A view across the Minho to Spain from Valenca

As we made our foray into the Northernmost part of Portugal, it seemed as though the whole country had broken out in a rash of festivities, causing us to break out into a cold sweat.

We attempted to visit Viano Do Castelo, a large town at the mouth of the Rio Lima, but we got bogged down in tiny, winding streets, lined with hundreds of people, sat in chairs, as though awaiting our triumphant procession through the town. It emerged that there was yet another bike race taking place. My thoughts however, were turned towards negotiating a way out of there without taking one of the low-slung ornamental stone balconies with me, or perhaps a stray old lady, hooked by her shopping trolley on the back of our bike rack.

“Oh, hello Mrs.Eusebio, what do you mean you didn’t enjoy being dragged at 90 kph down the high street?”……

Finally, we reached the Rio Minho, its wide choppy waters separating Portugal from Spain, on the opposite bank. It felt a bit odd, considering we’d left Spain around 2000 kilometers south. We followed the river east and came upon the town of Valenca, overlooked as usual by the Portuguese’s favourite construction - a massive stone fort. However, this fort contained a small village, which in reality was some kind of retail outlet, specialising in towels and dressing gowns. I know how it sounds, but its true. It’s actually done very well, but one thing really bothered us. The shopkeepers tend to treat their shops like Market stalls, appearing out of their doorways like rabid cuckoos from a clock, the moment you show even a passing interest in something hung outside or in the window.

We never quite worked out if they were being polite and attentive, or vulture-like, but we hated it, and its no coincidence that the only places we bought stuff was where they left us the hell alone. From a tourist perspective, this attitude will lose them sales, but perhaps its normal in Portugal. Whatever the reason, I intend to find out the Portuguese for “Just looking, thanks”.

It got a little surreal as I left Miki and wandered back to the Boomobile. An entire bike race entered the fort as I was trying to leave. I’m starting to have nightmares about bikers…

“Doctor, I have an unknown disease, the only symptom of which is that I’m followed around by the Tour de France..can you help me?

“Ah..you need to Try a Cyclist…”

We stayed two nights in the car park below the fort, as Miki found plenty to draw in and around it. To absolutely no-one’s surprise, I found a cafe. Miki joined me there later, and after about three mouthfuls of the local beer, pronounced herself pissed. Now that’s my kind of woman.(I’ve ordered twenty crates of the stuff to be shipped to Turre)

Piggy-backing the internet of the local school or library, not sure which, we managed to catch up a little on entries on the blogs and emails. I even had a short chat with my son on MSN. He’s finished the last of his exams, and already has a part-time job, which he will still be able to do when he resumes school in the Autumn. It seems like yesterday since I was in the same position. (Well, not exactly the same, I’m sure he’ll get a damn sight more qualifications than me!)

A break on the bike ride along the river at Ponte de Lima

So now we headed finally Southwards, and the town of Ponte de Lima, on the Rio Lima, of which Viano do Castelo sits on the estuary. It is by all accounts the oldest town in Portugal, and I pondered the reason why. I assume it s because the river is shallow here, and before the beautiful Medieval bridge was built, afforded the best and safest crossing point.

A lovely town it was, yes - you’ve guessed it - in the grip of fiesta fever. We escaped along the riverbank for a great bike ride, before parking the Boomobile up for the night on a huge, sprawling parking area which did in fact, prohibit motorhomes. I will state here that I’m quite happy to break these kind of laws, because they are stupid. The area was vast, and mostly empty and no alternatives were given. We are tourists, we help the economy, we should not be treated like lepers.

However, the town got its own back for our audacity. As the fiesta got into full swing, we realised that we  were adjacent to a funfair. Third-rate Portuguese dance music competed with Fourth-rate Portuguese accordion music. I was ready to rip someone’s head off. We cut our losses and left before we lost our minds.

Further along the river to the East was Ponte de Barca, which was also in full festive mode, and short on parking. About 4 kilometers after that, we reached Arcos de Valdevez, a lovely little town. We parked in a space reserved for buses. (The Portuguese word is very similar to that for Motorhome, I was going to play the stupid foreigner card.)

