046 CYCLE TOURING BRAZIL (2) - PART 1 - RIO TO BELEM - AMANDA

Photo by Tauari Formiga 

BRAZIL (2) - PART TWO 

Rio - Belem

4 717 Kilometres – 119 Days

28 August 2011 - 27 December 2011

MAP

PHOTOS

E-BOOK

27 August 2011 - Lisbon, Portugal – Rio, Brazil

The summer was spent in the northern hemisphere biking in Europe, starting in Budapest, Hungary and ending in Lisbon, Portugal. In Lisbon, I stayed with Carlos, a South African friend living in Portugal. He drove me all over the place, and we took the bicycle to the bike shop to have it boxed.

In the meantime, my sister Amanda wanted to join the adventure and planned on meeting me in Brazil. Cycling Europe was fascinating, and I felt confident and healthy (both mentally and physically) upon returning to Brazil.

A taxi from Rio Airport took me to Wave Hostel in Copacabana Beach, situated across the way from a bike shop, making it easy to reassemble the bicycle. The hostel wasn’t too bad, as hostels go. Being close to the famed Copacabana Beach, including breakfast and free Wi-Fi, one could do worse in such a popular location.

 

28 August - 3 September - Rio de Janeiro

A great deal of time was spent shopping for a Brazilian SIM card, camping gas, and a map of Brazil indicating distances between towns northwest of Rio. The vague plan was to follow the ocean towards French Guiana, a small country bordering Brazil and Suriname.

In the meantime, I ‘recced’ the route out of town, hoping to find a way that would make a less stressful ride for Amanda on her first day. Although August is considered winter, beaches were crowded with thong-clad sunbathers, deck chairs and umbrellas. I could comfortably live in a place like that.

Rio was a party town, so people generally partied all night and slept during the day. It wasn’t something I was used to but, what the heck, as they say, “When in Rome…….”.

Amanda arrived in the evening, dead tired after a 22-hour long-haul flight. Although tired, the chatter continued until the wee hours of the morning. She must’ve been exhausted as she never uttered a word about our abode being terribly small and that we had to share a bed (albeit a double one). Something I knew (from childhood) she hated, seeing pillows were always placed between us whenever there was any sharing of beds.

The next morning was cold and overcast, and not very conducive to our sightseeing plans. First, we took Amanda’s bicycle to the shop to be reassembled. Then we were off to the famed Copacabana beach, the colourful markets, and backstreets where old men played cards in the park. After midday and a quick nap, we were at it again, this time by bus to the famous Sugarloaf Mountain. The cable car price was a tad steep for a cloudy day, and we gave it a miss and hoped for better weather the following day.

The streets came alive after dark, as vendors sold touristy trinkets and bites to eat. After a beer on the beachfront, the most inexpensive meal was two pizzas from the bakery we cooked in the microwave at the hostel. The pizzas were eaten accompanied by a cheap bottle of wine. The wine did what it was supposed to, and Amanda almost fell asleep with her head on the pizza.

The following morning, we went up Corcovado, the 710-metre-high mountain sporting a statue of Christ. A tram ride up the steep slopes brought us to the 38-metre-tall statue. Although immensely touristy, the views over the city were spectacular. Unfortunately, it was too cold and windy to hang about and we soon descended to the city’s warmth.

 

4 September - Rio de Janeiro – Marica – 56 km

Luckily, Amanda’s first day of riding was on a Sunday. This meant the beach road was closed to traffic, making it a stress-free cycle to the ferry terminal where ferries departed to Niteroi across Guanabara Bay. Our luck didn’t end there as, on Sundays, bikes were transported free of charge.

Waiting for the boat, we befriended a chap who lived along the coast close to Marica. He was in the city to buy a bicycle and planned to bike home as he couldn’t take the bike on the bus. Instead, he offered to show us a shortcut, leading us out of busy Niteroi onto a traffic-free route. He accompanied us until reaching his turn-off - what a nice chap.

Not a great deal further, a sign pointed to a campsite about three or four kilometres off the road via a dirt road. Marica turned out to be a beautiful place, revealing lakes, forests and a lovely lawn to pitch our tents. Amanda was tired, but I thought she did remarkably well.

Without nearby shops, we hauled out and cooked the noodles purchased for such an occasion, although I didn’t think it would be needed on our first day.

 

5 September - Marica – Itauna Beach – 59 km

After coffee, we returned to the main road. This was Amanda’s second day on the bike, and she mumbled something to the effect of wanting an internet connection to put the bicycle and panniers on eBay. LOL. Our preferred route primarily followed the Costa do Sol, and featured views of densely wooded hills to the interior.

Several stops were made as Amanda needed her Coca-Cola fix. We kept our eyes peeled for a campground in Saaremaa but found none. Following shopping at the supermarket, a path continued to Itauna beach where a guesthouse on the famous surfing beach of Itauna became home that night. Saaremaa was Brazil’s surfing capital and, sporting near-perfect waves, it formed part of the world surfing circuit.

 

6-7 September - Itauna Beach – Arraial do Cabo – 65 km

Breakfast was at our pousada after which our route headed north. The road ran between the beach and a salt lake, and we rode past many a salt farm. Thank goodness, we picked up a strong tailwind and I was happy for Amanda as she seemed tired by then.

Arriving in Arraial do Cabo, she felt nauseous and experienced cold shivers. I suspected she was dehydrated as she’s a terrible water drinker. The campsite at Arraial do Cabo was a disappointment. Even though located close to the beach, I thought it was overpriced. Amanda retreated to her tent, not to be seen again. I cycled to the supermarket, bought the necessary items for supper, and stocked up with enough fluids to last the night.

Two days were spent in Arraial do Carbo, allowing Amanda to recover before heading off. Arraial do Cabo had an authentic fishermen’s village atmosphere. A pleasant saunter led to the picturesque harbour and self-service restaurants. These restaurants were the best value for money as one paid by weight. Amanda, a fussy eater, found this extremely convenient. She could choose from a wide selection of dishes and pay for what was on the plate.

During the night, the wind picked up and gained strength to near gale force proportions. It took crawling out in the night to turn the tents to face the wind. Unfortunately, one of my tent poles broke in the process. It seriously peed me off as it usually meant eventually buying a new tent.

 

8 September - Arraial do Cabo – Buzios – 35 km

Amanda appeared much improved after a day’s rest and we cycled the short distance to Buzios. Well done to Amanda who didn’t complain about the wind. She simply rolled her eyes a few times. Once in Buzios, the Buzios Hostel was a great place to fix tent poles and connect to the internet. Amanda, no doubt, was the first to spot a sign advertising a bus trip to Salvador.

The supermarket provided supper, which we cooked in the hostel’s kitchen. Unfortunately, to our dismay, Amanda discovered she was a victim of card fraud. What a disaster!

 

9 September – Buzios

Contacting Amanda’s bank to report the card fraud took longer than anticipated. After completing the time-consuming job of phoning the bank and cancelling the card, the time was past midday. So, the remainder of the day was spent in pretty Buzios.

Buzios, known for its beaches, didn’t disappoint. In the early ’60s, Buzios was “discovered” by Brigitte Bardot and her Brazilian boyfriend. After that, the town went from a sleepy fishing community to a world-class tourist resort. Finally, the wind subsided, allowing an enjoyable amble on the beach, showcasing a stunning sunset.

 

10 September - Buzios – Macae – 81 km

Luck was on our side and we picked up a strong tailwind. The breeze pushed us along, and scarcely stopping, we flew past Rio das Ostras and onto Macae. Unfortunately, accommodation was somewhat pricey, and we continued past Macae to a pousada.

At that time of year, the sun set early and by 17h00 one had to start looking for accommodation. Our little pousada was extremely noisy on a busy road, but was inexpensive, had a sea view, a fan and a bathroom.

 

11 September - Macae – Campos dos Goytacazes – 94 km

Amanda’s birthday came with the benefit of a tailwind and overcast weather. A good thing too, as it became a pretty long day of pedalling. The way provided a few sugarcane traders selling ice-cold juice, which I loved. Nevertheless, Amanda didn’t much care for the taste and stuck to her tried-and-tested Coca-Cola. Towards the end of the day, and as expected, she was tired and her backside sore but she never complained.

The aptly named Canaan Hotel in Campos was our spot as I didn’t think my dear sister was up to cycling around searching for a budget room. I went shopping as Amanda claimed she could barely move her eyes and all she could do was lie staring at the ceiling. The pizza ordered was more substantial than envisaged. After only managing half, the remainder was packed to eat the next day.

 

12 September - Campos dos Goytacazes – Quaxindiba – 56 km

Sixteen kilometres beyond Campos dos Goytacazes, the BR101 became dreadfully busy but, luckily, a small path led to the coast. The coastal route gave us more opportunities to find accommodation and was far more scenic than the highway.

Our route led past large sugarcane fields, cattle ranches and pineapple plantations. Numerous pineapple vendors sold pineapples at meagre prices. We agreed that the sweetest pineapples on this planet were in Brazil.

At Quaxindiba, Amanda spotted a decent-looking guesthouse. I didn’t argue as I’d heard the phrase, “This isn’t for me” a hundred times. The accommodation turned out far less glamorous than the outside indicated. Albeit smelly and dingy, we took it as it came at a dirt-low price. We laughed so much at our ridiculous situation that I had sore stomach muscles the next day.

 

13 September - Quaxindiba – Marataizes – 65 km

Our route continued, partly on a dirt road and past small fishing settlements. Sugarcane trucks abounded and, like the previous day, our path ran past enormous pineapple and sugarcane plantations. The state of Espirito Santo was mostly overlooked by tourists, but it was stunning and, being out of season, we appeared the sole visitors.

Marataises was our first beach town. Amanda’s priority was getting an internet connection to arrange for a new bank card to be sent to her.

 

14 September - Marataizes – Piuma – 26 km

With most of the bank business done, we pedalled on past Itapemirim. Amanda flopped down on a beach not significantly further, claiming she was going no further. I couldn’t blame her as we had four days of non-stop pedalling, of which two were reasonably long, especially for someone not used to cycling.

A few Brazilian reals provided an amazingly comfortable abode. The place was more of an apartment than a room as it had two bedrooms, a lounge and a kitchen. Our early arrival made it easy to do laundry as our establishment had washing machines and driers.

 

15 September - Piuma – Guarapari – 55 km

Following a hearty breakfast of jelly, cake, bread rolls, cheese, ham, coffee, etc. (the Brazilians indeed ate well), we loaded our clean laundry and continued our journey. The route led past fantastic beaches like Iriri, Anchieta and Ubu.

Guarapari was far more extensive than anticipated and it took weaving through the busy streets. When it started drizzling, a guesthouse was hurriedly located. The owners were ever-so-friendly; maybe they’d never hosted foreign cyclists.

