Epilogue.........

For anyone who picks up on this and wanted to talk more about the art of cycle touring then feel free to email me on tonyives@sky.com or call on 07970 455616. For the record then I had another "moment in the sun" when BBC Radio York picked up on an email I sent them and I had a 3 minute slot on the Breakfast Show with Jeremy Buxton on August 10th about "living the dream".

"Maybe I'm Amazed"

(Paul McCartney)

So I stayed at São Bras de Alportel for a couple of days. Anna had booked the Jet2 flight for Saturday and I had a few days to kill, and I thought to split this time between here and Faro. The stay was restful and I discovered that the Portuguese had a draft and bottled beer stout…called Super Bock Stout! So I paddled about writing up the blog, eating and drinking. Lots of places have wi-fi throughout Europe but in this instance I just found a bench in a residential area and clicked on the 'connections' until one didn't require a password. São Bras is still a couple of hundred metres above the coast and I flew into Faro Airport in less than an hour to check out what they insisted on as regards packing the bike up. I suppose I was hoping for that defining moment of seeing the sea and literally drinking in the view but Faro traffic is fast and furious with lots of tall buildings obscuring a full view and whilst I caught something magical and blue it wasn’t until I cycled to the centre and plonked myself on the side of the harbour that I could look at the sea and simply reflect on the bold facts that I had travelled 2,035 miles, up hill and down, in hot and often wet and sometimes cold weather, along cycle paths, over cobbles and dual carriageways, with solitude and articulated trucks and every inch had been covered under my own power. Before the flight on one day I cycled along the coast east to Tavira, a truly beautiful resort nowadays, for an omelette and coke. Other events included finding a wretched box to pack the bike into to satisfy Jet2 and also buying a holdall to put my panniers and other luggage into. I found a super bike shop who happily gave me a free box (http://www.bikealgarve.com/) and the folks at my last hotel were very nice and helpful (http://www.hoteldombernardo.com/).

As a final thing to say then.... Anna and the kids had been wonderful support and I had loved the texts, emails and Facebook messages that I had had from people (a really big thank you) as I progressed but ultimately I had achieved this myself and on reflection then it is amazing and these are truly the times of our life.

Faro Marina

"Stairway To Heaven"

(Led Zepplin)

Oh no….not the rain again! After France then there cannot be any more water left to fall? I was right but the day started terribly grey……no, stop….it is no time for the garnish, I have to tell you about the most wonderful 58 kilometres of my trip…and life?



Entry to the Final Frontier....



I left Almodôvar after a sandwich (no garnish) and deduced that I must be on one of the former main arteries to the Algarve as this windy N2 was beautifully line painted and the surface was immaculate but twisted and climbed like a bitch! At first I descended to less than 200 metres as the road curved and provided a magic carpet ride downwards. However it then fought back and I started to move into the mountainous region of the Algarve with an eventual height of 589 metres. However, enough numbers. I mused as I found the lower gears about the trucks that must have belched diesel fumes, up until they put in the motorway, as they took these hairpin corners on 10% gradients and wistfully reflected that this stretch was quite long. For me then the calibration of my computer’s altitude calculator was wrong and as I rounded the next hairpin I wondered was it the last? I can virtually remember the dozen vehicles that passed me in that couple of hours, one was a Saab cabriolet with British plates that I shouted out ‘hello’ to…and got a wave back! Another possibly shows how we tourers get into interpretation of small details. This light truck plummeted past me and as usual like a lot of Portuguese drivers they were uncomfortably in the middle of the road, but more tellingly I could smell his brakes…..clearly he had been descending for some time and I must therefore have a lot of climbing to do. So up past the cork trees, past the racket of the crickets, drinking in the scent of the conifers also beside the road and checking the temperature that was well into the 30’s. However plenty of water on board and no time pressures. Whilst always having water on board it always got warm and drinking it provided hydration but not refreshment, it was at times like this that that large peach lurking in the luggage that called to you to be devoured. I was tiring but could still get on the pedals when required and eventually I went through a quite large settlement called Ameixal. These towns were all painted white and always had cafes with young and old alike sitting there just chilling. However I peaked according to my map, and prayed that my reward would be a swift descent. No such luck! I would descend for a few hundred metres and then turn a corner that would claim back a few metres before another descent. Cruel but part of the rite of passage this road conferred on its travellers. However I was nearing the end of my day and time for a Super Bock stout and I found the delightful São Bras de Alportel and was directed by the Tourist Information office to a small hotel. As they say it doesn’t get better than that as a bike ride.





The mighty N2...let battle commence...







"Oye Como Va"

(Santana)

Small town en route

A gloomy but dry start as I hit the road out of the Alto region and into the Alentjo region. The bike had run brilliantly for all the trip but a few strange clicks had developed and I spent many an hour contemplating and sometime when stopped tightening and scrutinising all the componentry hoping it was nothing important rather than a failing bottom bracket. I got to Évora easily and this originally had been an overnight stop but after having ‘over-achieved’ yesterday I decided to push on and continue down my friend the IP2. However my ‘friend’ let me fly in a south east direction with a tailwind and a downward slope until advising me that donkey carts, pedestrians, tractors and bicycles couldn’t proceed any further….so back up the road, into the teeth of a gale, for 8 kilometres to find another route south. This took me into the wilds and cars were a rarity, they were no loss but they do give re-assurance that there is life in the vicinity! I trundled into Torre de Coelheiros thinking that some food would be nice but expected that this outpost would just have tumbleweed and abandoned farmyards. Anyway I found a café/bar and when I put my head around the door there was “Luther” playing on the bar TV in English with Portuguese subtitles, I can confirm that he does say “Não” a lot while clutching blood stained corpses. Language barriers were overcome when the barman, using the handle of a teaspoon, traced my route into Beja. Along the route then cork trees were a serious farming business and many stripped trees were evident with artics carrying the booty away. On my journey light rain was falling….which became serious rain. By the time I found Beja I was truly wet although my spirits were lifted by a set of signs for “Campismo” and a route that avoided the dreaded cobbles through the town. When I got there, a truly miserable little site surrounded by 10 foot high walls, it really did rain and I set up camp in the sanitary block until I could pitch the tent. For reasons that were not the milk of human kindness the camp manager told me to take all my stuff out of the block! I said I would after finishing my evening meal that I was cooking on the draining boards. It was important to warm up with something hot as they were repairing the showers and there was no hot water that night, the joys of a cold shower (not). My dinner was ravioli with a tomato based sauce, a staple that has propelled me down Europe but one I won’t be partaking for several months after getting back to Blighty.