Below us, was a scene that took me back to my childhood. Scores of teenagers were leaping off the bridge into the water, sliding down the weir into the foaming river, sunbathing on the sandbanks that dotted the shallows, and generally celebrating youth. One kid even rode his bike right across the length of the weir. Fantastic!!

It could have been the Summer of 76 in Derbyshire….

It gave rise to such a warm feeling within me, for a time I fear is lost in England, this exploration of youth, this celebration of life. This country has such a healthy heart.

We settled down for a peaceful evening, the kids had all left, the car park was empty, and silence descended. I think it was during the first few minutes of our Poirot movie that I sensed the car park filling up. Overflowing.

They started mounting the kerbs next to us. Some half an hour later, a family with four kids came and sat on the wall opposite, and seemed to be staring into the Motorhome, straight at me. Loud music, insistent drum and bass, wafted across the water on the breeze, in tantalising snatches. Then, just as the legendary Monsieur Poirot was about to reveal the identity of the murderer to great fanfare, The world exploded. It was the Luftwaffe, Bomber Harris’ carpet bombing of Dresden and Hiroshima all rolled into one.

We had parked in the primary vantage point for the biggest goddamn fireworks show I’ve seen this side of the Millenium celebrations. Miki was out of the Boomobile in a flash, taking photos, but crying tears of laughter. In our efforts to escape some accordion music, we had decamped to a war zone. You’ve got to laugh, haven’t you?

I’m seeing my therapist in the morning….

Kev Moore

Torreira Harbour 

After our incursion inland to Fatima, we escaped to the coast once again, enjoying the delights of Torreira, a village on a Peninsula almost cut off from the rest of Portugal by the Ria de Aveiro.

A great swathe of the peninsula has been designated a nature reserve, preserving the fabulous dunes here. We spent two nights in Torreira, by the quiet cluster of fishing boats, huddled together on the mirrored calm surface of the Ria.

On our first full day there we made a 30k round trip down to the end of the Peninsula and the village of Sao Jacinto. Beautiful biking country, and a short stop at a romantic roadside cafe to catch our breath before heading back topped a perfect day.

Our attempts to connect to the internet here were less than successful however, despite being given directions by the friendly tourism office lady. We spent most of the last morning here driving around in the Boomobile, parking in likely locations, trying to get a signal. It looked like a Secret Service stakeout.

When we did find the actual internet cafe, it was shut. The owner apparently having better things to do than earn a living, such as staying at home to watch the Football. He even left a note to that effect on the door. Marvellous.

We left Torreira fully expecting to be enjoying our next night in Porto. But we had reckoned without the Festival of Sao Jao (St John, I think they mean) He’s obviously a popular dude, because the minute we hit Porto, it was bedlam. As I wound my way along the riverside, and through demonic city traffic worthy of the Asylum that is Naples, I was rapidly losing my nerve, and Miki was coming unglued. I seriously didn’t believe I could get to the other side without an accident, or Miki hitting me with a blunt object.

The city looked incredible, as though the town planner had been Hieronymous Bosch…bridges thrown across the river hither and thither, at wildly differing heights and angles, a tide of humanity pressing down the narrow streets, playing tag with Kamikaze car drivers. Street cars, buses, trains, weaving through the madness, safe in the knowledge that their steel tracks, sunk into the cobbles, dictated they would win any battle concerning direction.

For perhaps two kilometers either side of the city, there was not a single parking space to be had, for a car, never mind a motorhome. Every open area was commandeered by either a funfair, a foodstall, or a stage. One thing was for damn sure. Porto was going to have one hell of a hangover after this weekend.

With regret, we left them to it. We still wanted to get into a campsite, but our optimism had been dented by the one we’d checked out south of Porto - the motorhomes were crammed so tight you could barely open the doors. The whole place looked like a refugee camp. I expected to see stony-faced BBC reporters outside, commenting on the latest death toll. I’m certainly not into paying for the privilege of staying in some place that looks like a Brazilian shanty town.

