Portsmouth to Portugal 11: 24 September
It was raining the next morning, which is such an unusual event it made the national news. I walked around the village, taking photos, petting some of the regional mountain sheepdogs and buying souvenirs (including a sticker for my top box...with a dog on it), then deployed my waterproof overtrousers for the day ahead.
Rain, wind and mist aren’t ideal conditions for climbing up into the mountains, but we did it anyway. Up and up, past markers indicating 1700, 1900 and finally 2000 metres - the highest point in mainland Portugal. By this time we’d almost made it up above the clouds, and there was a tantalising hint that the sun might be up there after all. Then we started the descent.
The roads were wonderful, with views of the glacial valley and, at one point, a herd of goats, but I was soaked and hungry by the time we stopped in Guarda. The café we walked into was serving a set menu of vegetable soup followed by salt cod with potatoes, served by a kind waitress who patted me on my freezing arm and insisted we eat up. My only regret was not having room for pudding.
The next leg was on main roads, still with fabulous views as we returned to the Douro wine valley, crossing and re-crossing the river (and passing the BP station where we’d filled up a week before). The rain stopped, the roads dried and a lorry driver gave me what I’m choosing to assume was a victory sign as I sped by. A weird rattling noise was traced when we stopped to my rear mudguard, which had come loose and was dragging on the ground. I carried it in my top box for the rest of the trip and got it refitted, slightly scuffed and with a chunk missing, when we were back home.
For our last night in Portugal I’d found a roadside hotel in the northeast corner with, it turned out, bats flitting in the grounds.
Miles: 177.9
Rain, wind and mist aren’t ideal conditions for climbing up into the mountains, but we did it anyway. Up and up, past markers indicating 1700, 1900 and finally 2000 metres - the highest point in mainland Portugal. By this time we’d almost made it up above the clouds, and there was a tantalising hint that the sun might be up there after all. Then we started the descent.
The roads were wonderful, with views of the glacial valley and, at one point, a herd of goats, but I was soaked and hungry by the time we stopped in Guarda. The café we walked into was serving a set menu of vegetable soup followed by salt cod with potatoes, served by a kind waitress who patted me on my freezing arm and insisted we eat up. My only regret was not having room for pudding.
The next leg was on main roads, still with fabulous views as we returned to the Douro wine valley, crossing and re-crossing the river (and passing the BP station where we’d filled up a week before). The rain stopped, the roads dried and a lorry driver gave me what I’m choosing to assume was a victory sign as I sped by. A weird rattling noise was traced when we stopped to my rear mudguard, which had come loose and was dragging on the ground. I carried it in my top box for the rest of the trip and got it refitted, slightly scuffed and with a chunk missing, when we were back home.
For our last night in Portugal I’d found a roadside hotel in the northeast corner with, it turned out, bats flitting in the grounds.
Miles: 177.9
