Raining Again: Figuero Dos Vinhos to hilltop woodland camp.

October 12, 2015

A nice country house on a hectare of ground (that's roughly two and a half acres for those more used to old imperial measurements) for one hundred and fifty thousand pounds Sterling. A bargain. One of the two houses the English couple staying in the hotel viewed yesterday in the rain. They were very talkative. I didn't get their names, but they thought me and my cycling journey through Europe marvellous.

He a big jovial man fond of eating, picks up a tub of yogurt from the breakfast buffet table and points at words "Fat Free" on the side and laughs, saying, fat is good for you. He pets his amble belly to empathize the fact. Then turns to the cakes and loads three different wedges thereof, "that's more like it." "Not for breakfast love" his wife utters.

This morning shows little improvement in the rainy weather of the weekend. The pavement outside the hotel is dry, but it won't be for long as the sky remains dull and gloomy

I say my goodbyes to the English house-buyers, out in the street waiting for their lift to view more houses today. The mini-bus turns up just as I set off and before I've reached the end of the narrow hotel street, spots of rain hit my nose and splodge the street and by the time I'm leaving town the rain is pelting down rightly, making navigating the way on problematic, whatwith rain-beaded glasses, seeing signs is difficult. Hard to even think as I cower in misery. And I can't take the map out to look at, not if I don't want to get it wet and ruined.

I had over the weekend been online using a Google map, plotting a route east on road N237 toward a place called Serta, which in the comfort of the hotel looked straightforward enough, but on the road in the rain, I fail to find it at a roundabout on the edge of town. Instead I'm on N236 to somewhere called "Pera" something: a road rolling up and down in-between metal crash-barrier and pine-forest. It crosses over a motorway with a big pie sign on the on-slip, no horse-drawn carriages, pedestrians nor cyclists, so common here in Portugal on roads that look nothing like normal dual-carriageway motorways, this being single-carriageway, and continues upon a dark wet sheen of tarmac with a good shoulder while low cloud obscures the steep wooded hills to the side, the rain having eased a bit and the cars that swoosh by in spray are few.

Then there's one final descend to the aforementioned "Pera". My brakes making a rough metal on metal rumble and I raw cold, hoping not to come off on the rain-soaked road. At a roundabout at the bottom I see a sign for "Lousa", which moments later ring a bell. This is the way I rode last year, I remember it now. I ride through the main street vacated in the rain except for an odd umbrella bearer, a bank, pharmacy and a couple of pastelaria cafes with people looking out on me passing. I resist the temptation stopping for a coffee, as I really had my fill of the hotel breakfast buffet, including a whole plate of cake: the sugar enough to keep me on a high for the day.

I remember the way on is a small narrow road and I pass a sign "Lousa 32 km" just as the rain picks up again and plod on knowing the climb ahead over namesake hill Serra Lousa, will warm me up somewhat, but am full of foreboding for the long steep in places descend the other side, my brakes having little bite.

That day last year was rainy weather too, but had dried off when I was climbing Serra Lousa at dusk as wisps of misty cloud lifted off hills around, revealing hilltops lined with sentinel slow turning wind-turbines thereon. Today there is no wind-turbines, the cloud too low to see anything as rain continues hissing upon the vehicle-wide strip of tarmac, a small little-used local road where I haven't met or been passed by a car. Something to rejoice about, as it winds and switch-backs up the hillside through the trees. Then levelling out toward the top, which I come to quicker than expected, and big blades of turbines just to the side come into view through low cloud enveloped treetops. Closer still there's a loud whining sound and creak from these large slow turning propellers overhead in the mist. Here I pull into the side, leaning the bike against an old disused hut. It has stopped raining for now as I adjust my brakes so I've some stopping power on the long descend ahead.

Twenty kilometre descend from Serra Lousa, pelting down rain intermittently. The rain beads on the lens are intended.

Near the bottom of namesake hill, a roadside viewpoint over the white house-town, Lousa.

Relaxing during the final ascent of the day.

It rains again and approaching dusk, I'm glad to arrive at this remote well-drained wooded hilltop.

I got down the twenty kilometre descent safely. The brakes worked, slowing me so I didn't career off out of control and end up going off into a tree on the steep parts. Halfway down the rain came on pelting it down, then nearing the bottom with the white houses of Lousa filling the valley, it stops raining completely and there's a moment when a small piece of blue sky shows, a ray of sunshine with dramatic effect.

I lunch in a pastelatia in Lousa and stock up at a supermarket leaving town, a few days worth as there may not be much ahead.

I take the right turn for Gois and before reaching that town turn right again for Castelo Blanco, where a dozen kilometres in the rain come on again as I begin a fairly long steady climb, where I now camp in a forest track nearing the top.

Today's ride: 84 km (52 miles)
Total: 11,084 km (6,883 miles)

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