We finally found a small but pleasant campsite in a small coastal village called Vila Cha. We decided to stay for three nights, and the next day set out on the bikes for Vila do Conde, the next major town up the coast, about 8k away. It turned out to be a lovely place, but my God, did our backsides suffer for it.

The roads, almost exclusively cobbled, are about as unforgiving as a hardline Catholic priest - yet they continue to build them this way today. It’s simply perverse.

I felt like my skeleton was being shaken apart and pureed. Not that it bothers the lunatic Portuguese drivers. In tiny villages, with winding, cobbled streets, they hurtle through at 50 miles an hour, oblivious to everything but their destination.

The infant mortality rate here must be incredible. If I was raising a child here, I’d keep it on a lead, just to ensure it had a fighting chance of reaching it’s tenth birthday.

Vila do Conde boasted many wonders, including a lovely bridge spanning the wide waters of the Ribeiro Macieira, a Monastery, strangely connected to a beautifully preserved aqueduct, which soared majestically over the old town, and a wonderful replica of a 16th century sailing ship, built by the Shipwrights here to commemorate those incredible early transatlantic voyages of discovery.

Replica of a 16th Century ship in Vila do Conde Harbour

Standing aboard, it was impossible not to be transported back to that era, imagining this beautiful creation riding the waves, its timbers and ropes creaking and pulling in protest like a living thing, bringing the New World ever closer.

Miki begs forgiveness for a lifetime of sin from the ship’s priest

We spent a restful hour in an open air cafe by the water, as Miki sketched and I read, before girding our collective loins for the return. As I gingerly mounted the saddle for the ride back, I considered the sacrifice worth it. Vila do Conde was certainly the pot of gold at the end of our Cobbled-brick rainbow.

Riverside in Vila do Conde

Kev Moore

The imposing crucifix at Fatima 

Miki’s decision to turn us inwards proved to be a double -edged sword. On the one hand, it led usd to a veritable cornucopia of Religious delights, but on the other it once again acquainted us with the downside of the Portuguese traffic management system. i.e: there is none.

Invariably , there are no road signs, or at worst, no road surfaces to speak of, unless you count infrequent dollops of tarmac that connect the seemingly endless potholes. Whilst half of your brain is preoccupied with avoiding falling into one of these tributes to the Grand Canyon, the other is fruitlessly casting around for anything that might resemble a sign. I got so desperate, I was even begging for a sign telling me I was going in the wrong direction, just to give me some idea of where I was.

The Portuguese have a habit of presenting you with a roundabout, four exits, and no signs. Not one. Nada. Likewise, they’re fond of having you tear-arse around the countryside on glorified mule-track, getting your hopes up when it meets a major carriageway at a T-junction, only dash them again as you find absolutely no clue what towns await you to the left, or to the right.

It completely beggars belief, and reminds me of a story the father of my old guitarist friend Fos told me once about the Brits removing all signposts in England during the war so as to confuse the Germans in the event of an invasion. Was there an imminent invasion the Portuguese knew about?

Somehow, we found the town of Fatima. A miracle in itself - it should’ve turned me into a believer right there, but I’m made of sterner stuff. One thing that got me on Catholicism’s side that day was the provision of Motorhome parking spaces within the Church grounds, more or less. We even had waste disposal points, and water on tap - though I can’t confirm it was Holy, as I didn’t have a vampire on hand to chuck it over.

This place was impressive, a beautiful church, topped with angels, a mass underway as we crept respectfully within, and outside, an immense, sprawling plaza, designed along the lines of St.Peter’s Square in Rome. It reeked of the Catholic billions, and by all accounts, did the trick, John Paul “gigged” here on at least three occassions, and there is a great statue of him in the shadow of a stunning simple modern crucifix.