 

16 September - Guarapari – Carapina Beach – 84 km

Nothing came of the predicted rain and the cloud cover made for good biking weather. Amanda set off at quite a speed, and I couldn’t believe how quickly she became fit.

At Vitoria, the authorities didn’t allow bicycles across the main bridge (Ponte 3) making it a long detour around the city to cross the river at Ponte Florentino Avidos. Nevertheless, Amanda, with her fear of water and heights, sped across the bridge in record time.

Vitoria turned out quite surprising, revealing an old and modern section. At the beach, accommodation was pricey and we continued through various congested settlements. Arriving at the coast, Amanda threatened to stop right there. Fortunately, she didn’t give up and managed to continue until reaching Carapina Beach, which sported a reasonably priced pousada right at the water’s edge. The room was large but had clearly not been cleaned since the previous occupants, and I happily hauled out the sleeping bag.

 

17 September - Carapina Beach

The next day was spent in Carapina doing little else but sleep, eat and drink. My Portuguese was, obviously, not improving. I tried in my best Portuguese to ask for directions, food and accommodation. Still, people generally stared at me as if I had landed from a different planet. When shown the written phrase, they usually repeated it, and there was me thinking, “That was exactly what I said!” LOL.

 

18 September - Carapina Beach – Barra do Sahy, Putirí Beach – 50 km

Refreshed, we headed further north. A scenic road led us through numerous small fishing hamlets, past craft markets and nature reserves. A lovely camping area at Putiri Beach lured us in, and although early, the site was such a good one, we couldn’t decline.

Unfortunately, our food search revealed nothing. Being Sunday, everything seemed deserted, and supper was instant noodles washed down by a few beers. Unfortunately, food was more challenging to find than beer. Soon rain came bucketing down, and by 8 p.m. we were in the tents, hiding from the weather.

 

19 September - Barra do Sahy, Putirí Beach – Linhares – 80 km

The coastal route ended, and our sole option was to head inland and join the busy BR101 passing vast timber plantations. Unfortunately, the way was undulated, and Amanda had to hike her bike up a hill or two. The best part of the day was spent pedalling past ylang-ylang plantations. The sweet and exotic fragrance of the flowers filled the air. I couldn’t think of anything better than biking with the smell of ylang-ylang filling the air.

The BR101 was busy but offered a wide shoulder making cycling more relaxing. The route was littered with cold drink and crafty stalls but, unable to buy anything, we could only snap a few pictures.

At Linhares, it took pedalling around the not-so-glamorous town to find reasonably priced accommodation. The shocking (or amusing) discovery was the address Amanda gave the bank to send the card wasn’t where we thought! The inn she booked turned out somewhere close to the ocean and not in Sao Matheus, as intended.

 

20 September - Linhares – Barra Nova – 85 km

Our only option was to head to Barra Nova to see if the card had arrived. Sixty kilometres down the drag, a large signboard advertised the inn and, after consulting with locals, we turned off. Twenty–three kilometres, the advertising board stated. We pedalled and pedalled, but no inn appeared. Eventually, the paved road ended and turned into a dirt track but still no inn. The sun started setting, and Amanda (as can be expected) claimed she would catch a bus. Albeit beautiful, the area was deserted, and where she would find a bus remained a mystery. The people we encountered seemed perplexed that we wanted to go to Barra Nova, which according to one man, was far away and across a river (no bridge, as indicated by the rowing of arms).

Eventually, it became dark, forcing us to wild camp (a first for Amanda). We pitched our tents at the entrance of what appeared to be an oil refinery as they had water (to the security staff’s great amusement). Amanda searched anxiously for a toilet and mumbled, “I could’ve been somewhere in a hotel room.”

The security guards at the gate weren’t only friendly but understandably curious about what two women on bikes were doing in their part of the world. Once again, the directions to Barra Nova varied between 10 and 28 kilometres.

 

21 September - Oil refinery – Barra Nova – 20 km

Amanda survived the night without a toilet. Following coffee, we returned to the gravel road and headed in the direction the oil refinery staff indicated. True to their instructions, we came across a river about 20 kilometres further.

This may not seem a problem to anyone, but this was a massive problem for Amanda, who had aquaphobia. A man offered to paddle us across, but a more significant issue was getting Amanda onto the boat and across the river. It took a considerable time to locate a life jacket. Still, it didn’t do much to ease her fear. Scared to death, she eventually got onto the tiny wooden boat containing our bikes and panniers and arrived alive on the other side. I felt sorry for her, but what else was there to do? Regrettably, no card was delivered, and the inn had no internet connection to find where the card could be. Nevertheless, Amanda swallowed a beer in about two seconds and looked more like her old self.

If anyone wanted to disappear off the face of the planet, this would be the place to do it. The inn was on a river and had beautiful, comfortable rooms, a lovely restaurant and a bar, all set in a lush garden sporting palm trees and hummingbirds. There wasn’t anything more to the settlement than the inn, a few houses, and a pub or two. Staff doted over us like we were the Queens of England. This was well-deserved treatment after Amanda’s ordeal of the past two days.

 

22 September - Barra Nova

The following morning, a costly taxi ride via a sandy track took us to a nearby village. Amanda clung onto the door frame for all she was worth as we sped along the potholed, sandy path. All in search of an internet connection and a bank (both found). In the process, she learned the bank hadn’t even posted the card and we retreated along the sandy track to Aratu Pousada.

Staff informed us a twenty-five-kilometre sandy path ran to the main road and onto the bigger town of Sao Mateus. By evening, Amanda was already stressing about the sandy path. She feared she would’ve to walk her bike all the way, mumbling her, by then, trademark phrase: “I’m never going to make it.”

 

23-24 September - Barra Nova – Sao Mateus – 40 km

The staff wasn’t wrong about the sandy path and now and again I heard an anxious, “Oh shit” behind me. The “twenty-five kilometres” was simply to the subsequent settlement. At least from there, a tarmac road ran to Sao Mateus where we discovered a hotel offering telephone and internet facilities. The following day, Amanda had more “work” to do, and we stayed in Sao Mateus, where hopefully, she could sort out all the card requirements.

 

25 September - Sao Mateus – Itabata – 90 km

Having done all in our power to have the card sent, we departed Sao Mateus on a breezy, cloudy morning, heading north on the BR101. On crossing into the state of Bahia, the road deteriorated. The roomy shoulder we enjoyed until then vanished, and the many trucks made cycling downright dangerous.

Then, mercifully, a pousada rolled into view. Amanda did well as she stuck it out, put her head down and did what was required. The lady from the guesthouse confirmed that a dirt track indeed existed beside the ocean.

 

26 September - Itabata – Caravelas – 65 km

Following our landlady’s direction, it became an eventful day—a dirt road headed towards the coast past cattle ranches and tiny hamlets. Amanda spotted a man on a donkey and muttered it being a more suitable means of transport for her.

The tiny hamlet of Mucuri made an excellent place to have a snack. Sixty-five kilometres and one flat tyre later, our path abruptly ended at the sleepy fishing settlement of Nova Vicosa, revealing a picturesque fishing harbour. Studying the map, the town of Caralvelas didn’t appear too far away, but we had to cross a mangrove swamp.

Once a price was negotiated, the bikes and panniers were loaded onto the small boat. Amanda was extremely apprehensive, but at least the boat was more substantial than the canoe of a few days earlier. She reluctantly approached the boat and swore I had picked the smallest one in the harbour.

So, we set off into the sunset and putt-putted toward Caravelas. Amanda anxiously looked on when I took the wheel to enable the skipper to work the bilge pump. There’s something intriguing about mangrove swamps, and sunset was a perfect time to be out on the water.

Soon, the sun started setting, the birds began settling in the treetops, the fireflies came out, and phosphorescence began appearing in the wake of the boat – and still, we sailed on. Eventually, it became pitch dark and the stars shone brightly.

By then, Amanda was extremely uncomfortable (to put it mildly). Our boat had no lights and one only hoped the boatman knew the way. Eventually, three hours later, Amanda excitedly spotted the lights of Caravelas across the water. Well done to Amanda and our skipper for making it across the dark waters of the mangrove swamps.

Thank goodness, Caravelas had a comfortable pousada and a open self-service restaurant. All’s well that ends well.

 

27 September - Caravelas – Prado – 50 km

Following a filling breakfast at Posada dos Navegantes, we biked past Alcobacato Prado. After Amanda’s stressful previous day, I thought it best to keep the distance short. Fortunately, the map didn’t indicate any river crossings for at least a day or two.

The Brazilians were incredibly hospitable and loved to talk, but the language barrier made it tricky. A Brazilian couple in a car flagged us down and remarked they had seen us a few days earlier in Vitoria. They seemed highly disappointed when realising we couldn’t speak Portuguese. My biggest regret was not being fluent in the language of the country I cycled.

Shortly before Prado was a river crossing via a rickety bridge. Fueled by a fear of heights and water, Amanda was across the bridge faster than Lance Armstrong. I was incredibly proud of my sister.

 

28 September - Prado – Cumuruxatiba – 35 km

We left Prado via a stunning coastal route. Sadly, it soon deteriorated as it headed over the hills and became sandy, rutted and corrugated. In fact, the road was so rough Amanda lost one of her fillings. I kid you not! I thought it a marvellous route, but Amanda had different words to describe the day. The coastal road was well off-the-beaten-track and very remote - glorious if you like that kind of riding.

Amanda walked her bike up and down the rutted hills – just to be on the safe side. At Cumuruxatiba, a sweet couple pointed us to a guesthouse. The guesthouse was one of the best, set in a lush garden and offered a lovely sea view, all at a reasonable price. The friendly couple later returned to inform us one could cycle along the beach instead of the road. How nice of them.

 

29 September - Cumuruxatiba – Corumbau – 35 km

There are few things as idyllic as biking along a firm beach. Regrettably, our euphoria didn’t last long. The beach soon reached a rocky outcrop forcing us to return to the road. Once around the rocks, a sandy track soon spat us out on the beach, but no sooner more rocky outcrops appeared. This time it took dragging the bikes up a steep embankment and onto the road. Local knowledge told us to try the beach again a few kilometres later. The sand soon became too soft, requiring dragging the bikes quite a few kilometres.

Exasperated, we gave up, pulled the bikes up the embankment, and headed inland, searching for a better road. Being an isolated area, only offering a sandy jeep track, there wasn’t much one could do but walk the bikes along. I heard Amanda mumbling: “We’ll most likely die of thirst, and no one will ever find us.” Even I started thinking we might never reach civilisation. Exhausted, we came upon our sandy and rutted path from the previous day.

A Brazilian chap on a motorbike confirmed it was, indeed, the right way and a long detour was avoided leaving a mere 12 kilometres to Corumbau, our destination that day. However, our cash situation was dire, and the area remote without any TV, cell phone reception or banks. At Corumbau, a bungalow was located and, in limited Portuguese, we explained our dilemma. We understood from the guesthouse owner one bus a day ran to a nearby settlement and an ATM. We further understood the bus departed at six in the morning and returned at around two-thirty.

