clairedavieswriter

We discovered last night that the adjacent petrol station not only doubled as our hotel reception, but also served breakfast, so this morning we joined boiler-suited farm workers for our café com leite and torrada. Importantly, we also discovered that, unlike in Spain, toast in Portugal is served pre-buttered and without jam or tomato. It is for such insights that one travels, don’t you agree?
Tell that to the obnoxious Harley Davidson rider from Switzerland whom we had the misfortune to meet in our shared kitchen last night. In a matter of minutes, he managed to be rude about the accommodation, Portuguese workmanship in general, Spanish weather, British motorbikers’ failure to use sun cream, and (having learned that we were travelling by bike) cyclists – something about a vegan lifestyle choice. He should probably just stay at home, for a variety of reasons.
No doubt he would also have complained about the weather this morning. The hills were so thickly shrouded in mist that, having climbed steeply for the first two km, I put on long sleeves for the descent

But what a difference two hours make:

In between, we climbed into the hilltop town of Montemor, whose ruined castle cut a menacing silhouette in the early morning gloom

As it turned out, we ended up climbing rather closer to the castle than necessary, thanks to an uncharacteristic mapping failure by my domestique, who had been delegated to guide us to a supermarket, to pick up provisions for supper. Guillaume rolled his eyes as if to say, ‘Next time, just leave it to the expert’ (on the plus side, we did have an excellent pastel de nata, still warm from the oven, with our coffee). Provisions purchased, we got back on the road, and found that the municipal maintenance crew had been buffing the milestones

It was a day of many ups and downs

And thousands upon thousands of oak trees

There weren’t all that many places of note, but when we stopped just outside the village of Ciborro to investigate a megalithic burial site, the lads said ‘Nah, you’re all right, we’ll stay here thanks.’

Our highlight of the day (if we understood correctly), came in the pretty little village of Brotas, hunkered down in a hot river valley.

We were sitting in the shade eating our sandwiches (queijo again, sadly sans quince jelly) when an elderly lady appeared, carrying a bag of shopping. We returned her greeting, but when she followed up with something else, we had to explain we didn’t really speak Portuguese. Unphased, she tried again, more slowly, and with hand gestures. We think she was inviting us to lunch, with her husband, and that they were having peas. She may have been saying something else entirely, but we thanked her nonetheless, and showed her our sandwiches by way of explanation. Which may have clarified things or confused her, depending on what she’d actually said

An hour or so later, we proved once again that petrol stations are just as good at providing fuel for cyclists as cars

Tonight, we’re in a campsite near the town of Montargil, in a cabin beside a reservoir (albufeira in Portuguese, who knew? Truly, every day’s a school day). The local petrol heads are out on the water, making like legends on jet skis. Our resident legends have been watching closely, but so far have been unimpressed