Misdemeanor: Zebreira to Olive Grove Camp.

October 14, 2015

Actually the French where right. The brothers from Clermont Ferrand at any rate, that started making tyres back in 1888 and gave the resulting company their family name, Michelin. And produce brilliant road maps too. Never doubt the accuracy of their maps. It is only sixty kilometres as shown in the map from Castelo Branco to the Spanish border, not seventy as the road sign would have me believe.

I found this out earlier.

But first remember I camped not far from a farm. Well this morning there was a lot of activity about the farm first thing. A pickup truck towing a livestock trailer arrived while I'm breakfasting in the tent opening. A couple of men had brought the cattle up into the yard in anticipation to taking some away. They where there forever with dogs running around, meaning I'd to crouch down low and be discrete while striking camp.

Though in the end, whether they spotted my tent down in the bushes, they were probably too preoccupied to care. Yes a cyclist camped in the low field there and now he's leaving.

I get away without fuss and only half a kilometre on come to Zebreira, a village wherein I count four pastelerias. I choose the one that appears best from the outside and stop for coffee and a custard tart and as usual spread the map out upon the outside table I sit at, it being warm and sunny.

My map is for the whole of Spain and Portugal and therefore don't spot a thin white road through the thick yellow boundary representing the border. But when riding on, after only a few kilometres, I come to a right turnoff with a right pointing sign "Espanhia 9 km" And then see another sign with "Espanhia" pointing straight on.

It all become apparent after a moment. The road straight ahead, N240 with the seventy kilometres distance back at Castelo Branco, swings north here and continues parallel to the border before crossing, a bit of a detour for me. So I go left and after seven kilometres pass a hilltop village and begin a steep descend to a river. Then crossing over a bridge, pass a signboard "Benvenido Espania" and also a few hundred metres further a customary signboard with speed limits, as I start a lengthy climb away on the river's other side.

Notice abandoned commercial premises in background. There's lots of these here, including hotels/hostels and petrol stations, having gone out of business, bankrupt or whatever.

I have been in Spain an hour when I come to a major drop where the road switch-backs steeply into a deep hollow, my rear brake making the now usual scrapping rumble and doing a bad job of slowing me as I hang on nervously round each bend. Then halfway down, hear a vehicle follow behind and when the road levels on a riverbank at the bottom, it passes and following the road sharp left ahead of me, crosses over a long and narrow old stone bridge over Rio Tajo. A Toyota Land Cruiser in green and white livery with Garda Civil on the side, Spanish equivalent of gendarmes. Once turned onto the road parallel with the river the other side, they pull in to the side and two officers get out and one raises a hand for me to stop.

The more senor addresses me "Adonde vas?"

I answer respectfully "Madrid"

The younger officer then speaks "Adonda soy?"

I reply "Irlanda" and wonder what this is all about.

The senor officer speaks again "Aqui, en Espania en la carretera, es obligatorio a andar en bici con casco" he put both hands up and cuffs his head with the palms of his hands to demonstrate a cycle-helmet. Then motions with the palm of his left hand holding an imaginary notebook and the fingers of his right hand holding a pen writing out a ticket, if I persist not to.

They advise me to buy one and I ask is there a bike shop in the next town, meaning to do so.

Spain where motorists give you lots of space when passing. And generally a very road safety conscious nation.

I get off on a caution but fear I may not be as fortunate next time round.

I started this tour wearing a helmet, you know. Then the morning I was leaving the hostel in Florence back in April, I'd left my bike out in the common room fully loaded ready to leave with the helmet resting on the handlebar-bag, so I wouldn't go without it, while I did some last minute interneting, when some sleepy git knocks the bike over onto the floor and doesn't even say excuse me. I picked the bike up again, but being preoccupied at the time, missed picking up the helmet, which remained on the floor.

Then later, having ridden ten kilometres out of the city, suddenly felt naked about the head. And realise I've gone without my helmet.

It would've been unthinkable to turn round and tackle Italian traffic back into the city. And anyway it was old and battered. So I carried on without.

I have intended to buy a replacement, but as I'm eventually packing up my bike to fly to South America, it's one more item to take up space in the stringent luggage allowance. You'd be surprised how much space a cycle helmet would take up in a bike factory packing box supplied by bike shops.

So I hold my hands up. I'm not in cahoots with Crazy Guy's no-helmet avocat based in Scotland.

High-speed rail link viaduct under-construction.

Being caught short without legally required headgear aside, which cast a shadow upon my first day back in Spain, I feel regret having left Portugal. I really recommend it as a cycling destination once you set off into the hills of the interior upon light traffic rural roads. I didn't get to Porto, but I feel it would be another Lisbon, a great city well worth a visit and not awfully hard to cycle into or out of.

Spain on the other hand, well today I continued after my run in with the law upon arid plain, nice today in warm sunshine, but bleak when it turns dull and dark cloud brings heavy rain, not uncommon in Autumn. And the road will rise to even bleaker high country on the run into Madrid in the days to come. Any later than now and I could expect hard night frost.

In late afternoon my road drops down into another great hole with an arm of a large embalse, or reservoir on Rio Tajo reaching into it. The same river that passes through Lisbon. And having bottomed out across a viaduct and tackled the climb out the other side back upon the plain, a bit further there come yet another long drop to another arm of the same body of water.

I am forced to cycle to after sunset this evening too, because of continuous stock fencing all the way alongside either side of the road.

In desperation I enter through one set of gates with a hunting sign and wheel tracks going in among wild olive trees, but soon see ahead a flock of sheep and not wanting to spook them, retreat back to the gates and leave. Then only a few hundred metres ahead, the fencing on both sides come to an end and I push the bike into an overgrown olive grove and so, stop for the night unhappy at the hardship of finding good wild camping possibilities.

Home! Home again. I like to be here when I can. (Opening line in Breath Reprise, at the end of Time, on Pink Floyd's Dark Side Of The Moon)No the wine didn't induce merriment. I just interpret the meaning "Home!" is sung as if coming in the house door after a long day and calling out to a spouse "Home dear!" and lamenting how inhuman life is in the rat-race. The next line is "When I'm home cold and tired. Its good to warm my bones beside the fire." Be human. Be one's self.

Today's ride: 115 km (71 miles)
Total: 11,306 km (7,021 miles)

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