Animalia Portuguesa – More Dogs…

I just saw that Kevin made a post about some of the dogs we met in Portugal and I thought I must add the following one

As we first saw the dogs, they were all lying down, totally immobile, and we thought that they were all dead! You know, thinking that people had thrown them away into the water, by high tide, after their death, and the low tide revealed them now… We had seen something similar last year in France, by la Gironde, with new-born kittens … and they were really dead, it was an awful image!

But these dogs began to move as I went out of the Motorhome to make a photo and we really felt much more comfortable!

By Miki

Animalia Portuguesa – 1 – Dogs

Before I publish the conclusion to our Portuguese trip, I wanted to publish a series featuring some of the creatures I stumbled upon during the course of pointing my camera around that lovely country. At our friends Sitting Pugs suggestion, here’s a few I’ve managed to dig up as I trawled through the thousands of photos from the tour. Today, Dogs. Enjoy!

I couldn't resist taking this guys picture - such a cute tail! I think it was somewhere near Vila Cha

 

...taken in the same town I think, and THIS guy was definitely having a bad hair day!

 

These two were great mates - and we got to know them well as they scampered around Barca de Alva during the week we were there.

 

This little beauty kept turning up on our wanderings around Marvao

 

Kev Moore

The Great Hedge Debate – Bad Karma?

A less scary orange haired witch yesterday...

So it’s like this. We got back from 2 months away, and the hedge, which we cut before we went is again getting a little unruly. I went off for 2 days to Germany to gig, and then, a day later, I began cutting it again, planning on taking a section at a time.

This morning as I was walking back up from the shops, the little italian witch with whom we have the misfortune to be neighbours with collared me. Jabbering away in Spanish at me. Never drawing breath to consider a) whether I could understand her or b) gave a toss.

After the initial “how are you’s” she immediately began telling me to cut the hedge. I walked off. Within the hour, as Miki and I were driving off to swimming, her equally diminutive (though spectacularly rotund) husband figure (I don’t think he was stupid enough to marry her) accosted us and began teeling us much the same thing. Miki began explaining how we just got back, and he had the temerity to say he’d just got back and he was working on things!! Well, you know what? Whoopee-bloody-do!! I couldnt give a sh*t whether he returns from holiday and composes the equivalent of the 1812 overture, rebuilds his house and writes a small novel. I have ZERO interest in what he does. Why on God’s green earth he believes he has the right to judge me by his lifestyle, or have any business poking into my business takes my breath away.

Today, I had every intention of continuing with cutting the hedge (in their frenzy to mind our business, they’d failed to notice this) but I will not lift a finger today. I didn’t move to Spain to be ordered around by some clockwork pierrot fascist doll and her emasculated puppet.

Ding Dong the Witch is dead...Kev's fantasy

In what tiny, under-evolved part of their brain do they have the notion that I have the slightest interest in anything they say, do, or suggest?

But, dear reader, I fear I am the victim of serious bad hedge karma. Our hedge has contracted a blight of some sort, and appears to be dying. If only the same fate would befall the unwordly orange fuzz that passes for the italian midget’s hair…..

Bad Karma befalls our hedge...

 

Kev Moore

Death in the Gypsy Quarter – Portugal 25

Castle dwellings in Campo Mayor

Reluctantly, we headed South East, the Spanish border ever-closer. We intended to spend the last few days at a campsite in Portalegre, a big town south of the delights of Marvao. As we drove around it, looking for the campsite, it certainly looked spectacular, but our enthusiasm waned as we made our fourth circuit of the town without so much a glimpse of a tent. There followed a desperate 25 kilometer detour out into the wilderness to try and get onto the right road, and at the very end, we found the campsite. It had closed down.  We decided to leave Portalegre (which is obviously Portuguese for “no camping”) to its own devices, and we headed for the border town of Campo Mayor.

Campo Mayor’s campsite was thankfully clearly marked, and we parked up for two nights by a beautiful reservoir, spoiled only by the huge quantities of rubbish abandoned along its shoreline. This kind of thing is such a rarity in Portugal, and was quite upsetting.  It seemed as though all the rubbish had been bagged, but the local authority had never collected it. Mystifying. I had to stop myself thinking the Spanish influence had pervaded across the border.

They say an Englishman's home is his Castle, but the Portuguese take it literally, building homes in the Ramparts!