...in the dry before eviction

"That Don't Impress Me Much"

(Shania Twain)





Frankly my first impressions of a Portuguese camp site were not encouraging….poor showers, gravel on the hard mud pitches and local dogs barking all night. Leaving Fundão, I continued going south in the Beira Baixa region, but this involved climbing for an hour on what used to be the main road before they put in the motorway. The climb was fabulous…windy with hairpins but never too steep and in the early morning cool  air then rising up through the coniferous trees was one of the reasons I made the trip. Being Sunday some other cyclists were out and greeted me happily as I sped along. The destination was Portalegre and in the heat I made good progress, again I was loving the scenery and roads. The map showed the road I was on taking a long way round to get to a place that I could get to directly by following another lesser road. My current Michelin map didn’t have the detail that the French ones did to indicate steepness or altitude but I reckoned that I had time and why cycle through Portugal on the main roads?…what would I see? So I immediately descended 200 metres to Vila Velha de Rodão, which was lovely and where the River Grande swelled into a lake. I had a Coca Cola stop and then was taken up 220 metres to 420 metres altitude on a road that could be described as demanding, I then fell to 200 metres before being taken up to 380 metres, all this in about 10 miles. (My cycle computer tells me these altitudes). Nisa arrived and I staggered into a bar where my non-existent Portuguese and his non-existent English came up with fried egg and chips and rice! Lovely people however and the chef filled up my water bottle with cool agua and ice…a nice touch, although the heat would soon melt it. The ride after this was straight forward to Portalegre but Portalegre couldn’t make its campsite available to little old me! There were a couple of signs and I stopped to ask several locals who couldn’t help me or said it was up steep hills. Portalegre itself was on a hill (up and then down) that reminded me of Sleights. In addition was the fact that Portuguese town centres are cobbled. The cobbles are rough blocks of stone badly set in sand…a positive hazard for a bicycle, and not the best surface to allow me to take my eyes off the road to read the signs. As time elapsed with traipsing around the town I decided to stop in a hotel…it was 7 pm by now but the only one I found was shut down. Very frustrated I decided to buy some water and just crack on down the road, which judging by the map didn’t offer much encouragement of a campsite or hotel. At this point I received a text from Anna saying that the kids and Bill were sitting down to Beef Wellington….I know where I would have preferred to be. Anyway as the heat seeped out of the day I did another 25 kilometres to clock up over 161 for the day i.e. over 100 miles when I came to Montforte that offered up a relatively expensive hotel (€50) for what it was…but who was I to negotiate at 8.30 pm in the middle of nowhere! I thanked my luck that I found somewhere. Anyway everything was fine until the next morning when I was checking out and they said they had a technical problem and couldn’t take plastic so could I pay by cash? Well I wasn’t carrying a lot and so we looked at each other and he advised that there was a cash point in the town centre. Fair enough (to a point) but it was a little way a way and …..guess….up another precipitous hill and on cobbles! I said that if he drove me there and back then I could get the cash….he agreed! As all this malarkey was going on then Shania was singing “That Don’t Impress Me much” on the hotel PA which was quite appropriate!

The river at Vila Velha

....we're cookin'

"The Hammer Song"

(Trini Lopez)

I have used web sites for maps for a long time but I must recommend Google Maps (thanks Tim). My enthusiasm for Michelin started to take a dip after leaving France, where they are immaculate, and using their Spanish ones, a few routes appeared to be inaccessible to bicycles but on my journey to the border I saw, via Google, that a minor road ran alongside the motorway….yippee! It was such a road that took me to the Portuguese border where there were petrol stations with long queues as people entering Portugal filled up with cheaper Spanish fuel. As I crossed the border a fetching young lady in blue, working for a bank, handed me a cake…something a cyclist would never refuse although this was available to all. Maybe RBS might think to greet Sassonachs as they venture north with such a gesture? Immediately it was quieter and the roads were winding with trees alongside. In the early afternoon I started to feel hunger and I arrived into a small town called Sabugal where I found a restaurant that proudly announced….”ici on parle français”. So I got the plat de jour which were pieces of ham on the bone with lots of vegetables and a standalone salad. Fortified, I climbed out of the town and cycled on for many hours. The temperature climbed to 37 degrees and when I descended after some demanding climb you could feel the intense heat come back off the road in waves – its sudden sensation was like when you go from the winter cold into a departmental store and that doorway invector heat hits you as you step inside. Fundão eventually came round and what struck me immediately was the number of Chinese shops….I wondered whether this was a legacy of being the colonial power in Macão? The camp site was poorly signposted and eventually I found it on the other side of the town up a steep hill…..a regular pattern is forming! When I went to Reception I paid my dosh and then asked if I might borrow a hammer/mallet to bash my tent pegs into the rock hard ground….the chap on Reception then gave me a rendition of “If I Had A Hammer”…..I would hammer in the morning etc…..nice.



With one final push I beat the donkey up the hill...

Portuguese roads