 

30 September – Corumbau

We were up early the following day to catch our 3-hour, 70-kilometre bus ride. The bus trip was a pleasant experience as it wasn’t merely Saturday but also month end. The bus was crammed with villagers dressed in their Sunday best, heading into town to do their monthly business. The trip was a jovial affair as old men in hats and ladies in heels and floral dresses extended greetings to all who boarded the bus. They all seemed acquainted; even we spotted the lady from a guesthouse where we had enquired the previous night.

In town, our fellow passengers dissipated, and we searched for the bank. Drawing money took a fair amount of time as barely half the terminals functioned. The queue thus extended out the door. Wandering around the small community, one couldn’t help but bump into fellow passengers. Soon, the time came to return and nearly all of the morning’s passengers were on the bus again. We were greeted like old friends. Our fellow travellers were loaded with shopping bags containing anything from chicken feed to groceries.

There appeared no rush as en route the bus stopped at a bakery. Once all were on the bus, we rattled along the rough dirt track to collective ‘oohs’ and ‘aahs’ as the bus bounced through the potholes.

 

1 October - Corumbau – Trancoso – 50 km (+12 km by beach buggy)

After thanking our host, Maria, our route continued along a sandy path until ending abruptly upon reaching a dense mangrove forest. No other option remained but to continue via the beach. To the villagers’ delight, we dragged our bicycles along the sand and, no sooner, all joined in to help.

In the process, we were ferried across a river by what appeared to be a 6-year-old girl (still seemingly sucking on a dummy) - not the best thing for Amanda’s nerves. All this was done without asking for money, and it only seemed like their Sunday afternoon fun.

No road existed to Caraiva, but a beach buggy ferried people to and from Caraiva. The sand was too soft to cycle, and we flew across the loose sand with our bikes strapped onto the buggy. Halfway, Amanda threatened to get out and continue by foot as she wasn’t comfortable with the buggy drifting across the sand so close to the water’s edge.

At least she didn’t have to jump out of a moving vehicle as our buggy ran out of fuel. We waited patiently in the shade of a palm tree as our barefooted driver ran to a nearby house to find petrol. He, eventually, dropped us at Caraiva, where we had to, yet again, cross a river to get to a road of sorts.

Caraiva was a tiny coastal hamlet on the Rio Caraiva. It had no TV, mobile phone connection or banks. However, the slow pace of life attracted a few old-time hippies who lived a quiet life in Caraiva. No bridges were nearby (and no cars), and all goods had to be ferried across the river (even the horses seemed to know this and swam across at leisure).

Once on our bikes, our path turned into one of the worst encountered routes as it was a sandy, rutted, and muddy track, making cycling downright tricky. More surprising was that right there, in the middle of nowhere, was an art studio making lampshades out of candle wax. We lingered a while before setting off, passing vast papaya fields (I guess it’s the only plant that could grow in such sandy soil).

Trancoso revealed a luxury hotel at a fraction of the price it would cost in high season. Being out of season, guesthouses offered rooms at a hugely discounted rate. Ours offered a hammock, air-con, mosquito nets and a lovely breakfast — a just reward for a day’s hard work.

 

2-3 October - Trancoso – Arraial d’Ajuda – 40 km

Instead of continuing by following the dirt path, we opted for the paved road. The paved road was a bit further, but we had enough of dirt roads. Later, we seriously doubted our decision as it revealed numerous steep hills. Amanda was in no mood for hills and swore she would take a bus. After one of those hills, Amanda refused to get on the bicycle and wanted to phone a taxi. She plopped herself down by the side of the road, and it took sweet-talking to get her on the bike, promising we would turn off to Arraial d’Ajuda making it a short day.

Arraial d’Ajuda was a lovely coastal community sporting paved roads and a grassy central plaza. Reggae music blared from tiny, colourful shops surrounding the square and old-time hippies lazed around at incense-filled bars. What an excellent place to hang out.

The next day was spent doing the usual housekeeping. However, when Amanda pointed out one had to close the bedroom window using a plank, I knew she was well rested, and it was time to move along.

 

4 October - Arraial d’Ajuda – Belmonte – 80 km

A leisurely four-kilometre descent brought us to the ferry port, where a barge ferried passengers and cars across. By then we had experienced numerous kinds of crafts across countless rivers. Still, the sight of the overloaded barge didn’t instil a great deal of confidence. Once on the opposite bank, our route continued past palm-filled beaches with bright yellow plastic chairs.

As if one river crossing wasn’t enough, we came across another river where a barge operated. On the opposite side, the road wound through a dense forest and past remote beaches to Belmonte.

In Belmonte, a skipper approached us, offering us a ride across the mangrove swamps to Canavieiras. A fee was negotiated, and arrangements were made to meet at 8 o’clock the next morning (dearly hoping his craft would be seaworthy). Our abode was a basic guesthouse at a budget price, and one couldn’t complain about the lack of facilities.

 

5 October - Belmont - Una – 56 km

The skipper turned out to be the water taxi to Canavieiras and I was sure we were overcharged. The swamps could only be crossed at high tide, which assured Amanda the water wasn’t deep. We waited in the company of fellow passengers until the tide came in. Once the bicycles and panniers were loaded (they even had life jackets), the boat headed off through the humid jungle.

Against all odds (according to my dear sister), the ferry made it to Canavieiras. Priority was to locate a bike shop as Amanda’s tyre was torn close to the rim. As even the smallest community had a bike shop, finding one was easy. The shop was ever-so-generous, gave a good discount, and fitted the new tyre at no extra charge.

The reasonably short distance to Una was on an excellent paved road, past densely-wooded areas and plenty of small hamlets. Una was slightly inland and reached via a moderately hilly ride. As usual, villagers were curious about our doings. The friendly lady running the pousada suggested we put our bicycles in the room. Onlookers keenly carried our bikes up the vertical stairs (something we didn’t protest about). Soon the rain poured down, making it a great place to hide during the night.

Brazilians customarily favoured a big lunch and only a light meal in the evening. A saunter to the bus station, mercifully, revealed a few street vendors from which to snack. Cake was always available and made a sweet treat.

 

6 October - Una – Ilhéus - 61 km

By morning, the rain had abated making the day hot and humid. Our route led towards the coast, past Ecoparque de Una, where the golden-headed lion monkeys could be seen. Regrettably, one had to arrange a visit beforehand.

I wasn’t prepared to drag Amanda up a seven-kilometre dirt road to the park gate that might or might not be open. Nevertheless, a good descent took us towards the ocean, from where a flat coastal path led to Olivencia and on to Ilhéus, where, hopefully, a new bank card would be waiting.

Hotel Ilhéus was easy to find, but sadly we learned no post had arrived. Hotel Ilhéus turned out quite interesting. Centrally located in the old part of town and built in the 1930s, it sported a vintage elevator and few electrical points. It, nonetheless, offered hot showers and excellent river views. The hotel was built to accommodate wealthy cocoa traders and, originally, had a bank and cocoa deposit on the ground floor, a party saloon, and a casino. It must’ve been quite a fancy place in its day but was, by then, showing its age.

 

7-12 October - lhéus

With the help of friends in South Africa, at last, news came about Amanda’s bank card. We decided to stay in Ilhéus until the card arrived, as having it sent to a forward address proved far too problematic.

Ilhéus was a pretty coastal town, offering an ensemble of historic buildings dating to its cocoa heyday. I wasn’t sure though whether we would be able to keep ourselves occupied for seven days. When we enquired about a disconto in anticipation of our extended stay, the receptionist laughingly pointed out that whilst we didn’t speak Portuguese, we sure knew the word “disconto”.

lhéus was the hometown of Jorge Amado, a well-known and popular writer in Brazil. His novels, like Gabriela, Clove and Cinnamon, and Dona Flor and Her Two Husbands, portray the life and customs of the north-eastern region of Brazil. If nothing else, at least his books would keep us busy. In the meantime, all the old buildings in town were visited. An amble up the hill to the Church of Nossa Senhora da Piedade proved worthwhile. Situated high up on a hill overlooking Ilhéus, it resembled a fairy castle more than a church.

Once all the sightseeing was done, our days were spent eating ice cream, grilled cheese, and quail eggs on the beach. At night, the beachfront traders provided cheap nibbles and thick milkshakes. Ilhéus was a reasonably small town but quite lively. The cobbled alleys came alive at night with food, bars and street theatres.

Ilhéus had a fascinating history being the principal city along what was known as Brazil’s Cocoa Coast. The town dates to the early 1500s, when it thrived due to the sugarcane trade. Its real boom came in the late nineteenth century with the introduction of cacau (cocoa). Plummeting world sugar prices and the abolition of slavery caused the sugar plantations to decline.

The cocoa trade (known as “ouro branco” or white gold) lured formerly enslaved people and entrepreneurs to the lush hills surrounding Ilhéus, all searching for their fortune. A few cocoa barons (known as “coronéis” or colonels) with vast plantations became immensely wealthy and powerful.

They ruled over their workers, and the region, until the 1980s. Shortly afterwards, a disease known as “vassoura de bruxa” (witch’s broom) decimated the cocoa trees and left the region’s economy in ruins, from which it had only recently begun to recuperate.

Today, traces of the colonels’ legacy can still be seen by wandering among the majestic mansions and civic buildings in Ilhéus’s historical centre. One can read about their exploits in the novels (particularly The Violent Land) by famous Brazilian author Jorge Amado. (Source: Moon Travel Guides)

 

13 - 14 October - Ilheus

By far, the cheapest meal was at self-service restaurants. These, usually, offered a large variety of food and even desserts. Customers could dish up whatever, and as much or as little as they desired, as the price paid was by weight. Unfortunately, these restaurants were usually only open between 12h00 and 14h00. This is because Brazilians tend to have a big lunch and only a snack in the evening.

At night, we searched out the espetinhos vendors. One could find these vendors just about everywhere: tending their portable charcoal barbeques, selling their espetinhos (small kebabs). The aroma of the grilled meat usually told us exactly where they were. Espetinhos could be skewers of beef, sausage, chicken or even cheese. These skewers were served smothered in a hot sauce and a sandy, flour-like concoction (which we usually skipped).

In the unlikely event one couldn’t find an espetinhos vendor, there were always the acarajé traders. Acarajé was a dish made from peeled black-eyed peas formed into a ball and then deep-fried in palm oil. This was by far the most famous street food and served split in half and stuffed with a tomato and onion salad, a spicy sauce and pasta made from corn (I think). Often shrimps were somewhere in the dish as well.

Both these dishes were considered snacks and were immensely popular as they were cheap. I preferred buying from the lady on the plaza as she didn’t deep-fry her acarajé but cooked the ball in a banana leaf. Her acarajé also contained no shrimp and had a more distinct coconut flavour. To top it all, chocolate cake was usually available somewhere.

