14/08 Punto Umbria, Spain to Sagres, Portugal
With Rob feeling worse than ever we entered Portugal. I’d taken the lead, usually a recipe for disaster, but was doing ok on what was to be a relatively short day in the saddle… until a palm tree covered a sign I needed. It seemed that the moment I thought I was doing OK it would all go pear-shaped and after that I couldn’t go right for going wrong. Finally, and in a weakened state, Rob took charge and we quickly found our way back to the right road – the road to Sagres and the most South Westerly mainland point of Europe.
From the moment we’d passed through the rather underwhelming Portuguese border I’d liked the country. The people had been warm and welcoming regardless of my linguistic faux pas – I’d stupidly assumed that the Portuguese spoke Spanish, how I’d gotten this far through life without even realising the existence of the Portuguese language astounds me still! It took several days, in fact, to properly conceive how different the two languages were but muddling through with poor Spanish and even poorer still Portuguese (thank goodness for guidebooks!) did little more than to raise a wry smile and the odd eyebrow – a very different reaction to the Serbian lingua-snobs!
Sagres was the epitome of laid-back-cool. There was surf and all associated paraphernalia so we could well have been on the set of Point Break (without all the sun-kissed Cali-Yanks). It was one of the few places where our arrival on these now-battle-worn bikes didn’t seem to raise the slightest iota of interest, everyone way more focused on the swell and break dude… Gnarly.
The shady fir-treed camp site was a melting pot of laid-back hippy types and gap year students. Obviously we would have blended in like social chameleons had Rob not thrown his lumpy Twin down the track on some soft sand. It took all the effort we could both muster to right the bike whilst a stoner watched on with mild marijuana addled bemusement. After this inauspicious induction to home for the night Rob threw his tent up in double quick time, crawled inside and turned in early to nurse his wounds and settle his stomach (with little success by all accounts) so I was left to sample the delights of Sagres solo.
From that day Sagres holds a very special place in my heart. I quite enjoyed visiting it alone if I’m honest, it made for a different experience altogether. The waitresses in the cafes and bars went out of their ways to cater for this lonely poor mute and the town itself was beautiful. I tried a locally brewed ‘black’ beer and ate like a king. The town had a graceful ease about it that was so welcoming I felt like I was visiting an old friend. I would sincerely love to return.
Had the Irish surfers camped next to us not asked to borrow an allen key I don’t think I would have noticed how many residents were British such was the pervasive nature of the laid back culture of the place, it was absorbed and enjoyed by all. I’m not sure Rob’s experience of Sagres was quite so pleasant unfortunately. Whatever bacteria had got in and were now setting up their own camp in Robs guts were very much making themselves at home. With his rumbling bowels demanding he leave his tent and dash for the toilet block about every 40 minutes, Robs early night would bring him little rest and certainly no improvement in what was becoming a rapidly worsening condition.
