September 27, 2015
A Stuck Record: Sandy Forest Camp to Lisbon.
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The only escape from this terrible road E1, which continues with a rough broken shoulder and badly truck-wheel rutted surface just outside the white line, is a turnoff on the left, N253, shown on the map as a little two parallel lines road not too far ahead from where I re-join the road from where I camped. It is only a few kilometres more of slow going, riding carefully round potholes and the jolts on the bike of rough edges I nevertheless fail to avoid.
On getting as far it's such a relieve to be riding off upon the slip-road for a town called Alcarcer; just short of, I turn left at a tee-junction upon N253 with a sign for Troja 43 km. A place I remember last year catching a ferry from across a river estuary to Setubal, whereupon it is only thirty-eight kilometres into Lisbon. So I should make the city comfortably before dark.
The road is dead straight looping up and down and flanked by round topped pine forest. There is a "Piso em Mau Estado em 13 km" sign, but while a little bumpy, is quite good in comparison to that awful road I got off.
After twenty-five kilometre I come to Comporta, a small town at the junction of a road parallel to the coast. Here I ride off the road into town and ride a loop through quiet residential streets before finding the commercial centre, a row of restaurants, cafes and small shops.
I stop at the first in the row and inside from the man behind the bar order a café com leite and two pastel custard tarts. Then having received and paid, I take them outside to a table; unfortunately, the only table left unoccupied is a table right under the sound-system speaker, which is babbling out a dance tune with a lyric that goes "when the sun goes down" then a simple piece of saxophone, followed by "when the sun goes down". Again. Followed by the same piece of saxophone. I thought then the lyric would develop into what happens when the sun goes down. Oh no. I wasn't to find out as it persists with "when the sun goes down" on and on with the same saxophone in-between the supposedly magic words, when the sun, oh please. Used to be said in the days of vinyl records, when something or someone repeated something over and over, it or they, where like a stuck record, referring to the needle jumping back into the previous groove of a scratched vinyl record with the effected of the same lyric being repeated over and over.
The further dozen or so kilometres to the ferry-terminal at Troja goes in a breeze, indeed there is a light southerly helping me along and it's turning out another warm sticky day for late September as the road reaches out over a narrowing bush bound sand-split with the ocean on the left and wide tidal inlet on the right, lined by columns of steam and cranes of industrial structures on the far shore.
Secluded in among pine trees on the outermost point, are luxury apartment blocks and a plush hotel and golf coarse. The ferry is off to the right from the road's end and only when I ride down to the jetty, a ferry has just left. So I lean the bike against a safety barrier and take out my book, expecting a long wait until the next ferry. Though glancing up after reading a page, see another ferry approach, meeting the one that has left midway on the wide expanse of water.
Disembarking in Setubal around two and not having bough enough food to see me through Sunday, I decide and stop for lunch at one of the many fish restaurants lining the waterfront. A little extravagance for one day won't break the bank.
I wanted to order fresh sardine, but although on the menu, the waitress nods, saying it isn't. Then I settle for mackerel. It come out, five freshly caught and grilled fish and scrumptious, though I cautiously pick through to avoid swallowing a fishbone. It is accompanied with boiled potatoes, which couldn't have been more than a week since being in the ground, because like the fish they are extremely fresh: a bit like new potatoes. The only thing I don't like is the basket of bread she the waitress puts on the table, listed in the menu, costing one fifty. I didn't want bread, nor need it, as the fish and potatoes are sufficient, but there you go. I knew when the bill come that even though the bread was left untouched, I'd be charged for it; and sure enough, I am; bringing a sub ten euro meal up to a eleven.
Leaving Setubal up a long commercial street and then following signs for Lisbon, forgoing the motorway and taking N10 up a wooded hillside, climbing steeply for a few kilometres before cresting through a gap and thereafter a busy highway largely flanked by built-up areas towards the capital.
While pushing on I meet another full on loaded touring cyclist coming the other way. We wave and he slows. Seems he wishes to stop for a chat, so I stop, but there's no let up in the constant string of traffic to crossover. Eventually he makes a move first, crossing safely: a bearded long haired young man who tells me he's been on the road two months from his home between Reims and Metz in north eastern France and plans on continuing to Morocco and further down west Africa to Senegal, where he would like to catch a sailing boat to South America.
The second cyclist I meet is from South America, not more than half a kilometre further; lightly loaded, on a mountain bike with only rear panniers. He stops and gets across at once. He strikes me as enamoured by meeting a real long distance cyclist when I start telling him my route here: he having started in Santiago de Compostela and will continue south to finish in Cadiz. He is very inquiring and it become like twenty questions.
"How far do I cycle a day?" "Ninety to a hundred and ten kilometres" I answer short. "Where do I sleep?" "I camp" "Where?" "Anywhere" "Do I always cycle alone?" "Yes" And so on until he's exhausted things to ask.
Caston is his name and from Buenos Aires. He gives me his email address and tells me to contact him when I arrive in the city. Also has friends in Esquel, down in Patagonia, whom he assures me will guide me round. I don't much like this idea, having been in Patagonia quite a few times. There are few roads making route planning simple. Without looking at a map, but through familiarity, I've mentally planned a route months ago.
Nearing the city I'm glad to remain on N10, as last year, I ended up riding on the motorway the final stretch.
The city sprawls consuming the hilly terrain to the south, meaning a lot of climbing in warm exhaust thick city street, until finally descending to the waterfront of the river Lisbon is on, then take a ferry across to the city centre and check into the same hostel as the last time.
Today's ride: 108 km (67 miles)
Total: 10,778 km (6,693 miles)
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