March 27, 2012
Marvão
up through Urra and Portalegre
Once showered and having had the buffet breakfast, I Skype Debbie, write some notes, sorted out my stuff then wheel by bike out of the room into the bright sunshine. It's 10 o'clock, the same time as yesterday. There are around 60 km to ride: no problem
From the supposedly three-star hotel it's a short but steep drop down out of Monforte to the main road heading north, the wide but thankfully not too busy E 802. Not a pleasant touring route, being designed with A-to-B motorists and truck drivers in mind, it's one piece of tarmac I want to escape as soon as possible, which I do after half a dozen kilometres - making a right and getting on a rural road veering towards a village named Assumar, about 5 km away.
The wind, which has been noticeable but not too bothersome, is now attacking me face on. And, although tranquil, the lane keeps going up and up - not that steeply, but enough to make me curse that Nazi bus driver for not letting me whiz direct to Portalegre on Sunday.
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It's almost 11 when I roll into Assumar, where I hope to find a café and have a drink. The whole village is locked up, however, with just a few elderly men sitting in the shade along the tree-lined central street. They acknowledge me as I cruise by.
Urra, due north on an even smaller road, a potholed one that also goes up, is my next hope for a break. Although only 10 km away, I need one when I arrive at noon, as the route has climbed, slowly at first, then finishing with a granny-gear rise into the village. At the crossroads is a café and a store, which when I enter is surprisingly big, with a few aisles, like in a small supermarket.
The man who runs it does't have any freshly baked chocolate croissants, but searches and finds a pack of four small ones which only cost a euro. The strawberries are really tempting and I buy some, along with a litre carton of pineapple juice and a couple of yogurts. His wife washes the fruit when she knows I'm going to eat them right then, while the man asks if I needed any oil for my bike.
I'm sure he isn't looking to sell me some, as it turns out he's a cyclist and has done a tour himself and once outside, he comes and joins me with his laptop to show me photos of himself and a couple friends who rode up to northern Spain. It'd been a five-day trip to Santiago de Compostela, a religious place that many pilgrims walk to.
The strawberries are a disappointment, tasting as they do of nothing.
From Urra, it's down (at last!) to the main road, which continues to gently descend andmy speed is nearly 40 km/hr, with the wind now magically behind me. But Portalegre is a hilltop town and it's a slow climb through it to reach a vantage point, where there's a view for many many miles. A sign says it's 800-odd metres high, but it seems more than that, what with all the effort involved in getting up here.
The road, quiet and lined with pine trees, curves around the contours and isn't so strenuous a ride. There are a couple of junctions, but Marvao is now signposted; earlier it had been a bit confusing and I'd had to ask a couple of people if I was heading in the right direction.
The man behind the desk in the museum says Marvoa is upstairs. His reply initially takes me aback, but then I realize what he really means is that it is simply up. 'You will see it,' he assures me. Once outside among the Roman ruins - a forum and gateway - sure enough, I see Marvao right there, right above me, right on top of a mountain.
Knowing there's a hard climb coming, I stop at a café and down a couple of cold fizzy drinks and a small packet of potato crisps. On the wall is board, about two-feet tall, mounted with a variety of clocks, watches and penknives, something I've noticed in a couple of other villages - with each item having a number. No doubt there are lottery tickets for sale.
The sign just along the road tells me it's 5 km to Marvao and it's obvious that they'll all be sloping up. The gradient isn't too bad and I manage to keep spinning away in my lowest gears, stopping just a few times to cool down; the sun is now strong and the wind had disappeared, that is, until I round the mountain. The shade feels chilly, but the views are great - a vista that stretches endlessly away to a distant horizon. The rest of the countryside appears flat, but I knew it isn't.
I'd imagined Portuguese to be similar to Spanish. It's not. It sounds more like a mix of Dutch and Russian and the woman in the tourism office corrects me when I said alentejo, the vast rolling area I've been riding across for days. I can't replicate her pronunciation; she just laughs.
The map of the small walled town she gives me shows the hotel and she mentions prices of other places to stay, circling them in pen, and reckoning the pension is 25 euros without breakfast, the others a bit more. As the hotel is just along the single-car-width alley, that's where I go first.
The receptionist quotes me 40 euros for a single but comes down to 35 if I stay for two nights. It's only a few days ago that I'd rested, but I feel another break is due - the ride has seen me climbing for over 30km, a lot of it into strong wind. She has a deal.
Chelsea are playing Lisbon team Benfica in the Champions League; it's on the TV as I eat in the hotel dining room. At half time, I pop up to my room and watch the second half there, feeling my eyes close as the game wears on. How the English outfit win 1-0 is a mystery.
Today's ride: 60 km (37 miles)
Total: 966 km (600 miles)
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