 

15 - 16 October - Ilheus – Itacare - 74 km

Following eight full days, Amanda’s bank card still hadn’t arrived. A decision was made to continue, returning by bus to Ilheus when the card arrived. Once out of Ilheus, a chocolate factory lured us in - it was, after all, Brazil’s Cacao Coast.

As was the custom by then, our route ran through a thick, lush coastal forest. Hidden in the woods was an artist’s house featuring slightly wacky art. As the road was hilly and Amanda didn’t feel well, she waved down a bus, and bused herself to Itacare, while I continued by bicycle.

The hills created stunning views, including miles of snow-white, half-deserted beaches stretching as far as the eye could see. Reaching Itacare, Amanda had already booked into a hostel. Luckily, she came strolling towards me as I rode into town. I would never have found the hostel otherwise, as the place was hidden away on one of the side streets.

An additional day was spent in Itacare, a surfing/hippie coastal community sporting many tattooed, pierced and dreadlocked people. All seemed laid back and without a care in the world. They must’ve been smoking the good stuff, making it a perfect place to hang out.

 

17 October - Itacare – Camamu - 58 km

Nearing central Brazil, the weather became increasingly hazy, hot and humid, and settlements became more remote, rural and traditional. Our route became hillier, and after 15 kilometres and at a bus stop, Amanda stayed put.

Arrangements were made to meet in the next village, and I left her in the care of a few schoolchildren and set off over countless hills. Finally, about five kilometres before Camamu, while stopping at a viewpoint, I saw Amanda going past in a bus and felt better knowing she was all right.

Camamu was a small fishing community surrounded by mangrove swamps, and it was easy to find both the centre and Amanda, who opted for digs in the town centre.

 

18 October - Camamu – Valenca - 71 km

Amanda decided to take the bus and we arranged to meet in Valenca, the next most prominent place. The road ran through dense forests revealing tiny settlements hidden behind palm trees and banana plants. The day offered all the images one conjured up when thinking of central Brazil. Jungle-clad hillsides, mangrove swamps and remote villages, where women did laundry in streams and carried their wares in baskets on their heads.

Pedalling through these small settlements, people instantly stopped what they were doing, spun around, and stared motionless, mouths agape. Dogs barked nervously and kids ran for the safety of their homes.

I reached Valenca around midday, leaving plenty of time to investigate this tiny, but bustling, fishing community offering a lively riverfront lined by food traders and juice stands. En route to our accommodation, we unexpectedly got drenched by a sudden downpour, but at least it wasn’t cold.

 

19-26 October – Valenca

After breakfast, and ready to leave, Amanda discovered the card delivery company was trying to get hold of her. She learned the card wasn’t delivered to the hotel in Ilheus (as arranged) as we weren’t physically there. At least the bank refunded the fraudulent transactions, and the card was somewhere in Brazil. It would, however, take another 72 hours to be delivered. As no deliveries were made over weekends, the anticipated delivery date was the following Monday. So, we settled in for a long and tedious wait.

Beautiful islands were nearby, but we didn’t want to leave the hotel in case the card arrived before the weekend. In the meantime, boatloads of islanders arrived in Valenca to do their shopping. The market was jam-packed with exotic fruit and vegetables, a few I had never seen. A stroll beside the river brought us to the boat builders, which Valenca was famous for. Under palm trees amidst sawdust and huge pieces of wood, they were hammering and sawing away at half-constructed boats. It gave the impression that they maintained fifteenth-century techniques.

Over the weekend, we ran head-on into the Church of Our Lady of Perpetual Help Festival. Hundreds of people, all dressed in white, headed up the hill towards the church. The celebration was accompanied by all the trimmings: an amusement park, toffee apples, food sellers and music. The festival ended in a mini-carnival complete with beer, music blaring from car boots and people dancing in the street - all incredibly festive. A huge open-top truck carrying a band moved slowly through the streets, and people followed behind, swaying to the beat and generally having a good time.

No one in their right mind would believe me if I told them Amanda’s bank card saga had been going on for over a month and a half. The incompetence of some people boggled the mind. Each day she was told it would be delivered the following day. The straw that broke the camel’s back was when she was told a special delivery could be made at US$500, and the card would then be delivered the following morning. To cut a long story short, a deal was made and guess what? No card was delivered the next morning. I thought it was time to forget about the card, but, understandably, Amanda wanted to pay her way.

 

27 - 28 October - Valenca – Nazare – 47 km

We optimistically waited until 13h00 but no delivery was made. Finally, a decision was made to leave Valenca for Nazare. Of the nearly two months Amanda had been in Brazil, she only managed to cycle one month. We left a note informing the staff to phone us when, or if, the parcel was delivered.

Being a hot and humid day made it exhausting cycling. Amanda felt faint and shaky and decided to take a bus. None could accommodate the bicycle, and eventually, we slowly continued to Nazare.

We found a surprisingly historic town in the middle of nowhere. Portuguese settlers arrived here in the second half of the sixteenth century. The city still had a central plaza featuring lovely old churches and tons of narrow cobblestone lanes. Colourful houses, packed tightly together, lined the hillside. A pousada in one of the alleys sported a large balcony overlooking the town and the Jaguaribe River.

A pleasant surprise awaited us the next morning as we learned the parcel had been dropped off in Valence. A mini-bus taxi took us to Valence to collect the long-awaited card. Eish!

 

29 October - Nazare – Mar Grande - 61 km

With the new bank card safely in Amanda’s panniers, we set out in the direction of Salvador. Again, the weather was tropical, but Amanda was in high spirit and biked well. I still had to convince her perspiration was typical under those circumstances and she wasn’t coming down with a deadly virus.

Mar Grande was reached around midday and a guesthouse was sought instead of crossing the bay straight away. For Amanda, crossing the bay was a primary concern, and we made our way to the port to check it out. The fact the sea was rough didn’t do much to ease her fear. Our guesthouse was somewhat unusual, and although basic, it remained a fascinating setup providing a considerable garden, plenty of arty things, and a swimming pool. The pool was a blessing to cool off and escape the pursuing mosquitoes.

 

30 October - Mar Grande – Praia Stella Maris - 31 km

First thing in the morning, we were on the ferry across the bay to Salvador. Salvador, the first capital of Brazil, from 1549 to 1763, turned out quite a charming colonial city, revealing a history dating to the slave trade.

So, we pedalled on, following the coast with its endless beaches until reaching Praia Stella Maris. At a petrol station to use their toilets, a guesthouse owner gave us his card, and on checking it turned out quite a nice place so we stayed the night.

 

31 October - Praia Stella Maris – Praia do Forte - 64 km

At the guesthouse were two Polish guys competing in the Brazil Ride. They had been to South Africa to ride the famous Cape Epic earlier in the year. Being cyclists, they were intrigued by our adventure and chatted for quite a while.

The road was kind to Amanda, and we slinked into Praia do Forte without any incidents. Still, it was surprising to find such a touristy place. Praia do Forte was a tiny village well known for its turtle conservation. Curio stalls selling turtle paraphernalia lined the streets. Unfortunately, guesthouses jacked up their prices accordingly, and it took riding around before locating the least expensive of the bunch.

 

1 November - Praia do Forte – Baixio - 78 km

The route was flat, but Amanda found the heat debilitating. She felt faint and unsteady but, following a few rest stops, managed to continue. The people of Brazil were incredibly kind. While resting at a petrol station, a kind gentleman befriended us. He presented us with a lovely pair of silver earrings. His card indicated he was a jeweller. How kind of him.

Though hot, little option remained but to continue, and eventually we found a turnoff to a beach. Not knowing what to expect, we biked the eight kilometres and discovered the tiny fishing settlement of Baixio. A ground-floor room along a sandy path from which we could access hammocks and a pizzeria was precisely what was needed. The pizzas we ordered were surprisingly good, thin-based accompanied by heaps of toppings - my favourite. Amanda passed out under the not-so-useful fan and stayed there for the remainder of the day.

 

2-3 November - Baixio – Sitio do Conde - 51 km

Amanda, unwell, preferred taking the bus to Conde, the next community on the map. As soon as she boarded the bus, I continued by bicycle. The route was hilly and it was perhaps a good thing Amanda took the bus as it bucketed down almost all the way. Once in Condo, I found Amanda at the bus stop.

Condo was smaller than envisaged and it was better to cycle the six kilometres to Sitio do Conde, a lovely laidback beach village. With practically no one around, we were spoilt for choice. A reasonably priced hammock-adorned abode, right on the beach made a good place from where to watch the pounding waves, barely a few metres away. So enjoyable was it, staying the following day came naturally as it was a “swing-another-day-in-a-hammock” kind of place.

 

4 November - Sitio do Conde – Estancia - 89 km

A tropical storm came in during the night and, by morning, we had serious doubts about whether to continue. Amanda (cleverly) decided to take the bus, and we arranged to meet in Estancia. I biked along the ever-so-hilly road but luckily encountered a lovely tailwind.

Once across the border into the tiny state of Sergipe, and with twenty-five kilometres to go, I had a flat tyre. Fixing it, Amanda’s bus came past, and I saw a little white hand waving out the bus window. By the time I got to Estancia, she already located a room (as well as a few cold beers). I could get used to such luxury and was getting ideas of encouraging her to take the bus more often.

 

5 November - Estancia – Aracaju - 78 km

The weather was much improved and came with a good tailwind. Outside Estancia, was an opportunity to turn off the BR101 onto a secondary road leading to the coast. My tyre must’ve been wearing thin as I didn’t have one, but two, flat tyres. As always, a whole bunch of helpers made fixing it both a lengthy and fascinating process. One needed to explain where you were from, where you were going, and just what you were doing in their neck of the woods, and that on a bicycle.

On the outskirts of Aracaju, a conveniently located guesthouse saved us from heading into the city centre. Once settled in, we visited the supermarket to get our usual quota of beer and snacks. The cooler weather was much more agreeable to Amanda, and she rode well. She didn’t even mind the cycle to the supermarket.

 

6 November - Aracaju – Pirambu - 53 km

In the morning, I fixed all the damaged tubes in case there were more flat tyres. On Sunday morning, the streets were quiet, making biking through Aracaju easy. A coastal road led to the tiny fishing settlement of Pirambu.

Although only midday, rain made it a perfect spot to hide from the weather. Pleased about our decision, we sat watching the rain pouring down. The rainy weather brought out enormous frogs. At least the wind kept the mosquitos at bay, but they returned with a vengeance as soon as the wind subsided.

 

7 November - Pirambu – Brejo Grande - 70 km

It rained throughout the night, but the weather cleared by morning. The map indicated a shortcut via the beach but I didn’t expect the day to be quite as tricky as it turned out. The rain of the previous two days made for muddy and slippery conditions which required walking the bikes up the rutted hills while struggling through wet and soft sand. Seeing women on bicycles appeared a rarity; villagers thought us as fascinating as we found them. It felt like there was no end to the muddy mess but, eventually (and covered in mud), we reached River Sao Francisco at tiny Brejo Grande.