The town itself was fantastic. Wonderful labyrinthine streets, and the old Castle ramparts had been adapted by poor families and transformed into housing! I’d never seen such a thing, it was fascinating. The town boasted two beautiful churches, and as Miki and I took our bikes to explore behind a huge convent, a man emerged from his house gesticulating wildly and shaking his head. He seemed to be imploring us not to go up a particular street.

As we climbed higher towards the Castle, it became clear that the area to which that street had led was the Gypsy quarter, and a woman told us there had been a murder there, just the day before.

Santa Barbara was powerless to prevent the Murder on her doorstep. No more offerings to her!

Sadly, my image of the Gypsy (contrary to the stupid, romanticised, fortune-telling version) as a thieving rogue who’ll rob you blind then stab you in the back was only reinforced. At any rate, I don’t know whether they killed one of their own, or one of the townsfolk, but I tried not let it affect my overall view of this wonderful country.

We lingered in the town for a while, enjoying a coffee, before steeling ourselves for the mainly uphill ride back to the Campsite. The cafe played its part in acclimatising our return to Spain – run by a Spanish guy, with a Spanish pop station pumping from the speakers. I’d forgotten how fast they speak, akin to being spoken to by a machine gun!

The Castello at Campo Mayor

On our final morning, we left Campo Mayor , and just a few kilometers down the road, crossed the river that marked the border. We bade our beloved Portugal an emotional farewell, pledging to return again soon. But our holiday had one more wonderful surprise in store for us, as we headed into the Spanish region of Extremadura….

Miki prepares to execute a death-defying downhill freewheel maneouvre

Kev Moore

Kev Moore: Absolutely Marvao-lous

I suddenly feel the irresistible need to take revenge on Kevin, for putting so many photos from me here.

So here we go, have a look at him in Marvao and tell me if I have any chance to take him seriously!

By Miki

Absolutely Marvao-lous – Portugal 24

Marvao castle and battlements

 

It needed something extraordinary to take our minds off our Powerboat friends and Barca de Alva, and Castello de Vida and Marvao certainly did their best.

Castello de Vida locals

Castello de Vida was a lovely town, with friendly people, beautiful little houses, and an imposing castle, which contained a medieval town within its walls. Wandering the old town, with its meandering walkways and delightful doorways, was pure pleasure.

Miki looking windswept and interesting in Castello de Vida

We wandered around Castello de Vida for hours, stopping for a coffee, for Miki to sketch, drinking in the town and its inhabitants. We parked up for the night somewhat precariously, in a park at the foot of the hill…

Miki sous Boo

Marvao, was similar, though it was built , if it were possible, on a more precipitous peak, and with beautifully kept gardens within the fortress walls. The way the Portuguese keep their history alive by simply continuing to live in it is extraordinary.

Marvao Gardens

 

The Castle had a subterranean Cisterna, still full of water, that used to be their main supply. We descended into the dark via the stone stairway, and came out in a beautiful vaulted space. The natural echo in there was astonishing, and I sang a whole song in the stillness, marvelling at the acoustics. I have a recording of it, and i’ll try to post it on here at some point. We walked the walls of the town and castle in their entirety, discovering such diverse sights as a Scout troup camping out in the Castle grounds, and roads that the living rock seemed to be reclaiming for the mountain.

Marvao Church

In Spain, generally speaking, an old ruin is an old ruin. You can see the mentality there even today; when a house becomes dilapidated, they simply build a new bit next door and move in there, while the old section crumbles to dust. But the Portuguese continue to give life to their past, and one gets the feeling that its always been this way, and that’s why their history is in such wonderful condition.

The Magic of Marvao's streets

When you see the sheer number of fortified towns that pepper the border, it becomes clear that at some point in their history, the Portuguese were deeply distrustful of the Spanish, to say the least. But it gives rise to delightful spectacle for the traveller, and we have been constantly amazed by gem after gem on this journey. Two nights spent in this area were richly rewarding.

Miki loves Medieval Phone Boxes...

As we prepared to head in a generally homeward direction, we decided to visit an archaeological site called Ammaia. It was an important tone here in Roman times, and recent excavations have uncovered a surprising amount, including the imposing South Gate and the Forum, as well as hundreds of artifacts. Indeed, archaeologists were working on a dig even as we visited.

 

One artifact that caught our eye was an extremely well-preserved oil-lamp. After you’d gazed at it for awhile, you slowly realised exactly what the beautiful artwork on it is depicting…naughty Romans!

It’s a wonder they had time to conquer anywhere, the amount of time they seemed to spend in the sack….

A funny thing happened on the way to the forum....

