Travels in the Van 2023: Week Three

Campsite hopping and cycling

Saturday 28th of January 

We’re headed into the mountains above Monchique, to the cutest little campsite with the promise of good cycling and hot showers. It has one single line of pitches on a curved terrace overlooking the valley. It’s idyllic. Very pretty, simple and beautifully kept, a small immaculately clean pool (freezing) and the hottest showers we’ve had so far. 
We head off for a sunny climb on tarmac roads and see azure winged magpies and what I think was a mongoose. We stop at the Velochique café in town for a late lunch before Richard heads off for one more climb and I find my way back to the van. We feast on three bean Chili and rice with all the right spices. 

After dark, there is an unexpected knock on the van door, this has never happened before. 
"Excuse us"
There are two German men outside. I recognise them as the couple from Zambujeira. I had a conversation while I was cleaning my bike . 
"Hello, we’ve met before" I say 
it seems they can’t find a way to gain entry to the mountain campsite. There is a barrier down, which we hadn’t noticed earlier on arrival. The elderly French Patron didn’t mention it. The reception cabin is locked and the phone is just ringing out.
"Did they give you an access card? or is it number plate recognition"
It’s not that kind of place, they don’t even take debit cards. We go and have a look with them and then escalate it to an international incident by knocking on the Dutch van, who we think has been here longest. We’re unable to solve it and wish them good night as they head back off into the darkness. The morning brings the news at the campsite is 'Fermé' at 7pm. We all wonder how we get out in an emergency…

   

Sunday 29th January
Marmelete 

After city cycling and trail rides, we are now on Mountain loops with climbs and descent on roads free of traffic.

This is a favourite. Deep in nature, blue skies, wildlife and sunshine. There’s something timeless about the scenery. I love seeing human habitation in all its ingenuity some of it clearly there for hundreds of years.

There are typical single storey Portuguese dwellings, with square windows and bold borders, the tiled roofs almost merging lean-to against the rock face of the valley. Some of them remind me of the Welsh longhouses with room for humans and animals. It’s so isolated out here. Then there are the incomers living an alternative lifestyle.

Out cycling,we’re always on the lookout for a coffee stop. As we come down from a descent, there’s a shack at a junction just below some campervan/benders that are permanently parked and a couple of dogs off leads who ignore us.. The word café is just visible on the faded sign and we take a chance. There are voices from inside the murky interior, German and Portuguese. A loping, middle-aged old style hippy is talking loudly, in cigarette gravelly English, to a German man who's attire has more of a golf club vibe. Behind the counter is a capable, smiling woman, a bit grubby around the edges, who is very welcoming and brings us strong coffee, which we sip on plastic chairs outside. 

There’s a dog in a van, which must belong to the golfer who is leaving it to walk down the road a bit on the hippy's instruction. He barks furiously at being left behind, which brings a comedy duo of dogs to investigate from the benders above. To add to the Wild West vibe of the place, the bender owner strolls down into the saloon, all jeans and silver buckles. Half cowboy, half rockstar. The entire scene and all the characters look like they’ve come straight from central casting including the dogs.

Imagine the horror on return from this long bike ride, expecting a hot shower...more than that, the thought of a hot shower has kept me going, to find that the boiler is broken. It’s 5 o’clock, but luckily Le Patron is still here and heroically fixes it. Relief all round.

Monday 30th January

We’re definitely campsite hopping to position ourselves for the next ride up to a reservoir, and head to another small, cute campsite in Figueres. It’s almost full, quite cramped, and as usual, almost everyone has bigger vans the us. There is a such a sociable French contingent and it reminds me of market day.

The matriarch of the French is a friendly, cheerfully loud woman, who immediately inducts me into the workings of the washing machine, despite the instructions being in English. I feel affectionate towards her, she reminds me of my beloved French aunt. The men stand around and she is in charge. There are 2 UK vans with jolly, genial occupants. One tells me confidentially which the most desirable pitches are, they get the most sun, and if you're quick when someone leaves the proprietor will let you move. The pitch next to theirs will be free in the morning. This is the first time I’ve been aware of pitch hierarchy/envy. The campsite is very animated next morning with an exodus of vans. The French are moving out, save the matriarch and husband who promptly move pitch. There is now plenty  of space and the sun shines on us as we breakfast. It’s time to move on anyway. Before we leave this village square of a place, I once again feel like an eccentric Brit doing my seven minute workout and yoga behind the back of the van, there being nowhere more discreet. Richard goes for a run. Everyone has bikes with them but we're the only ones 'carry on camping'

Tuesday 31st January - Terra Yah 

It’s not sign posted at all, as all of the other remote campsites have been. Each road we turn down,following Google Maps gets rougher and rougher, the last being a rutted and stoney mud track. On Google Earth, there’s not much to see either, but it’s clearly marked and has good reviews and ratings. There is a private sign in Portuguese and eventually a clearing with a few shacks, quite a lot of debris and a couple of Portuguese flags flying high. At least there’s a turning space if we need to leave.

