisbon tonight as I am not really in the mood for a big city, so I nip under a replica of Christ the Redeemer statue and across a copy of the Golden Gate Bridge on my way to the fairy tale land of Sintra.

I arrive to find that all the imposing castles and glittering palaces that form the Unesco Heritage Site are closed for the day. So I kick back with a Super Bock and continue to digest my meal...

The Times They Are a-Changin'

The early bird is said to catch the worms as is proven this morning. Entry to the Mezquita is free every morning between 8:30am and 9:30am. Organised groups are prohibited before 10am meaning that, without the incessant rambling of tour guides, my visit is quieter and more atmospheric. The Alhambra should take note!!

Córdoba's gigantic mosque is a wonderful architectural mish-mash of delights with delicate horseshoe arches making it unlike anywhere I have seen on my journey. Due to Córdoba's turbulent history, the gigantic Mezquita is uniquely part mosque and part cathedral. It has to be the only place in the World where you can worship Mass in a mosque. Sadly the Vatican did not consent to Muslims being allowed to worship in the Mezquita again.

With my head full of historical and religious stories, I jump on my motorbike to have some time to try to make sense of it all. I retrace my route to Sevilla and continue westwards to Portugal...

The road snakes its way through the gently folded uplands of the northern Huelva province. The largely rural landscape is the perfect backdrop for my mood. Gnarly oak trees, foraging (and soon to be legless) pigs, iconic Spanish bulls dusting themselves in the golden brown earth. What a beautiful place :)

Now I am fully aware that this is a long way to come for, what is essentially, a ham sandwich but Aracena is where Colin told me to stop to try the region's celebrated jamón ibérico, otherwise known as Iberian or Jabugo ham.

As I roll into town, Rincón de Juan catches my eye. It is standing room only in this wedge-shaped, stone-walled corner bar. A guy at the bar tells me that the best way to eat the ham is in one's fingers with a glass of sherry. I demolish the lot. The ham is sweet, rich and nutty, with a seductive creamy fat. The flavour is spectacular. I find it utterly addictive.

Passing over the border is as easy as crossing the road - no customs, no guards, no checks at all. Just derelict border posts with boarded-up windows. Somehow, though, the scenery knows to change as it becomes much flatter. I am now crossing the Alentejo plain, which is dotted with walled fortress towns and imposing hill-top castles.

I arrive in Évora, a beautifully preserved medieval town and decide to stop riding for the day. A quick pitstop in my residence for the evening, a former holiday home of a 16th-century count, and I am on the tourist trail...

Inside the walls, I wander along Évora's narrow, winding lanes and find the Aqueduto da Água de Prata (Aqueduct of Silver Water) is protruding into the town. It has been bringing clean water into the town since 1530. An impressive feat of engineering!

As my stomach tells me it is feeding time, I look at my clock to see it is 9pm - it appears my stomach has quickly adjusted to the Spanish lifestyle :) I head to the town's focal point of Praça do Giraldo. It is only then, looking at the clock in the main square, that I notice the time difference. The clock says 8pm; my clock, still on Spanish time, reads 9pm. For reasons I still have not fathomed, Spain is on Central European Time, Portugal in step with GMT. Still, with a belly full of the tasty Arroz de Pato (duck risotto) and Super Bock, I no longer care :D