When you gaze into the distance and see the ancient fort of Marvao atop the ridge built in the thirteenth century, its quite incredible to realise that the city ruins you are standing in pre-date it by fifteen hundred years.

That’s before Richard the Lionheart, before Jesus, bloody hell, it’s probably before Keith Richards.

Miki Outside the Archaeological centre at Ammaia

Kev Moore

Madmen across the Water – Part 4 – Portugal 23

Miki hitches a ride in the JCB

 

Race day, and my nerves were jangling. Timed laps began at 10 am, where Brian would have a chance to edge up a few places in the starting line-up. This meant I had to be down in the pits for around 9.30. After the drivers meeting,. it was all hands on the boats, as one by one they were manhandled down the dreaded incline to the water’s edge to suffer the slings and hooks of outrageous JCB’s.

Most of the crews opted to use brute force to get the boats down there, and we were no exception, the chief reason being that the fat kid on the quad who was there to “assist” seemed oblivious to where the hell he was going, and everyone thought their boats weren’t going to make it to the water in one piece.

The river was thankfully higher today, the risk of bottoming out reduced. Brian completed his laps without incident, and as a result were placed 8th in the starting line-up.

That afternoon, after another hair-raising launch at the quayside. The utility boat came and picked us all up, French, Portuguese, English and Hungarian crews alike, and took us across the vast expanse of the Douro to the waiting pontoon anchored off the other shore, where the race proper would begin.

Captain and Crew confer

We’d managed to get a young Portuguese lad to help us, and the boats came in and tried to line up with their sterns to the pontoon and angled upriver. It was incredibly difficult getting them all in line and reasonably stable. My new “assistant” was given the task of holding a length of rope through the harness “eye” atop the superstructure. He had to use it to keep the boat near the pontoon, and when the 30 second marker was shown across the water, quickly play it out and pull it clear so it wouldn’tfoul the prop.

I was crouched down holding the engine cowling in two hands, keeping the craft steady and angled correctly. I had to let it go at just the right moment….

 

 

"All aboard the Skylark" - Heading out to the Race start pontoon

The stillness hung across the water…the 30 second board went up…..the lights..red, green…GO!! I pushed forward and let go as Brian throttled and surged off into the river..a huge sigh of relief, I’d done it right! Now, there we all were, marooned on the pontoon, cheering the racers on, and the bridge across the Douro was lined end to end with spectators, as was the Quayside opposite us.

Somewhere in the midst sat Miki, hopefully taking photos. I hadn’t dared to take my camera, in case I fell in!

Brian was performing steadily, but couldn’t seem to overhaul Marie, one of the French contingent, and the only female competitor. Mark, the current World Champion was having his own battles, and was hanging on in sixth place until a beautiful maneouver on one of the turns resulted in a fifth. Scott, the youngest of the Brits had been having a strong race in third, but with scant laps to go, cruised up to our pontoon, presumably with a blown engine. The frustration was evident as he climbed from the cockpit and slammed the cowl shut. Another Brian, Brian Shulver, the fourth Brit in the Championship, had gone into the race gambling that his last-minute repairs would see him through, but he endured the entire race without any trim control and was lucky to finish.

Mark hits his stride

We were ferried back at the conclusion, and I arrived quayside to find Brian desperately trying to get the boat hooked up to the crane. He shouted “she’s sinking!”. I leapt down onto the pontoon to help.

The Unsinkable Brian Block

Sure enough, the back end was going under and she was taking water at an alarming rate. As we finally got it hooked, she went skyward and gallons of water gushed out. We manhandled it onto the trailer, and everything became clear. One of the other racers had tried an illegal pass at the first buoy.(The rules state you must hold your line to this point) and rode over Brian, holing the boat. It explained  why he couldn’t move up the places during the race, he was constantly taking on water. It was amazing he even finished.

Tight Turns

Back at base, he was amazingly calm as he talked about the cost of a new engine and the boat repairs. The Brit team had been blighted with bad luck this tournament – but their enthusiasm and dedication to this underrated sport is infectious, and Miki and I will be following their exploits as they do battle around Europe in the future. As they packed up and left Barca one by one, we were overwhelmed by sadness, tempered by the joy and pleasure they had given us. We were so lucky to have stumbled on this place, and this event. My heartfelt thanks go to Brian for letting me be a part of it.

"Okay folks, show's over"

Kev Moore

Madmen across the Water – Part Three – Portugal 22

Poster for the F4 World Championship

The day I became a Powerboat junkie….

