In One Ear And Out The Other: Lisbon to Maize field camp.

October 8, 2015

My stop in Lisbon this year lacked the fun element of when I stayed here last October. This year I'd to put up with large groups of teenagers and presently there's a big school group, seventeen year olds from France. When they're in the building, it sounds like an earthquake has struck, as they walk like elephants with heavy stamps on the floorboards resonating throughout the hostel. Just like when class finishes in school and the corridor fills with a stamped of rowdy children. Their teacher seems to be fed up, referring to them in a chat to me, in broken French on my part, as "les enfant grand"

This year having done enough sightseeing and having got the journal up to the present, I'm glad to be leaving. The plan is to reach Madrid late next week, giving me about twelve days in the city.

Last year I rode west out of Lisbon along the north side of the Tagus. This year I will cycle the opposite way.

I asked in the bike shop, where I was hoping to buy brake-pads, which they didn't have, is along the river inland a good way to get out of the city and there isn't a point where the road I'll be cycling on becomes a motorway and there's no alternative. The bike shop man assures me that where there is "highway" as he says, there's always an alternative.

The hostel owner's son tells me it is all flat, nothing to worry about; but says, its getting cold for camping. I try intimating that hilly terrain will add interest; and, it is not all that cold at nights yet. I've a warm sleeping-bag, in any case.

I am in no hurry checking out. Today I want to get out of the city to somewhere with forest to camp. David the receptionist says when I ask, I can stay to midday. David is from Namibia, but has moved to Portugal. He has that distinctive afrikans accent. When talking about the guy that asked quests for money, he says "such people are baid fur business".

I spend a good hour reading, correcting and reading again a journal page before publishing. Reminding me of a forum here a few days ago, titled "When do you publish journals?" A replier writes: it should be everyday, as that is what the "jour" French for day, in journal means.

Perhaps in an ideal world, there would be a lot more than twenty-four hours in the day, leaving eight hours for sleep, eight hours for cycling, two hours to cook and eat, then many hours to edit, sort and upload photos and writes a worthwhile narrative. Then a few hours more to do other thing like read a book.

Anyway, all this has delayed me and after a final breakfast, it is half eleven when I wheel the loaded bike into the street and say my goodbyes.

Following the river inland; called Tagus in English; Tejo in Portuguese; and, Tajo in Spain, where it originates over a thousand kilometres upstream.

Once down by the waterfront and turned left, I take to the pavement passing through meandering tourists looking up but not looking where they're going. Continuing from the centre there's a smooth red cycle-path curbed off from the road.

Then a kilometre further a blue and yellow Lidl sign come into view, reminding me I need to stop and get some shopping in, which will further delay me getting out of the city.

Already past the dockside stacks of ship-containers and concrete grain-silos, the river on my right, which is more estuary, being like a lake, the far side is a mute grey-green strip of land. Ahead the long line of the "Vasco Da Gama" bridge: a road on stilts across the wide body of water: the longest bridge in Europe.

Getting closer there's a huge egg on it's side shaped building. And closer still, I see the oval dome roof, doesn't close all the way in, there's a concave and its obviously a football stadium. Yes, I remember the walking tour guide mentioning the bridge and the stadium, but it goes in one ear and out the other, as I now forget the name of the Lisbon team he said who play here.

Modern dockland development. This was after the worse of no thought for cyclists. Hereafter is regular cobblestones.

The nice cycle-path has ended now and in its place, planners have made every effort to make life difficult for a heavily leaden touring cyclist. The multi-million development all along and by the football stadium has been laid out in cobblestones. Nice looking, but a pain to cycle. If it were a regular straightforward cobblestone street, I could feel like I'm riding "The Paris Roubaix" cycling classis and feel brave rocking along over each bump. But no, it's been laid-out with little shallow trenches, a few inches deep, every four metres, meaning I've to slow right down.

Then I see a cycle-path again, out by the water's edge the other side of a marina. I push the bike across a wooden-plank bridge, not wanting to risk a wheel going down into a slot between planks, but on the other side find the cycle-path which has been upon concrete to this point, continues on upon boardwalk with the same slots big enough for my wheels to go down into. The other cyclist being all on mountain bikes, its no threat to them.

I double back and continue slowly as before. Then come to a regular even cobblestone street where I can ride across rapidly, rattle rattle rattle and pretend I'm riding Paris Roubaix.

This leads me out to N10 with a narrow strip of shoulder to ride upon. I skirt a couple of towns, mainly roundabouts avoiding the motorway which N10 runs parallel to. Then a big town, Villa Franca, which the road narrows and passes through the streets of, pass pavement cafes and the sound of Fado singing in the air.

The N10 onward does a sharp right and crosses a long narrow bridge across the much narrower river at this point, which I start upon, but realise from the amount of on-coming and passing traffic, especially as every third vehicle is an artic-truck and it being shoulder-less, it isn't a save place to be. To the side, there's a knee-high concrete barrier and on the inside of which, there's a walkway wide enough for the bike. So I step over and haul the bike over after me and ride the rest of the kilometre or so long bridge in-between the narrow confines of the walkway being careful not to ground panniers along the side.

Harvesting rice. The area to the side of the river is extremely flat low-lying flood plain.

On the other side of the bridge, I continue a few kilometres to the next town, where I turn left upon N118, taking me north.

The landscape for the rest of the day is table flat to a far horizon without as mush as a low hill.

There are large fields of a short ripe yellow crop, which combine harvesters cut their way through. I've seen this crop before in South America. Its rice. The ground is soggy, evident as the machine runs on caterpillar tracks, muddy water running off the track plate as they rotate up off the soaking underlay.

I pass plots of forest about five o'clock, but having had a late start, want to make the best of what remains of the day, so keep going until the sun starts waning. Of coarse it is all agricultural land now, but just as the road passes through a shallow cutting, I find a secluded track up to and along a maize field already harvested, being rows of cut-off stokes. The vehicle wheel track continues along the side of the field with a hedgerow alongside, where I find a good level spot to put my tent.

Today's ride: 110 km (68 miles)
Total: 10,888 km (6,761 miles)

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