There were churches everywhere here - one on the site of the “miracle” - as usual, some hysterical pre-teen had seen Mary, blah blah blah….was this before they discovered what E numbers can do to a kid’s psyche? They should have put her on some Ritalin, let the fuss die down but no, a multi-million dollar industry was just waiting to take off.

An Irish priest (what else?) was reading an English version of the mass to keep the tourists happy. It’s interesting, isn’t it, how these miracles conveniently crop up around the world to cater to the worlds hysterical religious population. How convenient that they happen as they do - one in France, one in Portugal. I’ve resolved to examine this on the net when we get home to see how much basis there is to my cynicism.

But, that aside, it is a remarkable and breathtaking place, and thankfully undersubscribed by the terminally suffering, and the terminally businesslike vendors of religious paraphernalia -

“Hey buddy! -want your very own tearful, prone, life size bleeding Jesus? Got one in the window!”              

…and they really do have one in the window. I surpress an involuntary shiver when I pass these places, and because I passed less of these places here than in Lourdes, this place gets the vote.

It is an extraordinarily peaceful place, and I sat for a moment in the huge modern cathedral at the far end of the St.Peters Square replica. The sun shone through skylights, illuminating a curiously feminine sculpture of Christ on the Cross, affixed to a huge golden mural that ran the length of the”stage” upon which the altar sat. It was a calm place. A good place. The trappings, the hysteria, I can live without. But I can understand people coming here for quiet, and contemplation.

Our spirits calmed, we rejoined the Devil’s Highway, and made for the coast once again….

The church at Fatima

Kev Moore

Triathlon competitors enjoying a dip in Peniche Harbour

Ericeira’s charms convinced us to linger an extra night, and a quiet beer by the harbour, and discovery of the local internet cafe didn’t do any harm either. I’d spied some great shorts the day before and couldn’t resist dragging Miki along to see them. Needless to say, they ended up on “Clothes-horse” Kev before the day was out.

I got plenty of shots of local doorways, as I’ve decided to do a Flickr presentation of Doors of Portugal when we get home, and Ericeira had its fair share of quaint and quirky ones.

Everyone here seemed so welcoming and friendly, and it was with a wistful glance backwards that we rolled out of Ericeira, relentlessly following the coast North.

The next town to receive our attention was Peniche - chosen purely on an arbitrary basis by Miki, who liked the name. It means “narrowboat” in French apparently. But what a great choice it was.

Shoehorned into a small peninsula, Peniche gives the impression of being surrounded by water, which in fact it very nearly is. The coastline here is spectacular, crumbling layers of porous rock, section by section relinquishing itself to the ceaslessly pounding waves. It makes for some incredibly fascinating natural structures, not to mention a big kids playground for yours truly.

We parked, ostensibly for the night on a stretch of land that was connected to a crumbling chain of three islands by wooden footbridges, and enjoyed a spectacular sunset as we ate our evening meal.

But the evening brought a succession of cars, and although I theorised that it was sexually-surpressed Catholics looking for a bit of extra-curricular nookie, we were a little concerned about a repeat performance of the Moita Juvenile Delinquents Rally, so we retired gracefully and cast about elsewhere for our night time spot.

The old town of Peniche nestles safely within old City walls, and boasts, as nearly every settlement along this coast does, a fort. We found a multitude of Motorhomes parked in a spacious car park on the banks of the estuary that wound its way into the harbour. It was a perfect place for the night, and there we stayed.

The next day, having already seen the great road that wound its way around the peninsula, we decided to take the bikes out and explore. We must have got about halfway round before whistle-blowing policemen started herding us in contrary directions. It seems that the National Portuguese Triathlon Association was running its competition. There followed scenes of pure farce, as top cyclists whizzed by Miki and I, as we tried and tried to find a route through the town that avoided us entering the race. It was very tempting to freewheel across the finish line, arms aloft and claim victory!

We were forced to remain within the confines of the town, purely because of the amount of spectators, and we enjoyed it.  The harbour was full of swimmers, in apparent confusion, but obviously in the race, looling for all the world like a shoal of floundering fish. Then they were off, running the same streets they’d pedallled minutes before. I was exhausted just looking at them.