There is a man sitting on a sofa in the biggest open-faced shack. He sees us but doesn’t move. Three or four dogs come running out, interested rather than aggressive. We hold out ground in the van. A woman comes down the path from a cabin higher up. So I step out of the van and ask my usual opening question "do you speak English?"

"A bit" which will do and yes, this is a park for the night place, with toilets and a shower. 7€ a night 2€ for the shower We knew there was no electrical hook-up but I can charge my bike up there too in one of the shacks, as long as I do it before sundown as the electricity is solar powered. 

The pitches are in vast scrubland. There a couple of others vans there. There is no discernible layout, but we walk down the small path with Bella and the dogs and it all makes more sense. There’s a little toilet hut and we drive around following her instructions and set up camp. It’s delightful, idyllic, unspoilt. The whole place is solar powered, the toilets is a compost one and immaculate. As we have lunch we hear a snoring noise from a copse of trees. There’s another encampment there, with two black boars sunbathing contentedly.

All we can hear is birds, a dog in the distance and piggy grunts. It’s perfect.

There's a definite Wild West feel about some of these places in South west Portugal. Tumbleweed villages, unmade roads, old and new cheek by jowl. The nearest village to the remote campsite Barão d São João, is an acknowledged hippy colony it transpires. It used to host the best monthly flea market in the Algarve. Where artists and other European alternative-lifestylers sold their Craftwork and secondhand clothes. No longer. It seems to have fizzled out in 2019 (Covid related?) But as we cycle through after a short ride to the coast and a blast through Praia de Luz, infamous now since the disappearance of Maddie McCann, and stop for a beer, the vibe lingers. 

There’s a busy bar, with a collection of what could be called Bohemian, or less kindly Crusty, customers outside it. We sit on a bench, aware that, as cyclists, we don’t quite fit In (but not as badly as when asked by some London geezers and they loved-up girlfriend in Glastonbury festival in 1997, the rainy one, if we were born again Christians - I like to think it was the kagools and wellies). There’s a crash and the sound of a glass from across the street as a table and chair go flying. Portuguese inhabitants look out to see what the noise is. An old bloke from Wolverhampton by the sound of it and very drunk/stoned younger Portuguese woman spill ou and have a vicious argument in English in the middle of the street. The gist of it is that she wants €50 and he says he hasn’t got it, over and over again and that she'll have to find someone else. It almost comes to blows. He calls her everything…makes to walk off, and then, instead of walking away, he goes back into the bar. She sits outside, on her phone. And when he comes out with a beer she says "where's mine" and he buys her another drink.

Wednesday February 1st 

Sagres

We head to the coast swapping eco hippies for the surfing kind. Campsites have on line ratings, word of mouth reputations and then the actual experience. This large coastal site caters for the surfers in the summer, has a surf school on site, closed for the winter. We're on the edge of mainland europe and blast out to the Lighthouse and visit the fort of Henry the Navigator, which is a fantastic bit of architecture and engineering. 

Thursday February 2nd

I thought my shower bag technique was faultless, but after we leave in the van the following morning to get an early start on a long cycle route up the coast back to Aljezur, I notice that I have lost the clothes I was wearing before the shower. I've emptied the van twice, phoned the campsite, used all the techniques I use successfully when other people loose things to no avail. I am now short of the only shortsleeve T-shirt I brought, the sleeveless black T-shirt dress I wear every day, and a Santini cycling jersey I've worn everyday - which I bought in Italy. Richard has kindly said I can have his identical one (I think that's what he said!)  which is at home. I hate losing things, my memory of lost things goes back years.

The ride is however a compensation. Cycling route one (which goes all the way to Norway apparently) through farmland on dirt roads and along the ridge above the coast. At one point we leave route one and descend to the sea to a surfers beach that only those with 4 wheel drive and nerves of steel can get too. It's too steep to cycle down ( for me) and too steep for both of us to cycle up - I can't even push my bike in parts! but we make it. The views are worth it, so is lunch in Aljezur.  We make it to a busy campsite in Alvor for the night.

Friday February 3rd 

Alvor

A rest day. Friday has become dentist visit day for Richard, still niggly, and Blog catch-up day for me. We meet some of the other travellers from previous sites, and get the washing done. It's good to connect with people back home on WhatsApp, while we wait for Sam and Daniela's arrival and our maritime leg to begin in the morning. 

Cycling

Cycling everyday feels good, and I'm getting more confident on roughish surfaces, but also more accepting of the necessity to get off and walk when it doesn't feel safe. The routes we're doing are quite challenging enough and just the right distance. Bike maintenance is also going to be part of the routine in the weeks ahead to keep the sand and grit at bay. This week I fitted a kick-stand to my bike so that I no longer need to find something to lean it up against out in the wilds on on coffee stops!.