April 8, 2012
Cortegada via a bit more of Portugal
lost in a forest
The sky's cloudless for a nice change. It's something that surprises me. Once outside, after a chat with the B&B owner another Brit guest, Barry, who's moving from southeast England to start a new life in Spain like so many others before him (disillusioned with England), it's about time to set off in the chilly April sunshine, wearing arm-warmers but thinking to myself that I should really don my fleece jacket.
Sunday club riders are out in force and bunches of them cruise by, always offering a greeting and some encouragement. This route 550 is a time-trial kind of road - quite straight with a decent shoulder. It does go up and down in those long waves that drove me a bit crazy in Portugal, though. It's just not what I'd spent around 1,500 euros on airfare and 36 hours in transit to experience.
Historic Tui is alive with day-trippers enjoying the fine weather and it seems like a good idea to join in and so I sit at one of the outside tables and have a toasted cheese sandwich and a chilled Fanta and soak up the continental ambiance for 20 nice minutes.
The young woman in the tourism booth says there isn't a bicycle path to ride on, although there's one on the other side of the river - in Portugal - perhaps as far as Moncao, something like a 15 kilometres further east. A man in the booth hawking his B&B says something about a rough track, but that with all my baggage it'd prove too difficult, so I set off towards Orense thinking it's me and the 550 for about 100 more kilometres.
The morning chill dissipates at just gone noon and it's now hot. I take a side turn and after going along a lane after a lane dividing vineyards, find the rough track the man had spoken about. He's right. It's a mud path that goes up and down at 45 degrees... okay for young guns on unloaded mountain bikes, but me.
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Route 440 rises and drops, at times I'm doing close to 60 km/hr. Yet riding up the long, gradual climbs has me in my smallest chain-ring. It's something that isn't enjoyable and when at a village called Caldelas, the small train station catches my eye.
The timetable says the next train - there are only a few each day - is at around 3:30 PM, so with two hours to spare, I ride on, thinking it'll be possible to perhaps hop on it at stations in either As Neves or Arbo.
The road bypasses As Neves and just before Arbo, at the top of a stiff climb, a petrol station offers a chance of a break and I treat myself to a litre carton of pineapple juice and a Twix, giving my body the sugar boost it craves. Siting in the shade out of the heat, catching the train seems like a really good idea.
A side road drops and weaves into Arbo, a sleepy place on a Sunday and no doubt not too different during the rest of the week. The train station is at the end of a cul-de-sac and I'm 20-odd minutes early, so wait around for the train to arrive. It never does.
Maybe they don't run on Sundays, but I'd heard them going along the rails, so it's just confusing. Giving it an extra 10 minutes seems enough and from the village I choose to drop further, whizzing down to the high bridge that crosses the Minho as the Michelin mappers have given the route on the Portuguese side of the valley a green line and it only seems fair to give them a second chance.
After the bridge the road goes up for a few kilometres, up to the village of Megaco. The road is like the 550 and in the village centre a sign points to a route with vineyards along it and that's where I head, bouncing along a cobbled lane that drops and soon turns into an unpaved path, just wide enough for a vehicle.
Looking back, this is where I should have done a U-turn.
The track is washed out in places, most of it actually, so I walk the bike - it's that sandy. It inclines seriously up and down, and no one is around. There are some wonderful secluded camp spots dotted around, grassy areas by the fast-flowing water, but being around 3:00, sleeping isn't on the agenda just yet.
At little junctions my compass keeps me heading east more or less, but getting lost is inevitable - for me. To cut a long story short, it takes me two-and-a-half hours to cover the 8 km from Magaco before I eventually reach the N 202.
A lot of that time is spent walking, either up or down tracks, although some of the paved sections of the small road are the best cycling I've experienced in Portugal: it's just that I'm now exhausted and can't fully enjoy it, especially not knowing where I am actually going.
The road takes me back into Spain at Ponte Barxas. The green line is a bit generous, although the route does have fine views. The problem is the constant climbs and descents, just like the other side of the river.
It's almost 7:00 PM and I'm looking for a place to sleep and it comes at the edge of Cortegada, a village I sweep into at 60 km/hr.
A 20-euro pension room is above simple restaurant where I later sit and watch Real Madrid play Valencia as I dine. That's until half time, when bed calls my name.
Today's ride: 98 km (61 miles)
Total: 1,778 km (1,104 miles)
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