This entire weekend was the “Sabores do Mar”- Flavours of the Sea Festival which not only celebrated with the Triathlon, but had a three day Pop festival too. The headline band seemed to be called Blasted Mechanism, an English, albeit daft, name for a Portuguese band. That night as we wandered the streets of Peniche soaking up the atmosphere, I heard them soundchecking. They weren’t too bad to be honest. I thought of my daughter at the Download festival in the UK that weekend watching Kiss. I guess she got the bigger spectacle!

Nevertheless, I loved that Peniche threw itself into this thing. Old ladies in doorways shouting cheekily to the Triathletes- it seemed the whole town got a real shot in the arm from this thing, and that’s how it should be.

Peniche warranted another two-nighter, and we spent the last morning exploring inside the old fort. Another jewel on the Portuguese coast, this country has an embarrassment of riches.

Seagull silhouette Sunset above Peniche fort

Kev Moore

Hi Michael!

For some unknown reasons I can´t send mails, but Kevin and me wanted to congratulate you for what you have  told us! We are extremely happy about what you have reached in these 40 days and hope that you are happy too! It goes without saying that we wish you luck on your continuing journey. Please keep us informed!

Greetings from Portugal

Miki & Kev Moore

The stunning Palace of Pena above Sintra 

Having touched the edge of Europe we inevitably had to head East a little, and made for Sintra, rumoured to be the location of a fabulous Castle. As we made our way towards the town, I noticed a narrow gauge, electric tramline running alongside the road. It followed us up a winding incline right into the town of Sintra itself, and made me think “tourism” immediately, though not necessarily in a bad way. I also noticed parking here was at a premium, and metered. By some stroke of luck, we found a parking area free of charge, still within the town, opposite some forbidding grand old houses.

Our mood was soured somewhat by a woman, who may or may not have been English, pointing at her eye, and then at the Motorhome when she observed me backing the bike rack into a wall following a breakdown in Miki and I’s pan-european communication. “Won’t fit into such a little place” the woman whined, unneccesarily, in my view. My fist in her mouth would however, have been a perfect fit.

I can’t abide these nosey buggers who have nothing better to do than smirk at your misfortune. She’ll make somebody a great wife. Or widow.

There was a small sign affixed to the door of one of the great old houses, which Miki translated as being for a drug clinic. The next morning, sure enough, we awoke to a steady stream of the lost, the lonely and the hopelessly addicted traipsing lethargically into the building. Those pushers in Lisbon sure do a good job.

One in particular started to follow Miki about when she went outside to sketch, and then began to hang around the Boomobile as we left to explore the town, so we abandoned that until he’d clambered over a fence to steal from, or squat in a house that was for sale. His mother must be very proud.

Deciding that returning to a motorhome bereft of computers, guitars, etc just to fuel some losers drug habit wasn’t an option,. we relocated a little nearer the Castel, and the old town of Sintra. It was a feast for the eyes, an assault on the senses. Everywhere Miki saw motifs she wanted to draw. Everywhere I saw Cafe’s I wanted to lounge around in. Such buildings, such meandering, cobbled streets. It was infested with tourists, mainly obese (and loud) Americans - “Wilmaaaa!!! You gotta see this hun, it’s like Disneyland!”

One despairs, of course.

The Castle, was of course, the real thing, and out-disneyed Disney in every department. We took the motorhome right up the mountain, as high as we dared, and then walked…and what a walk it was….it was like stepping into a dream. Beautiful lakes with castellated follies rising from the waters or dotting the shore, black swans, white swans, playing tag with a myriad of fish, tantalisingly close to the bottle green surface. Towering oaks, Gingko, and even Sequoia, jostled in the dappled sunlight, reaching for the sky.

Fish in the Garden of the Lakes, Sintra

The trek upwards to the Castle entrance, in reality the Palacio de Pena, was enchanting. Then, there it was, like something from a schizophrenic child architect’s dream, Moorish minarets, Castellated turrets, billowing flags and intricate latticed gingerbread stonework, vied gleefully with each other in the Portuguese sun.