 

8 November - Brejo Grande – Portal do Coruripe - 55 km

Breakfast consisted of mashed cassava, milk, and a good cup of Brazilian coffee. I watched the world go by in this small settlement. Rickety buses and horse carts came clattering past. Ladies returned from the river carrying their freshly laundered washing, mothers accompanied their kids to school, and farmers helped each other get tractors going. Two youngsters were trying to herd a calf, but the calf wanted nothing of it. They pushed and they shoved, but the calf had other ideas.

On departing, the pousada owner wanted no money for the room or breakfast. How generous of him. Thanking him profusely, we headed to the river to find a boat to take us across. Amanda was shocked to see that, once again, she had to board a tiny wooden water taxi. The River Sao Francisco was quite a substantial river with many myths. Nevertheless, we never saw the legendary water beast, said half-human and half-animal, who lived at the bottom of the river and I understood snored.

Safely on the opposite side (and in the state of Alagoas), the path continued on a paved road. Our route ran close to the coast, past vast palm tree plantations, sporting glimpses of the ocean in the distance. The area was well off the beaten track, the villages small, and the horse and cart still in everyday use.

A car wash in Coruripe made it a perfect place to wash the bikes. They sprayed and scrubbed, and eventually the bikes came out sparkling clean. The sleepy fishing community of Pontal do Coruripe was merely five to seven kilometres away. Featuring narrow cobbled lanes and a small central square, Pontal do Coruripe was a quaint community where ladies sat outside their homes, weaving or chatting with neighbours.

Seeing that the previous night’s accommodation was free, we splashed out and got a lovely guesthouse featuring a sea view.

 

9-10 November - Pontal Coruripe – Barra de São Miguel - 60 km

Being November and summer in Brazil, it was no surprise to find, once again, a hot and hilly ride into the wind, but Amanda cycled like a pro. The best part of the day was reaching Sao Miguel and finding a bungalow sporting a swimming pool, stacks of palm trees and a hammock.

By evening, I put my smelly shoes on the veranda and woke to find the dogs had eaten my single pair of footwear. Buying a new pair required borrowing Amanda’s shoes to visit the store. The rest of the day was spent doing the usual rest day chores as well as trying to get Amanda’s bank card activated.

 

11 November 2011 (11/11/11) - Sao Miguel – Barra de Santo Antonio - 85 km

Departing was in spitting rain and, now and again, it required hiding from the rain, waiting until the worst was over. Reaching Maceio, the capital of Alagoas, was reasonably early but we only stopped to buy cold drinks.

Soon after getting underway, a lovely Brazilian man stopped to chat, and the disappointment on his face discovering we couldn’t speak Portuguese was clearly visible. Still, it was possible to explain where we were from and what we were doing. He must’ve been impressed as he gave us some much-needed cash. How awesome is that? Not considerably further, we met Tauari Formiga and his friend, who spoke English. They also enjoyed travelling by bicycle, and a few pictures were taken. In fact, the photos he took remained some of my favourite ones of the entire trip. The Brazilians were amazing, super friendly and exceptionally generous.

Barra de Santo Antonio had no accommodation - solely one expensive eco-resort. However, they must’ve pitied us as they reduced the price by half, making it more affordable. We stayed in a top-of-the-range chalet offering crisp white linen, TV, air-con and excellent showers. Eco-resorts were popular in Brazil, but I didn’t see any difference, except they didn’t supply toilet paper – merely a “bum-gun”.

 

12 November - Barra de Santo Antonio – Maragogi - 60 km

Following a hearty breakfast at our top-of-the-range digs, we saddled up, but Amanda had a flat tyre before clearing the gate. The dirt road became increasingly rutted and muddy. Unsure if we were on the right path, directions were sought at a security booth. The staff assured us this was indeed the right road and one could follow the track over what appeared to be private land. Following instructions, we soon ran out of road altogether.

There wasn’t anything to do but drag the bikes along the sandy track through palm trees until reaching a river where crossing was by using a small ferry. On the opposite side, a more comfortable ride awaited via a paved road past scenic beaches and small one-lane fishing hamlets.

In Porto de Pedras, one, once again, had to use a ferry. Poor Amanda. At least the ferry was more substantial, which made her feel slightly more secure. A cobblestoned road led further north past numerous fishing settlements.

Brazilians appeared to have made this a long weekend as the following Tuesday was a public holiday. In stark contrast to the villagers on horseback, well-off city slickers showed off their big toys and fancy cars.

 

13 November – Maragogi – Ipojuca - 90 km

Our digs in Maragogi must’ve been one of the cheapest (and best) guesthouses as truck drivers favoured it - a sure sign of a good deal. Breakfast consisted of cassava resembling what was known at home as “krummelpap”; good carbs for the road.

Amanda’s gear cable broke, and she struggled in her granny gear to a bike shop where they did a temporary job that would hopefully get us to the next big town. But, again, the helpful owners wanted no money. Nevertheless, a slight tailwind helped us in making good time.

Sadly, the road deteriorated and the shoulder became rutted and potholed. At one stage a bus came careening down on Amanda and, in the process of avoiding it, she went off the road, hit a pothole and had a terrible fall. She was immensely courageous, and while blood dripped down her arms and legs, she wiped the dust off and got back on the bike. We had approximately 10 kilometres before finding a guesthouse where she could wash herself off and clean her wounds. We laughed as all I had to bandage her arm was a headscarf - at least the scarf was colourful and had pretty tassels.

Her fall was, in fact, far more severe than what we at first expected. The bicycle was never the same afterwards, and she struggled with an injured shoulder and knee for at least a year thereafter.

 

14 - 15 November - Ipojuca – Recife - 46 km

The next day, and even while injured, Amanda cycled to Recife. I thought it possible she broke one or more ribs.

Recife came as a slight shock after such a long time in the countryside. The city was large and swarming with tourists. Being Republic Day in Brazil and a public holiday, all the popular places were fully booked and we settled for a pricey hotel. The weather was sweltering and humid, and holidaymakers crowded the beaches.

 

16 November - Recife – Olinda - 20 km

Pedalling out of Recife, a bike shop caught our attention. Amanda had her gear cable fixed, and I bought a new tyre as mine was wearing thin.

Shortly after departing Recife, we came upon Olinda. This former state capital was declared a world heritage site, and rightly so. Olinda was an intriguing place featuring candy-coloured houses along steep slopes. Churches were atop high hills, and narrow, cobbled streets ran at odd angles. The remainder of the day was spent exploring this delightful city.

 

17 November - Olinda – Goiana - 69 km

Departing Olinda was via a coastal road where a ferry from Maria Farinha took passengers across the river to Nova Cruz. Then, an excellent paved road took us to the ill-fated BR101. Luckily, this section of the BR101 was far better than we feared and provided an extensive shoulder, making cycling considerably safer.

Our route to Goiana ran through Igarassu, which sported an unexpected but fascinating historic centre offering beautiful old buildings and churches. In Goiana, the first accommodation we spotted was reasonably priced and even had icy cold air-con.

 

18 November - Goiana – João Pessoa - 55 km

The day turned out a frustrating ride. Amanda’s chain broke, but luckily we were only about a kilometre from a small tyre repair where they did the necessary repair work. They hammered and banged and eventually the chain was on, allowing her to reach João Pessoa. Amanda’s fall a few days earlier left her and the bicycle far more damaged than anticipated, which became more apparent as time passed.

João Pessoa was a miserable-looking town. The traffic was horrendous and the roads narrow, and I feared for Amanda as she nervously dodged trucks and busses. Biking into a busy city in peak hour traffic can be unnerving. Nevertheless, there was little one could do but push on until reaching the centre or accommodation. Finding a bike shop was a priority, and that was exactly what we did. Unfortunately, the first place we inquired turned out to be a house of ill-repute and the second full. The third one was out of our budget, but we took it anyway.

Once settled in, I trundled to the supermercado as Amanda was fed up with the whole affair. Not wanting to walk, cycle or talk, she flopped onto the bed and I didn’t hear a word from her the entire evening.

On closer inspection, João Pessoa wasn’t all bad. Known for its baroque and art nouveau architecture, a few beautiful old buildings were scattered around.

 

19-20 November - João Pessoa – Cabo Branco Beach - 9 km

After discussing our situation, we concluded that we had to take a break. A short amble led to the beach, where the plan was to stay the following two days. My sister needed a break, and luckily we found a lovely guesthouse to do that.

Brazil’s beach volleyball circuit is a big affair, and they arrived in town at the same time as us. Large trucks brought scaffolding, and stands and courts were erected in record time. Food traders lined the streets, and the music was going ten to a dozen. We got caught up in all the festivities and loved it. People didn’t only cheer on their favourite players but danced to the music, flew kites and enjoyed the beach—just one more brilliant day in Brazil. Our stay was enjoyable and it was great to stroll along the coast or relax at our abode, watching the action.

 

21 November - Carbo Branco Beach – Mamanguape - 83 km

Our day was one of mixed emotions. We departed Carbo Branco, intending to bike to Natal. Twenty kilometres later, our path reached a river where a barge ferried people across. Once on the opposite side, and after about 10 kilometres, our cobblestoned road came to an abrupt halt without any sign of the route indicated on the map.

With no other option, we headed to the main road. At least the way was scenic, past vast palm tree plantations and a tiny shop, where the owner fixed fishing nets and sold coconut juice. Being sweltering, I finished my juice in one large gulp. On departing, the owner wanted no money. He pointed us to a shortcut, which turned out to be a sandy track.

Still, our alternative route took 30 kilometres off the day’s distance. Although slow going, it remained better than cycling an additional 30 kilometres. The road ran through sugarcane fields, and the flies were out in full force, enough to annoy the best-natured person. Eventually, I hauled out and donned the mosquito/fly head-net, making life more bearable.

Once on the main road, we were delighted to find a perfect road revealing a wide shoulder and regretted not taking it in the first place. Ten kilometres from our destination, and thinking we were making good time, Amanda had a flat tyre. The fixing process also revealed a bent derailleur, no wonder she’d had difficulty changing gears. In fact, the whole derailleur was loose as the screw holding it to the frame was missing. At least we made it to our destination, during daylight.

 

22-24 November - Mamanguape – Natal (By bus)

Using public transport isn’t something I like to do, but at times there is no other choice. In the morning a bus took us to Natal, where I was sure one could find a place to fix Amanda’s bike. Thank goodness, the town had a decent bicycle shop where they fixed the bicycle as best they could. Afterwards, we continued to the beach to locate accommodation.

Once again, Amanda tried contacting her bank as she had no PIN for her new bank card. They assured us they would phone us in the morning, but nothing happened, and we stayed an additional day. In the meantime, we had our visas extended, and were granted a further 45 days stay.

