Going Rain Or No: Lisbon to Sintra.

November 15, 2014

Suitcases on trolley wheels fill the corridor between the kitchen and dining room this morning, belonging to a group, including the Taiwan girl and a stunning blond girl from Shanghai and a few other Chinese who return to Nice where they attend school studying tourism. They hastily finish off and rise to leave with a commotion of chairs on the floorboards when I come to the breakfast table. And shortly there's a rumbling of trolley wheels in the corridor enough to wake the whole house up.

I look out the window and see the sky is cloudless. A sunny day for getting back on the road. The next time I look out while washing my dishes, it is grey and shortly when I step out on the balcony, there are spots of rain. Not long after this the hostel owner's son is in the kitchen talking to me about leaving today and our conversation is interrupted by a hiss from the open french windows of a heavy downpour. I turn to the window. It looks horrible out. Stepping out I see a crescendo of big raindrops bouncing off the cobble street below.

I wait it out sat in the lounge using my netbook. I check tomorrow's forecast. Sunny with zero chance of precipitation and the same for Monday. I wanted to check in for another night but the hostel is full, nevertheless there might be place for me on the floor somewhere. Towards eleven however, the sky is clearing with large areas of blue sky. It is looking optimistic, so I decide to get going. My aim to get beyond Sintra.

The highway following the riverbank is shoulderless and a bit hairy. Looking across to the left I see cyclists riding along the river, but can't get across because of the rail-track in the middle until I come to a foot bridge. It is a heavy haul lifting the bike up the steps, then I've to be careful going down the other side especially in these cycling shoes, which are a disaster to walk in and one moment's lack of concentrate and I'll fall on my back downstairs with the bike tumbling down on top of me.

At this point I've just passed underneath the huge golden gate bridge. Impressive, just the scale of it, stark against enveloping dark rain cloud. Its double-decker carriageway up in the sky with vehicles moving along it looking like toys. Riding onward the path is bumpy cobbles and shared with walkers and joggers. Going is slow with a headwind and a bank of rain is moving in. I take shelter in a café. It looks expensive and my fears are confirmed when a waiter comes along and hands me a menu. Coffee three euros. Normally in Portugal coffee is one twenty. The waiter doesn't return and looking out the rain is passing with blue sky in its wake. I put the menu down and leave.

The path passes circuitously around a succession of marinas and going is too slow, but then is no more and the only way is the highway, which is four lanes divided without a shoulder and with a high curbed side-walkway, so not only have I to watch for cars coming up on my outside, but also watch not to ground the pedal on said curb.

It rains again just as I come to a roundabout to get across and down to a beach where there's a café to take shelter. The wind makes it raw cold and drives the rain horizontally. There are lots of cars in the car park by which surfers change into wetsuits and looking toward the beach there are great big waves. I eat my omelette sandwich on the sheltered side of the café, then enter and have a coffee with two custard pastries and wait for the rain to pass.

Shortly after starting again the road to Sintra turns off and going inland is a gradual climb all the way and that curb on the inside continues. It rains again. This time I shelter under a tree.

I'm looking forward to inside accommodation when I reach Sintra. The place is full of tourists. There's a palace and a Moorish castle crowning a hilltop. The lady in the tourist office marks a hostel on a map. Outside it takes a little bit finding my bearings. Then I see the street meant, pass the palace and narrow downhill.

The hostel is in a nice old house and the receptionist is a Scot called Alan.

Well although Sunday is a nice day, it seemed pointless riding on this morning without walking up the hill to the castle; also the hostel is alluding, so I decide to make a day of it and check in for another night.

Such a nice hostel that I decide to remain Sunday.

Sintra from palace steps. Dad takes selfie.

Path below walls od the moor castle on the hilltop.

Today's ride: 40 km (25 miles)
Total: 7,965 km (4,946 miles)

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