It wasn’t the climb that took the breath away, it was the audacity of the dream.

This exquisite example of Nineteenth-century Portuguese romanticism captures your heart. Envisioned and built by the King Consort, Don Fernando ll, a nephew of Queen Victoria’s Albert, it took from 1842 to 1854 to complete.

That he was of the House of Saxe-Coburg-Gotha , and assisted by Baron von Eschwege is self-evident in the fairy-tale design, it is , in the modern jargon, so Mad King Ludwig.

To look out across the landscape to sea on three sides is incredible, and yet, another surprise awaits the intrepid tourist. On a nearby hill there stands an equally impressive Moorish fort - its walls a somber grey now, but topped with brightly coloured flags, it was built in the Eighth century.

Miki and I made the trek to the fort, and climbed the highest battlements. We looked out and saw the Palace de Pena in a different light, from afar, and involuntarily gasped yet again at the sight. This is a truly magical place.

We left with great reluctance, but as I write, we are parked by the sea at Ericeira, the sun bidding us farewell across the blue waters as it heads West. What a wonderful, wonderful day!

 Arabic Flag afire with sunlight atop the Moorish fort at Sin tra

 Kev Moore 

Monday morning, and to my delight and amazement, Miki’s ready for another foray into Lisbon. But this time, we sensibly decide to take the bus in and out, as we’ve now become fully conversant with the transport system. Today, we’re hitting a few shops, and prezzies are exchanged! We love doing this, buying strange clothes for each other, and interesting music.

Once more the pushers are homing in on me, but I’m getting good at the brush-off now. There’s more drugs on sale here than in the Caribbean, and that’s saying something.

All in all, we had a good day out today, and spent a quiet evening at the Campsite, in readiness for some cleaning and washing before leaving on Tuesday. In the event, we were away from the campsite around 5pm. Just in time to become ensnared in a traffic jam that snaked all the way along the coast for about 20k, courtesy of some kind of National holiday - or maybe Portugal had just won another football match. As we drove past the scenes of smiling people dancing outside bars to music, frolicking in the turquoise sea, I was struck by such an impression that these are a happy, healthy, contented people.

I must now issue a disclaimer, for the most westerly point in Europe that I believe I mentioned we had visited in a previous entry, now turns out not to be the most westerly after all. That honour is reserved for the Cabo da Roca, which we arrived at after disentangling ourselves from the traffic.

A towering cross, facing out to sea, stands upon a plinth with the words:

“Where the land ends and the sea begins…”

A simple, but fitting statement. Having crossed the Atlantic several times, it still inspires me with awe to look out from Europe’s edge across the heaving blue vastness, imagining the “new world” on the other side.

 Kev Moore

Montijo harbour

The next day we left Moita, where, despite having had to endure the juvenile race meet,  we’d managed to get some great photos. I’d also spent an hour wandering suspiciously around the town hall with my laptop, trying to piggy-back on their internet….

We made our way to Montijo, the last big town this side of the water, and within spitting distance of the Vasco de Gama bridge. Montijo raised our spirits. Once more, a beautifully restored seafront, with a reconstructed water powered flour mill, and an esplanade stretching the length of the harbour.

Once more, Portuguese parking never ceased to amaze, and we were positioned on the water with no problems. After a lovely couple of hours here, we decided it was time to cross the 15 kilometer wonder thatis the Vasco de Gama bridge. Named after one of the great names of history, it was built for the World Expo 10 years ago, and it crosses the Rio Tejo imperiously, and spectacularly, a glowingtestament to man´s ingenuity.

As its graceful, arcing slope takes you down onto the shore, you are afforded a wonderful view of Lisbon, its buildings a kaleidascopic culture clash of old and new, offering us a rainbow of expectation. Almost immediately though, it was sensible head on, as I attempted to thread our way through the concrete spaghetti that is Lisbon’s urban motorway system.