 

25 November - Natal – Touros - 93 km

Natal was a big and busy town and, while trying to find a minor road, I took a wrong turn and landed on a dirt road seemingly going nowhere. Our path eventually spat us out on the intended route thirty kilometres further. However, the rest of the way was perfect: on a good road accompanied by a tailwind.

All would’ve remained perfect if not for Amanda having a puncture four kilometres from Touros. It wasn’t a big problem, but Amanda expected a major disaster as she’d had endless bicycle trouble. Instead, Touros turned out a charming fishing hamlet offering a lovely square where villagers gathered in the evening to watch public TV. Kids played ball on the beach and others nibbled on street food.

 

26 November - Touros – Joao Camara - 63 km

Before getting underway, I attempted to draw money but the ATM didn’t want to spit out any cash. I was slightly concerned as Amanda still couldn’t access her money. Unfortunately, there wasn’t anything I could do but try elsewhere.

Although hot, a tailwind made easy pedalling and reaching Joao Camara, I headed to Banco do Brazil but the ATM was offline. Eventually, one of the other banks accepted the card. With a sigh of relief, we searched for a guesthouse and located a reasonably priced one as well as supper.

 

27 November - Joao Camara – Macau - 104 km

The map indicated a fair distance to Macau and no settlements between Joao Camara and Macau. The day started with a good tailwind, and things went OK - apart from Amanda having two flat tyres.

The area was unique being a hot, impoverished, drought-stricken region, not something I’d expected to see in Brazil. Inhabitants have moved away, and only ruins remain where houses once stood. In addition, Macau was extraordinarily windy, and seafoam blew across the road like snow. We hurriedly offloaded our panniers and rushed to the busy central plaza, as our long day of biking left us starving.

 

28 November - Macau – Porto do Mangue - 75 km

The bike shop fixed all our punctured tubes and, feeling refreshed, we set off anew into the wind. Unfortunately, the lack of a bridge across the river meant veering inland to find one.

I didn’t expect the day to be quite as challenging. The sun baked down while we ground into a strong headwind, pedalling hard but getting nowhere. The drought-stricken area continued as we rode past dry and barren fields. The wind whipped up dust and old plastic bags, adding to the desolate scene. There was little to see but a few dried-out and sun-bleached skeletons.

Eventually, Amanda gave up, sat down and was determined to take a bus. Unfortunately, no bus came and later, she got on the bike and continued into the wind. Eventually, we reached Porto do Mangue, where we couldn’t have been happier - out of the wind and off the bikes. Kudos to Amanda, who made it despite feeling weak and nauseous.

 

29 November - Porto do Mangue – Grossos - 54 km

The stretch between Porto do Mangue and Grossos was brutal and unforgiving. Conditions were harsh, and the sun and wind were relentless as we battled past a stark, desert-like landscape. Amanda didn’t feel well, and it was better to make it a short day.

Following one more river crossing, we pedalled into tiny Grossos, where luckily we located a guesthouse.

 

30 November - 1 December - Grossos – Icapui - 46 km

A mistake was made in skipping breakfast, and Amanda soon felt tired and was in no mood to cycle a long distance. However, a tailwind helped us reach Icapui early. The town sported a beautiful beach and bungalows overlooking the ocean, making it an excellent place to hang out and recuperate. So lovely was it that we stayed an additional day. We lazed about doing as little as possible, not even the laundry.

 

2 December - Icapui – Canto Verde - 65 km (plus 27 km by car)

Following a day’s rest and a good breakfast, we both felt energetic and upbeat and the day started promising. Still, a mere twenty kilometres into the day, Amanda’s front hub packed up, and we had to flag down a vehicle to give us a ride to Aracai. A friendly but huge man gave us a ride and, due to his size, only one could ride in the front. Amanda opted for a windy ride in the back of the truck to Aracai. Our driver was kind enough to take us into town and dropped us at the door of a bike shop.

I couldn’t believe our luck. The bike shop was professional and had no problem fixing Amanda’s bike. It took waiting in line, as the shop was quite busy. I watched in amazement as villagers arrived with their rusty old bikes in pressing need of TLC, which they got at this friendly bike shop. Each person’s bicycle was treated with due care. Cleaned and oiled, customers were soon off on a much less squeaky bike. Eventually, our turn came and we received equally good service.

We ambled into Canto Verde quite late and were pleasantly surprised to find a tiny fishing hamlet amongst dunes and palm trees. Lodging on the beach completed the picture - had it not been windy, it would’ve been paradise.

 

3 December - Canto Verde – Prainha - 92 km

By 8h00, the weather was already boiling, but the day brought a strong tailwind. Even stopping almost every 10 kilometres for water felt insufficient. Arrival in Prainha was early and a place where we uncovered a lovely pousada featuring a swimming pool to unwind before heading into the city the following morning.

The area was notoriously windy, as the kitesurfing schools and wind farms indicated.

 

4 - 6 December - Prainha – Fortaleza - 34 km

Our slow departure was due to the knowledge that Fortaleza was merely a few kilometres down the drag. The area reminded me of Egypt’s Red Sea coast due to the dunes and wind farms. However, Fortaleza was a large and busy city featuring a lovely beachfront.

An inexpensive abode close to the beach suited us fine. By evening, a meander along the promenade was a pleasant place to fill our bellies from the multitude of mobile traders. The beachfront was crowded with people rollerblading, skateboarding, running, cycling, or simply sitting on one of the benches overlooking the ocean. All were out enjoying the cooler evening air, as by 10 p.m. the temperature was a cool 24°C - simply perfect.

Fortaleza was further home to a very professional bike shop, where I bought a new front tyre and had the bike washed and oiled. I nearly didn’t recognise the bicycle on collecting it. We spent our time doing little more than lounging about and sauntering along the beachfront. The laundry we handed in could only be collected the next day, allowing us an extra day of rest in Fortaleza.

 

7 December - Fortaleza – Paraipaba - 94 km

Soon the time came to leave the concrete jungle and resume our ride. The wind can be a friend or a foe; on this day, it turned out a friend, and we sped downwind, powered by an excellent tailwind.

The state of Ceara was kind to us: primarily flat with a favourable wind – there’s not much more a cyclist can ask for. Signboards pointed to a hotel in Paraipaba, and as one got closer, the more regular the boards became, almost every kilometre. Seeing that many signs, one could hardly not head there. The accommodation was cheap and clean and the price included breakfast.

Our meander to the supermarket revealed a central square busy with people and beautifully lit by Christmas decorations. A few food traders dotted the square, and people enjoyed a beer or chatted with their neighbours, which seemed a way of life in Brazil.

 

8 December - Paraipaba – Itarema – 129 km

The section between Paraipaba and Itarema was a long, hot stretch. There wasn’t anything to see, except eateries and dirt roads turning off to the various beaches, but we continued until reaching Itarema.

Amanda was understandably exhausted and in no mood to search for accommodation. The first room had to do, and it wasn’t the best place being above a restaurant and via a steep and rickety staircase. At least the room was large, featuring a window one could open for fresh air. No fresh air was needed as the room had no ceiling, only roof tiles and one could watch the night sky through the cracks. The ceiling fan made an almighty noise but could scarcely be switched off as the mosquitos would carry us away if we survived the heat.

 

9 December - Itarema – Acarau - 26 km

Amanda claimed her legs were too lame to cycle after the previous day’s long distance. A room in Acarau was thus an excellent place to kick back. Amanda still had the energy to update the website, as it didn’t require leg work.

 

10-11 December - Acarau – Jijoca de Jericoacoara – Jericoacoara - 49 km (+24 km by jeep)

It became one of those unexpected and remarkable days. Fifty kilometres beyond Acarau was Jijoca de Jericoacoara, where jeeps and beach buggies lined up to take people to the nearby nature reserve and the small community of Jericoacoara. Jericoacoara, or Jeri, as it’s known, was a hard-to-reach place. The single way in and out was by jeep or buggy.

Not wanting to miss out, we jumped on a jeep (bikes and all) and headed over the dunes to the coast. The village was island-style, situated amongst dunes and along sandy streets lined with bars and guesthouses. The area was windy and a famous surfing and kitesurfing spot. Jeri was one of the few places in Brazil to watch the sunset over the ocean.

At night, portable cocktail stands came out, allowing us to watch the sunset, cocktail in hand. The dunes around Jeri were spectacular at sunset and a fun place to visit with a camera.

The jeep taking visitors to the subsequent settlement didn’t run on Sundays, which was an excellent excuse to stay an extra day. So, we chilled on the beach and didn’t complain about waiting.

 

12 December - Jeri – Chaval - 57 km (+40 km by jeep)

Early morning, we were ready to leave the park. Although told the jeep would collect us at 6h30, the time was 8 o’clock before getting underway. The trip was eventful as the jeep was crammed (we counted 20), our bikes, surfboards, luggage and even a giant teddy bear which took up a great deal of space. The jeep sped along the beach, over dunes and through rivers. Two ferry crossings later, we got to Camocim and Amanda breathed a sigh of relief.

Our early arrival made continuing to Chaval possible. A remote guesthouse on the banks of a mangrove-lined river offered overnight accommodation.

 

13 December - Chaval – Parnaiba - 86 km

The following day the scenery changed entirely. The dunes disappeared and massive rocks appeared. Amanda spotted a small café to have breakfast, seeing breakfast wasn’t available at the guesthouse. After bread, coffee, and a good tailwind, we reached Parnaiba early.

Parnaiba was significantly larger than imagined and marked the edge of a vast delta. We had a few options, of which biking around the delta to Sao Luis was one. Unfortunately, the distance was 600 kilometres, whereas if we could find a boat to the small town of Barreirinhas, Sao Luis’s distance would be about 250 kilometres.

Once a guesthouse was located, finding a boat was a priority. Boat trips were more popular than anticipated and several agents offered delta trips. We arranged a boat for the next morning to the small and remote settlement of Tutoia. Once in Tutoia, we would decide what to do next. The map didn’t show any roads, but it made sense that there must be a way out if people lived there.

 

14 December - Parnaiba – Tutoia - By boat

Our boat departed at 1 o’clock, and there was no rush as the ferry port was barely 10 kilometres away. A flat and smooth ride took us to the harbour, where one could stock up on beer, water and snacks. The journey was fascinating, and offered more wildlife than we envisaged. The delta was teeming with birds, crabs and even (what seemed like) small crocodiles. However, the most incredible sight was the fish which appeared to run on water.

Our boat cruised through the mangrove swamps, past small islets. We even spotted monkeys way up in the trees. Eventually, reaching massive dunes, our skipper stopped, allowing us to snatch a few pictures. The delta was a vast 2700 square-kilometre expanse of islands, beaches, lagoons, dunes and mangrove swamps and we about saw it all.