In the final analysis, we decided we could get away with staying by the water up until Friday night, and did just that, relocating around 10pm Friday to the other side of the tunnel that ran beneath the roadway. We only went without mains for that night however, as one of the Powerboat teams lent us an extra long cable and we ran it through the tunnel.

Saturday morning we ventured out to a scene of pandemonium. Beer stalls, mobile shops, Marquees, and scores of boats in what seemd to be four different classes – The semi-inflatables, The T750 Monohulls, the T850 Monohulls and the Formula 4 Twin-hulled Powerboats.

Race weekend begins

I swiftly became the crew for Brian Block, one of the British Team. Over the next two days I was to be his right hand man, a part of the F4 Powerboat World Championship. Saturday was deemed practice day, and straight off things didn’t go well for the Brits. The marker buoys at the top end of the course had been positioned a little too near the shore, the tide was lower than expected and two of the drivers hit bottom on their practice laps, shearing off the bottom of their “skeg” – the fin beneath the engine prop.

Brian and I manhandle the boat

Brian and I negotiated the nerve-wrecking 16% slope down to the quayside with his craft, with more hindrance than help from a kamikaze porky kid on a quad, who just didnt seem to realise that plywood hulls and brick walls don’t mix. Once we’d managed to stop him towing it into oblivion, we had to use a three-point harness to hoist it out over the water with a JCB. As it hung helplessly in the air, Brian and I jumped down onto the Pontoon, and grabbed the hull, pushing it clear of the deck as it was lowered, all the time watching that it didn’t foul on the metal corners of the decking. A curious looking tool then came into play – basically a boathook, a long pole with a lasso of sorts, made of rubber tubing, and a tennis ball wedged on the end.

At the mercy of the JCB

This pole is the difference between triumph and disaster. Firstly, when you’ve got the craft safely in the water, you hook it into the top harness point on the boat to keep it from drifting out. While this is happening, Brian is astride the rear of the boat, almost upside down, unclipping the harness from either side. He hands it to me, and I throw it up onto the quay. Meanwhile the boat drifts near the metal edges. I have to swiftly take the hook out and use the tennis ball end against the body of the boat to push it clear, then whip the lasso over the pointed bow of the nearest hull and pull the boat back along the pontoon to a safer place.

Easy does it....

While all this is going on, other boats are swinging out over the water above your head, and others are being lifted from the water in a similar manner. It is a number of interesting accidents waiting to happen. Other powerboats, chomping at the bit to get some laps in, power up and shoot past you, involuntarily throwing a wake at you which then has you working overtime with the hook, tennis ball and lasso routine just to keep your boat in place.

Everythings under control (probably)

So there we were, all ready to go…Brian climbed into the tiny cockpit, donned helmet and gloves, grasped the tiny steering wheel and pressed the starter. Nothing. He signalled to the JCB Crane, and we had to repeat the whole procedure in reverse. His engine wasn’t responding…

Later, back at the tent/Motorhome that serves as his base of operations, we removed the engine cowling and discovered with the aid of a pressure tester that his engine had died. I feared the worst, but Brian, undeterred, disappeared inside his Motorhome (which he prefers to call a Support Vehicle) and emerged with a second engine, which I, to my amazement, helped him install. The day dragged on as problem after problem dogged our progress, and I feared he wouldnt get on the water at all. There was only one hour allocated to the Powerboats later that day, and if he missed the window he would be facing the Race day with no practice runs at all.

When he’d finally got the engine sorted, he found a problem with the switching solenoids that control the angle of the engine in the water, up, down, side to side etc. After swapping, replacing, and generally moving the solenoids around, he got it working.

Unbelieveably, later that afternoon, we went through the routine of getting it down to the quayside and in the water, and Brian finally got a few laps in as the seconds ticked down.

On the water at last!

It was frustrating, daunting, demanding, and an education. I was totally hooked.

F4 World Champion Mark Williams tries not to look as his boat hangs precariously from a crane

Brian very kindly invited Miki and I to join the whole team for a meal out of town with transport laid on by the town, but we graciously declined. I had to get up at 8.30am in readiness for the timed laps on race day. As a novice, I didn’t think a late night would be conducive to a good performance! I went to bed that night blissfully unaware of how crucial my role was going to be.

Brian had clearly saved the best for last.

Kev Moore

 

 

 

Madmen across the Water – Part 2 – Portugal 21

Mark and Scott test their newly-rebuilt engines

Killing time before the Powerboat competition at the weekend, Miki and I decided to set off on the bikes and explore the surrounding area. But not before I was co-opted onto the British National Team to assist in lowering two of their craft into the water. They were testing the new engines after completely rebuilding them this week. Apparently they’d blown them up in competition in Lisbon last week!

