September 25, 2015
Nothing Boring: Sagres to near Odemira.
The Funky Monkey Hostel run by a lanky Spanish surfer called Cazoos (my spelling), interested in providing a service for travellers, not just solely making money. A villa in the middle of a large garden plot and because, there were no available beds in dorms when I arrived, I was asked would I mind sleeping in a tent. Not at all. The young Spanish guy checking me in then shows me to a forest garden at the rear all most full of tents, except for one space where I could put up my tent for twelve euros fifty a night. Not a bad price, since I would have full use of the house, including wifi to update this journal.
As said, the hostel is full. This is especially felt in the evening in the kitchen, which is normal size, but small for three people cooking for about twenty people. It takes some skill working in a crowded kitchen, moving between worktop and hob without colliding with other cooks. The other cooks are young and it's really annoying when their friends come in and stand in the way chatting. "Get out!" I sometimes feel like yelling.
Though harmony prevails and I get on well with everybody; which, apart from a few individuals like myself, are a large group of German youngsters here on a two week surfing holiday. And an equally big group of Poles aged twenty-something doing the same. They've their own dog, a big white husky with a cute face like a panda, but isn't a dog to be petted and fussed over as he growls if you get too close. Not so Buddy, the house dog, a sand coloured Labrador who's everybody's friend, especial when you're eating.
The German lads had a barbeque one evening upon the grill outside the kitchen window. This was unfortunate as they left the kitchen window full open, using it as a food-hatch as they were eating inside, which would've been okay if it weren't such a cold evening coupled with a north wind. When I sat down to eat, it was like eating in a storm such was the draft blowing through. The big burly young men in tee-shirts didn't seen to notice at first until one comments on how cold it is and promptly closed the window.
The chicken they'd grilled was done in spicy chili sauce; too much it would seen, as one sucked deep after a bite and has to take a swig of beer to quell the fire in his mouth. I laugh and they invite me to try the chicken for myself, which I do. It was hot, but my taste buds must be harder as it doesn't have the same effect on me.
The workers are Rob and his girlfriend, who I don't remember her name, from Dorset England. They look the surfer types, both tall-athletic and blond with a suntan which says they've been long away from England. Rob asks "you're Irish, aren't you." I reply that I am. Then says "I have relatives from Ireland and Scotland. All over the place. See I'm a Cum-moner" he ends in unmistakeable west-country twang.
| Heart | 0 | Comment | 0 | Link |
The morning is overcast and the northerly which blew most of the days here, is absent. Being cool, it is ideal for cycling, but I wonder does the grey sky mean there's rain on the way.
Check out is twelve, so I get my money's worth by finishing off a journal page. Then its into the kitchen where I've still eggs and I make a humungous omelette. A young German couple are there, both not much more than nineteen: he is frying bacon, while she wraps her arms round his waist and leans her chin upon his shoulder looking on, standing right where I'm trying to stand and work the omelette-pan. We are both finished about the same time and we sit at the same table to eat. I have a mound of baguette sliced lengthwise and toasted and buttered. They, have their bacon which has reduced to small crispy strips on a plate to the side and only use as a taster, while tucking into baguette slice like mine and spread thickly with Nutella.
I spent the rest of the morning on this and that, making sure the tyres are solid hard and sorting things and packing carefully, making check-out with ten minutes to spare. Then its round to Intermarche to buy enough food for a day or two and a coffee before finally setting off.
The cloud is clearing now and the road is the same road, there being only one road south to Sagres ending in town. On this side back north the shoulder has a utilities trench dug and refilled with rough uneven tar through the middle, leaving me to ride out on the edge by the white line.
At Ville Do Bispo, a pleasant village of white houses on a hilltop to the left, where I pause briefly, seeing lots of cars with NL Dutch number plates parked by the curb and their tall lanky occupants about town, before taking N568 north. A serene road through avenue of conifers much of the way, if it were not for weight of traffic, no shoulder and cars bearing down on me from behind, when there are on-coming cars, not waiting until the up-coming traffic has passed, so they can pull out and give me space, but brushing by.
I stop at a picnic table along the way and shortly come another touring cyclist from the north on a mountain bike with only rear-panniers and stops. A burly round red-faced man with a trimmed black beard showing streaks of grey. He doesn't speak at first, but pants getting his breath back, then utters "Sagres?" in a questioning tone. "I've come from Sagres" I reply "I'm riding north." Then says "I wait for my wife" and adds "how is the road." I reply "undulating. A little climbing, but nothing too much."
He does not seem convinced at my description of the road not being too hilly. Seems he has had enough of climbing. We exchange usual points when two cyclists meet. He is from Latvia. His wife has caught up by now, also astride a mountain bike with only rear-panniers, a tall stunningly beautiful woman with waist-length auburn hair in a pony-tail from her cycle-helmet. They tell me they're cycling from Lisbon to Faro and he says "we are only tourists" when I relate my long tour. She retorts "nothing boring" when she hears of the up and down nature of the way south.
Around four I join N120 at a tee-junction. Here the traffic is worse, it being a major route from Lagos north. But shortly I reach relieve in the town of Ajezur, wherein is another Intermarche: the French chain is as popular as Lidl here. They are preferable, having the advantage of a cafeteria, where I stop for an afternoon coffee and a custard tart, called locally "pastels".
I sit out front and at the table next get talking to a middle-aged German man. "You don't mind if I smoke?" he asks, reaching for a cigarette pack. "No. Go ahead" "I was off them for five years. But in Morocco they sell them in singles, so thought I'll just have one. They are very addictive. Soon I'd another and before long I'm back on them."
We talk a little about Morocco, me relating my positive experience there and when I ask is he on holidays, replies, he lives here half the year and the other half in Germany. We also talk on prices. How cheap Portugal is. The coffee and tart I'm having cost one euro fifty, whereas in Ireland it'd be five euros.
The road on is twisty, without shoulder and very hairy, what with the boy-racer mentality of some of the drivers. You know the cretin who doesn't steer round bends; instead, keeps a near straight line, just as you're rounding the bend, so that they're tight in to the verge missing you by inches, then metres ahead are out in the middle of the road. Then come a lengthy hairpin descent and a car passes me just before a tight bend, then has to brake to get round, causing me to brake even harder to avoid running into the back of them. I wonder would they brake with a truck so close behind. Probably not.
Anyway, I was growing sick of the road and looking forward to getting off to camp for the night, it's getting to that time. But presently, it is either to steep to the side, or there are houses near any suitable level wooded area.
I preserve and soon come to a good gravel track into a eucalyptus plantation. There's a sign at the road "Coto Municipal" so I take it to be common owned land. A few hundred metres in I find a level spot on a short side-track that come to a dead-end.
| Heart | 0 | Comment | 0 | Link |
| Heart | 0 | Comment | 0 | Link |
Today's ride: 79 km (49 miles)
Total: 10,564 km (6,560 miles)
| Rate this entry's writing | Heart | 0 |
| Comment on this entry | Comment | 0 |