A few hours later, on arriving in Tutoia, our skipper kindly accompanied us to a lovely pousada on the river. Tutoia was on a small island with no road to Barreirinhas. However, villagers informed us that one could cycle to the subsequent settlement from where, aptly named, Toyotas ran over the dunes to Barreirinhas.

 

15 December - Tutoia – Paulino Neves - Barreirinhas - 35 km (+55 km by truck)

From Tutoia, a decent-paved road ran the 35 kilometres to Paulino Neves, and, as told, the route ended in Paulino Neves. We soon located the converted Toyota trucks that ferry people to and from the community via sandy tracks to Barreirinhas.

The ride was bumpy on a rough track, over dunes offering a stunning backdrop. My dear sister made such a racket that one would’ve thought she had reached her final days. No sooner had we departed than she hit the floor, yelling. I stared in utter astonishment and had no idea what to do. Reassuring her we would be fine and reminding her the driver drove the route twice a day, had no impact. Terrified, she clawed onto the seats, yelling “Oh nooooooo!” at every sway of the truck.

Finally, the jeep arrived in Barreirinhas, gateway to the national park, and it thus sported plenty of guesthouses. We celebrated being alive by drinking a few beers. At least we had passed the rough bits and could continue by bike to Sao Luis. What an adventure the past two days were.

 

16 December - Barreirinhas – Humberto de Campos - 118 km

As the road was flat, and blessed with a tailwind, we used the favourable conditions well and cycled to Humberto de Campos. Not that any other option remained as there wasn’t anything between the two towns. Fortunately, the route was dotted by plenty of tiny roadside eateries to fill our water bottles.

At the entrance of town was a comfortable guesthouse at a dirt-low price. The lady running the pousada looked perplexed that two foreigners chose her pousada. Nevertheless, she swept and dusted for hours before allowing us in. Afterwards, our little meander into the village drew much attention. Finally, amidst many stares and giggles, we discovered a bite to eat.

 

17 December - Humberto de Campos – Rosario - 116 km

Before heading to Sao Luis, the guesthouse owner served us coffee and bread rolls. After that, it became a long and exhausting day, offering nothing but low shrubs. Not merely was it far, but the weather was scorching.

Ninety-five kilometres further Amanda had enough. She soon got a ride to take her the last few kilometres to Rosario. She didn’t have to feel guilty as no sooner had she departed than a large truck stopped and offered me a ride. In the truck were four French cyclists, who also struggled in the extreme weather. I politely declined and rode on to Rosario, where Amanda was waiting.

 

18-19 December - Rosario - Sao Luis - 74 km

We cycled into the island city of Sao Luis, dead-tired following a long and hot day into the wind. The road was in poor condition and extremely busy. I hated situations like this as it made it stressful riding. The shoulder was non-existing, and busses, trucks and cars careened down on us like bats out of hell. The heat was too much for my sister, who took a bus to the city centre. We arranged to meet at Pousada Vitoria, which turned out to be a good choice. The pousada was well situated in the historic centre. This family home offered a charming courtyard and homely knick-knacks.

The following day was spent barely doing anything, apart from laundry and a trundle to the port to find when boats departed for the trip across the Bay to Alcantara. Unfortunately, the bay was tidal, and ferries could only cross to Alcantara at high tide.

 

20 December - Sao Luis – Alcantara - By boat

The information we gathered stated the boat departed at 9 a.m. But at the port, we found all boats still sitting high and dry, and we were told to catch the ferry at a different port. We jumped on our bikes and raced through the traffic to find the pier we were pointed at. Eventually, and in time, we came upon the boat, dragged our bikes across the sand and boarded. The boat finally sailed at 10h00 but struggled through the narrow canal.

The sea was rough, and my dear sister had a trip straight from hell. The crew gathered around to try and calm her down, but when you suffer from a fear of water, there is nothing anyone can do or say to ease your anxiety. To cut a long story short, we arrived safely on the opposite side. Phew!

Alcantara turned out immensely interesting: built by slaves for the rich, the city was mostly in ruins, but fascinating nevertheless. When we were done exploring, it was too late to reach the next town. By chance, we came upon accommodation on the outskirts of Alcantara. The set-up was unique, revealing treehouses and plenty of art.

 

21 December - Alcantara – Bequimao - 84 km

From Alcantara to Belem was our last and final stretch. With the road cutting slightly inland, it would be our last glimpse of the ocean until Belem. The route was reasonably hilly, but a tailwind helped, and the landscape was lusher and greener. We even encountered a few showers. The cloud cover was more to Amanda’s liking, and she cycled strong all day.

A “hotel” in Bequimao indicated the end of the day’s ride at a fraction of the price we had paid the previous night. Supper was at our hotel, and the food was surprisingly tasty, considering the dirt-cheap price.

 

22 December - Bequimao – Santa Helena - 94 km

I slept so well, Amanda had to wake me for breakfast. A cloud cover made it comfortable biking as we biked past tiny settlements exceedingly wild-west in style. The countryside also became increasingly watery, revealing the odd water buffalo, something not seen further south.

The road wasn’t great, but we managed all right. Traffic was more careful of cyclists, which was good as the shoulder vanished occasionally.

 

23 December - Santa Helena – Gov. Nunes Freire - 74 km

By morning, Amanda decided to hop on a bus as she wasn’t feeling well. I was off like a rocket, partly due to a strong tailwind and partly due to our staple of rice and beans. The way was reasonably flat, providing comfortable riding, but it was poorly maintained and revealed potholes the size of small craters. However, it acted as an effective speed control as cars and trucks snaked along trying to avoid the worst.

Cycling into Gov. Nunes Freire, I looked around but couldn’t find my sister anywhere. I became increasingly worried as there continued to be no sign of her. Finally, I booked into a visible hotel and hoped she would spot it on her way into town.

Amanda soon arrived in a pick-up truck. Unable to find a bus in Santa Helena, she biked forty kilometres and then flagged down a ride. She seemed chuffed with herself, despite still not feeling 100%.

 

24 December - Gov. Nunes Freire – Boa Vista do Gurupi - 72 km

Amanda, still unwell, thought it best to take a bus to Boa Vista. I couldn’t figure out what was wrong, but clearly, she couldn’t cycle. The road was dead quiet and a pleasure to cycle.

I found Amanda waiting at a little restaurant in the tiny hamlet of Boa Vista do Gurupi. Luckily, the restaurant had a few rooms outback. I was anxious about her health as I had no idea what was wrong. We discussed the situation and decided to take a bus to Belem the following morning, allowing her to see a doctor. Hopefully, we could find a more comfortable place to rest.

 

25 December - Boa Vista do Gurupi – Belem - By bus

I doubted getting a bus on Christmas day in Brazil, but it barely took an hour and we found ourselves in Belem. Arriving in Belem by bus was a tad disappointing. Amanda discovered her derailleur bent, and had to walk the bike to a nearby hostel.

The hostel was full, and we booked into a hotel behind the hostel. It needs mentioning the hotel had a two-day special, resulting in not costing much more than the hostel.

 

26-27 December – Belem

The Amazon has two seasons: rainy and dry. This was the rainy season and we could expect daily rain. Belem also marked the end of Amanda’s cycle trip. From Belem, the plan was to take a boat along the Amazon River to Manaus, from where she planned on returning to South Africa. Belem turned out not as wild-west as expected. The town was relatively modern, revealing lovely parks and a population of 1.5 million. From Belem, the view of the Amazon River was unimpressive: simply a vast muddy river.

I headed straight to the busy port and market to see if they sold anything of interest. The market had more than enough herbs to cure any ailment.

We relocated to the hostel after a two-day stay in our upmarket hotel. The hostel was an old rubber baron mansion: a stunning place offering lovely wooden floors, four-metre-high ceilings and crystal chandeliers.

I was excited as this was the day we bought our boat tickets to Manaus on the Amazon River. Tickets came in a wide price range, depending on the vessel. Taking into account Amanda’s fear of water, we chose a large and stable boat. Researching our boat online, Amanda thought it best to find something more substantial. By morning we thus headed to the boat office and upgraded our tickets to a larger vessel.

 

043-045 CYCLE TOURING EUROPE - PART TWO

The Loire, the Vendee, and the Long Road to Lisbon - A Cyclist’s Pilgrimage

43-45 EUROPE - PART 2
5 July – 27 August 2011
3,438 Kilometres -  52 Days

 

 

MAP

PHOTOS FRANCE (2)

PHOTOS SPAIN

PHOTOS PORTUGAL

PDF

FLIP-BOOK

 VOICEOVER

Europe — Part Two

 

Prologue

There are journeys that begin with a map, and others that begin with a feeling. Leaving Budapest, I wasn’t chasing a destination so much as a direction — westward, toward the Atlantic, toward a horizon I couldn’t yet name. The train rattled through the night, and by the time I stepped onto the platform in Basel, I felt suspended between worlds: the one I had just lived, and the one waiting to unfold beneath my wheels.

 

 

The Train to Basel

My last morning in Budapest began with clean laundry and a final wander through Budapest’s markets, the city humming with its usual confident energy. PC walked beside me, newly reunited with his passport, and together we threaded through the familiar streets one last time. Back in my room, I performed the ritual I knew so well: folding, sorting, tucking memories into panniers as if they were talismans.

The train to Basel was a patchwork of improvisation — it took jumping on and off to manoeuvre my bike from one train car to another like a circus performer, and trying to sleep upright while the train clattered through the dark. It wasn’t restful, but it was movement, and movement was enough. Somewhere between Hungary and Switzerland, I felt the quiet certainty that the road ahead — whatever shape it took — would change me again.

 

FRANCE

1,901 Km – 23 Days

 

Into France on the Quiet Canal Road

Basel greeted me with a kind of cheerful confusion. Three countries meet here, and stepping out of the station felt like walking into a cultural crossroads with no signposts. I wasn’t entirely sure which nation I was standing in, but the city’s charm was unmistakable — cobbled lanes, elegant facades, and a sense of order that made me want to linger.

But the canal was calling.

I slipped onto the path along the Rhine Canal, where forests leaned toward the water and ducks paddled with enviable calm. The route was so well marked it felt like being gently guided by an invisible hand. I reached Mulhouse earlier than expected, wandered its streets, and stocked up on bread and cheese — the cyclist’s holy sacrament.

The campsite was a small delight: Wi‑Fi, hot showers, and a pizza stand that felt like a gift from the pizza gods. After the sleepless train night, I crawled into my tent long before the sun finally surrendered at 9:30 p.m., grateful for stillness.

 

Stormlight, Barges, and the Lure of Pizza

Morning in Mulhouse arrived with soft light and the last of my bread and cheese. I packed quickly, eager to return to the bike path that felt like a secret whispered only to cyclists. Unlike the Danube’s busy caravan of riders, this canal route was quiet, intimate, almost meditative.

Barges drifted by like slow-moving dreams. Lockmasters’ cottages appeared at intervals, each one framed by gardens so charming they looked painted into place. But the locks themselves were less poetic — boats queued, engines idling.