We headed out of Barca d’Alva and almost immediately regretted it. Our muscles howled in protest, and we realised just how strenuous our trip down into the ravine at Miranda had really been. But this is the only way to combat it; ride through the pain!

Sure enough, it got a little easier, and we discovered an old railway track which led us to a host of delights including a vast abandoned railway station, and a huge freight warehouse. Beyond was the sidings, leading to an enormous iron turntable that serviced the three-arched, brick built engine sheds.

Engine sheds Barca de Alva

An enormous melancholy hangs in the air here, as one imagines a bygone era, with a bustling station and gleaming engines emerging from their slumber into the sunlight. The whoooosh of steam and the piercing whistle echoing across the water. But now, it is only the ghosts of plumes of steam curling into the rafters, and the turntable’s burden is simply the rust of ages. How sad when these railways fall into decline.

Miki on the tracks

We half-rode, half-pulled, our bikes along the track, beyond a rockfall in the cutting and around a bend to reveal the old iron bridge spanning the river. Not the Douro, this time, but a tributary, the Rio Agueda, the Spanish border abandoning its grand mistress, and running away south now, following this lesser waterway.

Kev on railway bridge into Spain

We crossed the nearby roadbridge and entered Spain again, just for the hell of it, because we could. Perhaps we are all Madmen across the Water, the Powerboat competitors, hurtling across it, or us, crossing rivers wherever we find them. Something deep in the human psyche draws us to water. It pleases us, calms us, revives us. Water constitutes the majority of our being, and from water we came. Does that evolutionary thread still connect us? I’d like to think so.

Kev points the way to Portugal

As we steal another night of electricity, and watch the grand river cruisers come and go at this, the farthest navigable point of the Douro, we once again ponder whether to leave for a day or two, returning for the competition, or simply stay here by the water. Breakfast is had, and the jury’s still out…..

View of Barca from the old station

Kev Moore

 

 

Madmen across the Water – Part One – Portugal 20

The Bridge at Barca (Boomobile visible thru last arch)

We headed South, keeping faith with the mighty river Douro, and, by default, the Spanish Border to the East. After about 20k of fairly unremarkable scenery, the landscape changed dramatically as we began to thread our way through towering slopes terraced with hundreds upon hundreds of vines. This was serious wine country. The river, an azure ribbon winding its way down in the valley, and the Spanish slopes on the far bank home to a myriad of Olive trees. The old stone signposts at the side of the road told us we were approaching a place called Barca de Alva, but it wasn’t on our map. We checked the bigger road map, and found it; a small settlement where the Douro turns West and heads for Porto.

Looking down at the river, I was wondering how navigable it was, as it seemed very broad for the last few kilometers. Just then, we spied a huge river craft at its moorings.

The Douro Queen

We had arrived at Barca de Alva, and discovered that a series of River cruise ships seemed to operate out of here. As we drew nearer to the docks, we saw a number of motorhomes – but with a difference. Attached to each was a huge awning, and beneath, a powerboat! We had stumbled on the venue for a huge Powerboat championship this weekend! All the early arrivals were English, though an international field was expected for the weekend. Even more amazing, the little town had laid on electricity!! Possibly the only place in the whole of Portugal where they had free juice, and we’d found it!

These crazy people race these craft at speeds reaching 160kph across open stretches of water such as this. It seems the Douro at this point is ideal for the huge oval circuit that the boats will be competing over. We resolved to watch this spectacle at the weekend, but with around 40 competitors eventually turning up, our time by the riverside may be limited.

We decided to stay a second night, see how many are arriving, then perhaps leave for a day or two, exploring the river, returning late Friday night to try and get a parking space again.

The more sedate river boats also appeal to me – I love the idea of languidly heading off downriver to Porto. But to be honest, we don’t really know if that’s what the boats do. We’ve made a note of the website, and intend to check it out when we get home.

Douro Queen and Vasco de Gama

As we settled down for that first night in Barca, we watched the English and American passengers chatting amiably on the top deck. We sat and drank our tinto by the riverside enchanted by the beautiful reflection of the illuminated bridge in the waters of the Douro.

Wonderfully romantic! – and a frisson of excitement, awaiting the roar of the engines that will shatter the tranquility this weekend….

British Powerboat awaits the weekend

Kev Moore