I was aiming for a small spot of green on the map, and therein, an even smaller red tent - denoting the camping we thought was there. As we wove ever inward through the sprawling city, it seemed increasingly unlikely that any camping could exist here. But suddenly, I spotted the sign…Campissimo - and sure enough, serving up another of its surprises, Portugal had done it again.

We took a spot in a beautiful forest, which had been converted into a camp site for motorhomes, tents and caravans. Surrounded bythe city, yet bathed in birdsong. It was like parking the Boomobile in Central Park!

We luxuriated in power showers, mains electricty and an abundance of water. (It’s the little things that delight when you’re on the road) The next morning we resloved to explore the city, and feeling quite perky, we opted to walk, an idea that was met with amused disdain from the guy on the gate at the Camp site.

He provided us with some vague directions and we set off in high spirits that lasted for about 5 minutes as it rapidly became clear we had no idea where we were in relation to anything. Miki and I had what is termed these days as “issues” as we disagreed and bickered like normal people. Scary.

Eventually though, we spied a sign for Ajuda, which the guy had mentioned, so, with an aim, tempers cooled, and we slowly, inexorably, made our way to the Ajuda palace, and the heart of the city.

Lisbon waterfront was a delight, and reminded me so much of San Francisco, The suspension bridge dominating the bay like The Golden Gate, the old trams rattling down the steep hills to the water. I almost expected to see Karl Malden and Michael Douglas screeching around in a SFPD sedan.

Discovery Monument

The gigantic Monument to the Conquistadors was a must, and we made our way to it, discovering an amazing free parking for motorhomes, right there on the waterfront. Incredible, to be able to park next to yachts probably being charged a fortune to berth there…. I’m sure it will all change, but for now, it’s great!

The monument was impressive, the giant stone statues, a litany of famous figures from Portuguese history, all reaching up the side of the edifice, on both aspects, culminating in Prince Henry the Navigator, son of an Englishwoman from Lancaster, he had paved the way with his vision so that Vasco de Gama could write himself into the history books. As I maneuvered to take a shot of him, high on this impressive monument, holding a miniature of one of the great Portuguese ships, I caught a glimpse of the moon above him in an azure sky. A magical moment, that caused me to marvel at the vision of these men who opened up the world.

A slightly less magical moment, but no less funny for that, was my accidental concussion as I wandered around a darkened corridor in an exhibition inside the monument searching for the source of the sea noises playing through the sound system. I walked into a pitch black wall. As I was in considerable pain, Miki enjoyed the moment for both of us.

Miki laughs at my misfortune

We caught the train from the nearby station at Belen, and the train followed the coast to the main station at Cais da Sodre. From there we walked again through the city, having already covered over 8 kilometers. Miki was beginning to flag, and we were both desparate to locate an internet cafe, which we eventually did before exhaustion claimed us both, and I unashamedly used the moment to steer Miki into Subway for a beefand cheese melt.

Around this time I seemed to attract the interest of the local drug dealers, and a never-ending string of them came up offering me hashish, Cocaine, and probably half of Columbia. They were very friendly for the most part, but I did try to impress upon them that I didn’t get to 50 looking like this by filling my body with various drugs. They weren’t buying any of it, and I wasn’t buying any merchandise, so the conversation became a little flat after that.

Before we passed out, I managed to get my head around the diagrams denoting the local bus routes, and told Miki I thought I could get us on a bus by the main rail station that would get us back to the Campsite without the need to change. She seemed grateful. As luck would have it, I was right, and sometime later we collapsed into the Boomobile and put the kettle on, Miki vowing to never visit Lisbon again, and me vowing to buy her some hasish to shut her the hell up.

Dinner however, seemed a more sensible, and infinitely more legal option, and we both chilled out after that. Having walled a good 10 kilometers this day, neither of us felt guilty for eating copious amounts of chocolate before bed.

