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In Which I Ride Through Toytown
October 25, 2007 by Mike
Villa Nova de Milfontes
Route (on Wednesday): Jerez - Sevilla - Cortegana (Spain) - Beja - Santiago do Cacem - Sines - Villa Nova de Milfontes
The 300+ miles from Jerez back to Sines need not detain us.. it's not beside the seaside and isn't part of the narrative of the journey.. but that's not going to stop me:
** It's a gorgeous road up in the hills either side of the frontier. Don't take my word for it: there was a rally of vintage Porsches on the Spanish side. Not sure how legitimate it was. There were a couple of marshals but certainly no police; zippy little sportsters from the 50s and 60s, English and German and Swiss, that I waved past gallantly - and who waved gallantly back. They must have thought I was riding a 60s bike.
What convinced me this was an impromptu rally was that not only were they overtaking me and a handful of lorries (it's a quiet, sinuous road) but they were all forced to stop for roadworks halfway along: can't have done their average speed any good.
** There are lots of bulls being bred up in the hills. You don't see many bulls in the UK - dairy farmers have no use for the males so they meet an early demise. As for this lot, Portuguese and Spanish bulls? Frankly, I don't fancy their chances much either.
** After Ferreira do Alentejo, I took smaller A and B roads down to the coast rather than repeating the motorway journey I took last week. This led me through what resembled a miniature forest. As in, the trees were teeny, not the forest, which stretched for many miles. It was like riding through the countryside outside Toytown. I sat head-and-shoulders above the treetops (in Portugal, I'm getting used to being relatively tall anyway) and laughed as I rode.
** There was also a section of low, scrubby, sandy hills that resemble the hills in the San Fernando Valley just north and east of Hollywood. They therefore also closely resemble every planet explored by Kirk, Spock and the gang in the orginal TV series of Star Trek. Except there weren't any papier mache rocks strewn across the hillsides.
** Apart from this final stretch, I was riding the same roads I took in the other direction last week. I recognised towns, petrol stations, changes of scenery. This, to me, was a source of wonderment. 99.9% of the roads travelled BesideTheSeaside are completely new to me. I have some idea of what might be coming next -- the name of a town; a zigzag section on my large-scale map suggesting a hilly section; no more than that. But at the micro level - what's around the next corner - I have absolutely no idea.
Every section of every mile of every day of this journey presents me with something new and unknown. I pass it in a moment, but in the act of passing (and, perhaps, remembering) I am already on to the next stretch of new. It never stops.
And not just what's round the corner - tract housing, a tractor blocking the highway, the entrance to a cement factory, a castle on a hill, a restaurant overlooking a surf beach, a decrepit windmill, a field full of goats - I also have no idea most days of where I'm going to sleep. I often have an idea in principle, something to aim for -- a town, a campsite, a landmark -- but often as not I don't end up there anyway.
I came to Milfontes because Vitor recommended it - though I had no idea why he recommended it. (To be honest, I'm still not entirely sure.) Tomorrow -- who knows? This isn't how we're supposed to live anymore. People just don't do this. I don't do this.. in civvie street. When I went back to Norwich and spent seven nights in my parents' house: that's natural. I woke up in a familiar bed; knew where my toothbrush was; recognised people I passed on the stairs; had access to tea and coffee and (too many) biscuits; knew I'd be there in the evening, and the next day: that's natural.
Yet the day I leave Norwich, the day I'm back on the road, I no more want to know where I'll be tonight than I'd want to be doing the trip in a car: that would be unnatural.
** I clocked one stretch of forest, east of Santiago: one house in seven miles. They must be the most remote household in western Europe. Stop and think: how many families live within seven miles of your home? And.. a lovely touch, this.. there was a bus stop, sign and all, right outside their front gate. For the driver of the one bus a week. For the one house within seven miles.
--
I got back to Sines in mid-afternoon: her power stations, petrochemical plants and electricity grids visible from miles away. Nothing to detain me here. I ride through Porto Covo, a town in which almost every house has been painted white with dark navy blue details: window sill, doors, eaves, a ribbon of blue at knee level. It all looks Greek to me.
This is when I discover the extent of my Portuguese. I know enough to ask, after a fashion, Why are all the houses painted the same colours?
The elderly widow with the kindly smile and a squint tells me, in some detail, why all the houses are painted the same colours.
I don't understand a single word she says.
--
The next town is painted yellow-and-green.
I try to raise a cheer, a quick burst of On The Ball, City, but Norwich City are so bad this season the words catch in my throat. And the desperate truth is, the blue-and-white of Ipsw*ch looks better anyway.
(Little Stevie, if baby Maya is still keeping you awake at night or you read this when trying to beat yr insomnia.. I hope that cheers you up.)
--
Portugal. It doesn't surprise me in the slightest when I wander up to the lighthouse at Milfontes, caught in the teeth of a vicious Atlantic wind, to discover a Portuguese man with a German name (Walter, "pronounced Woorl-tah like you English, not Vorrrl-turr like the Germans") playing Irish tune on a set of Scottish bagpipes.
"Next week I am to be attending a conference to discuss how we can change the tuning of the pipes so that I can play with other instruments. Do you like to come?"
Thanks, Walter -- and it was a pleasure listening to those keening laments -- but I'm busy washing my hair that day.
--
Portugal. It doesn't surprise me in the slightest when I spot a woman driver carrying a tiny baby between her ear and shoulder, as if it were a mobile phone, next to an open window, as she drives her car one-handed along a country lane. Fast.
Portugal. For all that, you gotta love it.
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By kathy | October 30, 2007 2:56 AM
Most remote house in western Europe? Pah! In Scotland I know of one house that is at then end of a 32-mile single track cul-de-sac. A loaf of bread, a paper and some milk from the shop? That'll be 70 miles, please. Still, it does have rather good fishing...
Kathy