A Lisbon tram

Kev Moore 

Palmela

We took the IC1, parallelling the motorway Northwards, before veering West again to pick our way across the city of Setubal, aiming for the National Park on the other side. The Parque Nacional da Arrabida was worth the effort, as we travelled the coast road at its perimeter, we were treated to spectacular sea views and coastline, looking for all the world like the Italian Riviera.

However, our enjoyment was brought to an abrupt halt when about 20 kilometers in, we found the road closed, and, as the vertiginous slopes precluded any possibility of a way through, we were obliged to retrace our steps almost back to Setubal itself to continue our journey!. We resolved to learn the Portuguese for No through Road…

We eventually hit the town immediately North of Setubal, Palmela. Curiously, I had quite by chance pulled out the Toto song “Palmela” to play that day. We pulled up just outside the bus station, with a fabulous view of the town, perched atop a hill, with the now obligatory fortress. It was here that the indefinable something began, like an itch you can’t scratch. The place didn’t seem to project the openness, friendliness, general healthiness that everywhere else thus far had done.

I pointed out to Miki that bus stations usually drew the detritus of society in all its varied forms, and why should Portugal be an exception?  We put it to the back of our minds, and moved on. Our plan was to park for the night by the water on the opposite shore of the Rio Tejo to Lisbon, and with that aim, we drove towards the town of Moita, and on to Barreiro.

You could almost hear the culture shock. Suddenly we were confonted by hi-rise blocks seemingly sprouting out of the ground like a scene from a Terry Gilliam movie, garishly washed with graffitti, and festooned with miles and miles of grubby washing, like shabby bunting from a leftover parade.

I got the impression that if we left the Boomobile for five minutes, we’d become the proud owner of a pile of bricks instead of four good wheels. We U-turned and headed back for Moita. The general feeling I had was that we had stumbled into the land of the disaffected, the desperate, as if Lisbon were acting like a magnet, drawing them in. For the first time on the whole trip, we spent an hour looking for somewhere suitable to overnight.

We thought we’d found it on the outskirts of Moita. A beautifully designed waterfront with wide open spaces and plenty of parking, and a great view of the water and the brightly coloured boats that decorated it.

Moita harbour sunset

But, only a short while after going to bed, the youth of Moita gathered outside our Motorhome, and in a depressingly familiar display of faux testosterone, played the “my car is louder than your car” game.

I had, in my apparent naivete, hoped that the Portguese had not succumbed to this pathetic disease, but it was not to be. Listening to the most inane drum’n'bass music on the planet, through systems quite possibly worth more than their cars, they handbraked turned, wheel-spun, and generally revved the hell out of their pathetic little vehicles for some time, within feet of our door, accompanied by the usual, chest-puffing back-slapping high fiving crap that these educationally stunted idiots go in for.

There wasn’t a single girl amongst them. I wondered again, as I had in my twenties - what the hell is wrong with a guy that wants to spend his Saturday night tear-arsing around a gravel carpark with his stupid friends instead of finding a girl? I can only surmise that they were all gay. Anyway, they eventually got bored and probably went off to each others bedrooms to talk about Michael Schumacher.

I was beginning to become wary about visiting Lisbon… if the surrounding areas were like this, how was the Capital going to shape up?

Kev Moore

Not much time for bloggin lately, so I thought I just check back in by sharing this news with you all.

Me, Ben-graduate, Andy

Ben is post-graduation, post-all night party today. And those eagle wings seem stronger and less in need of a mother bird today. I even caught myself saying “Maybe you should take a nap before you go out tonight.” Then stopped and said aloud (so I would hear myself) “But you don’t need me saying this any more.”

I didn’t even cry at graduation! Even when the choir sang sweet good bye songs, and the kids I’d known since 5th grade marched across the stage. But that may have to do with the 90 degree heat and worrying (like a mom once again!) about the graduates sitting in the direct sun in their black caps and gowns and dress clothes underneath, while the parents sat in the shade fanning themselves and drinking cold drinks.

Now my 89 year old mom is here making her way slowly and happily through the high school yearbook, reading the boys’ research papers and looking at art projects, drinking in their youth like a tonic.

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