By afternoon, the sky darkened. Thunder rolled across the valley, urging me to hurry. I pitched my tent near L’Isle-sur-le-Doubs just as the first heavy drops fell, then sat inside listening to the storm drum on the flysheet. Dinner was my bread and cheese — until the rain eased and the scent of pizza lured me out. I dashed through puddles, bought a steaming pizza, devoured half, and saved the rest for breakfast. A small triumph in a day shaped by weather and water.

 

Mist, Thunder, and the Long Green Corridor

The morning mist felt like stepping into a dream. I lingered over coffee and cold pizza while waiting for my tent to dry, then set off along the canal once more. The settlements I passed were eerily still — shutters closed, no movement, as if the entire region had pressed pause.

Besançon rose ahead of me like a revelation. Its citadel — eleven hectares of stone and history — perched above the town with quiet authority. A tunnel beneath the fortress carried me through the mountain, and emerging on the other side felt like stepping into another century.

A sign told me Nantes was only 730 kilometres away. Somehow, that number made the Atlantic feel close enough to touch.

I found a small campsite in Ranchot, nothing fancy but fragrant with freshly cut grass. Dinner required a ride to the nearest village for bread — a small price for the pleasure of eating beside the river as evening settled around me.

 

Rain, Pasteur’s Town, and a Five-Euro Haven

Morning in Ranchot arrived soft and quiet, the kind of stillness that makes you wonder if you overslept the world. Most of the other campers had already vanished, their tents flattened, their cars long gone. I lingered, unhurried, letting the day unfold at its own pace.

The ride to Dole was a gentle warm-up, twenty-five kilometres of easy pedalling along the canal. Louis Pasteur’s birthplace revealed itself in a cluster of medieval streets and the proud silhouette of the Collegiale‑Notre‑Dame. I wandered briefly, absorbing the hush of old stone and the faint scent of river water, then slipped back onto the path.

Rain arrived like an uninvited guest — not dramatic, just persistent, a steady drizzle that blurred the edges of the day. By the time I reached Verdun-sur-le-Doubs, I was damp, hungry, and ready for shelter. The campsite was a small miracle: five euros, a friendly woman at reception who spoke English, and Wi‑Fi that felt like a luxury.

I rode into town for supplies — bread, cheese, chips, beer, coffee — the essentials of a cyclist’s pantry. Verdun revealed itself in narrow alleys, stone bridges, and the quiet dignity of a place that has endured centuries of conflict and emerged from them all. Back at camp, I ate under a grey sky, grateful for warmth, food, and the simple comfort of being still.

 

Thunder, Laundry, and the Slow Art of Stillness in Verdun-sur-le-Doubs

Thunder woke me before dawn, the sky cracking open in bright flashes. It was clear I wasn’t going anywhere. Rest days have a way of choosing themselves.

With the storm rumbling overhead, I surrendered to practicality: laundry, repairs, reorganising the panniers that had slowly devolved into chaos. Verdun‑sur‑le‑Doubs, once a medieval border town, felt like the right place to pause — a place shaped by battles long past, now softened by time and river light.

I cycled into town between showers, practising my tentative French. “Bonjour,” “Merci,” “Au revoir.” Judging by the amused expressions I received, my pronunciation hovered somewhere between earnest and alarming. Still, the ritual of buying a baguette and camembert made me feel momentarily local.

By afternoon, the rain eased. I sat by the river watching houseboats drift past, and fishermen stared intently at the water that refused to yield a single fish. My panniers were heavier with supplies, but my spirit felt lighter. Sometimes a day of stillness is its own kind of progress.

 

Sun, Vineyards, and a South African Flag on the Water

Sun returned with a vengeance — bright, warm, and full of promise. I set off from Verdun‑sur‑le‑Doubs for Paray‑le‑Monial, about 130 kilometres down the path, early, skipping my usual coffee stop, letting the canal guide me through a landscape that shifted subtly from forests to vineyards.

The hills rolled gently, and I chose the country lanes over the official cycle path, craving the quiet rhythm of rural France. At one point, a grassy jeep track tempted me with a sign marked “rough.” It turned out to be more playful than punishing, a soft detour through fields humming with summer.

Houseboats dotted the canal, and then — a flash of home. A South African flag fluttered from one of the decks. I braked instinctively, calling out a greeting. The couple aboard looked as surprised as I felt. We exchanged a few warm words before the lock carried them onward, leaving me smiling at the unexpected connection.

By the time I reached Paray‑le‑Monial, hunger had hollowed me out. A mobile pizza stand waited at the campsite entrance like a beacon. I devoured a pizza that may have been ordinary or extraordinary — hunger is the best seasoning — and sat outside my tent as the sky held its light until nearly 10 p.m.

 

Following the Loire Into a City of Quiet Grace - Nevers (115 km)

The day began golden, the sun low and generous. I followed the Loire, choosing the farm roads that hugged the river rather than the official route. Medieval towns appeared like mirages — beautiful, silent, almost deserted, as if the inhabitants had stepped out for a century or two.

Decize tempted me with its peaceful campground, but I resisted, stopping only for coffee before pushing on. Nevers rewarded the effort. The campground sat perfectly along the riverbank, offering a postcard view of the old town and its cathedral rising above the water.

I wandered into town, weaving through narrow streets until a Carrefour appeared like a modern oasis. I stocked up on a ready-made salad, fresh baguettes, and more coffee — always more coffee. Nevers felt like a place suspended between eras, its ancient houses leaning gently toward the present. I slept with the sound of the river just beyond my tent.

 

Grey Skies, Cold Rain, and Small Mercies

Grey skies greeted me, heavy and cold, the kind of morning that makes you want to burrow deeper into your sleeping bag. I finally forced myself onto the bike around 10 a.m., pedalling into a drizzle that felt more like November than July.

An hour later, salvation appeared in the form of a small pub. I ducked inside for coffee, warming my hands around the cup while watching the rain streak the windows. The rest of the day was a quiet battle — against wind, against dampness, against the creeping fatigue that comes from too many grey days in a row.

Cosne offered practical comforts: cash from an ATM, a SIM card for my modem, and a campsite where the rain finally relented. I ate my bread and cheese outside, grateful for the simple pleasure of dry air.

 

Bastille Day Winds and Fireworks

Bastille Day began with a headwind that felt personal. Gravel sections slowed me further, and I found refuge in a solitary pub for coffee before continuing on. Lunch at the castle in Sully was a brief, sunlit pause before the wind resumed its relentless push.

By the time I reached Orléans, the sky was streaked with the colours of evening. I treated myself to French fries and a beer, then settled into the campsite as the city prepared for its celebrations. Fireworks erupted around 11 p.m., shaking the ground with each explosion. I drifted to sleep imagining the sky lit with colour, each burst a reminder that summer had officially begun.

 

Golden Light, Flaky Pastry, and a Needed Early Stop

Sun returned, bright and warm, reflecting off the Loire like scattered gold. I skipped breakfast — a consequence of too much chatting the night before — and didn’t roll out of Orleans until after 10. Twenty kilometres later, a pastry shop appeared like a blessing. I devoured something flaky and sweet, feeling instantly revived.

The villages along the Loire felt timeless, their medieval facades softened by centuries of weather and river light. I stocked up on supplies and stopped early at a conveniently placed campground near Chaumont-sur-Loire. The wind had worn me down over the past days, and rest felt like the wiser choice.

That night, fireworks continued across the river — Bastille Day’s echo — accompanied by distant music. I lay in my tent listening to the celebration drift across the water.

 

Rain, Cave Homes, and the Sting of Nettles - Chaumont-sur-Loire to Montsoreau (110 km)

Rain returned with a vengeance. I packed in a frenzy, stuffing wet gear into bags as the drizzle thickened into a cold, needling wind. The day was a long, shivering push through weather that felt determined to test me.

Amboise appeared briefly, its cave‑homes tucked into cliffs like something out of another world. Tours offered a warm cup of coffee, a brief reprieve before the storm resumed. At one point, desperate for a restroom, I ducked into a wooded area — only to sit directly on stinging nettles. The shock was instant and fiery. I yelped, leapt up, and pedalled the last fifteen kilometres with a speed born of indignation.

Reaching the campsite felt like crossing a finish line. I peeled off my wet layers and collapsed.

 

A Day of Wind, Grit, and Gritted Teeth—Montsoreau to La Possonnière (78 km)

Morning arrived reluctantly, wrapped in cold wind and low clouds that made the world feel muted. Crawling out of my sleeping bag took resolve I wasn’t sure I had. The Loire Valley unfolded in rolling hills and vineyards, castles perched like watchful sentinels above the river. Under different skies, it might have felt romantic. Today, it felt like a test.

By midday, the wind had turned feral. Gusts slammed into me sideways, forcing me to grip the handlebars with both hands as rain stung my face. Each kilometre felt earned through sheer stubbornness. I pulled my cap low, narrowed my focus to the few metres ahead, and pushed on.

Reaching La Possonnière felt like stumbling into a sanctuary. The campsite was basic, but it offered what I needed most: a place to peel off my soaked layers and breathe. I crawled into my tent, listening to the wind batter the flysheet, grateful simply to be horizontal and dry.

 

Castles in the Mist and a Hard-Won City

I woke feeling unexpectedly refreshed, as if the storm had wrung something out of me. The sky remained dull, but my spirits had lifted. Thirty kilometres in, hunger demanded attention, and I stopped at a café for a croissant and coffee — a small ritual that restored both warmth and optimism.

Then, as if on cue, the landscape shifted. Castles and forts rose from the horizon, their silhouettes dramatic against the grey sky. The Loire Valley, even under cloud, had a way of surprising me into awe.

Nantes, the last major city before leaving the Veloroute 6, proved elusive. The map promised two campsites; reality offered none. After circling the outskirts in growing frustration, I surrendered and booked a hotel — a rare indulgence, but a necessary one.

The city buzzed with life. I wandered its pedestrian lanes, watched locals linger over coffee, and found a map for the next stage of my journey: south along the Atlantic coast toward Spain. I washed clothes, sorted gear, fixed my internet connection, and tended to the small maintenance tasks that accumulate on the road. Two nights in Nantes felt like a reset — a chance to breathe before the coastline called.

 

Where the Loire Meets the Sea in a Curtain of Rain

I set off early, bracing for wind but instead met with relentless rain. It followed me like a shadow, soaking through layers, dripping from my helmet, turning the world into a blurred watercolour.

The path traced the final stretch of the Loire, leading me to St. Nazaire, where the river meets the Atlantic. The bike path ended here — a quiet milestone, marked only by the sudden vastness of the sea.

A sign for the Vélocéan cycleway appeared through the rain, its small arrows promising a new direction. I followed them, drenched but curious, until I reached La Bernerie.

The campsite was quirky, a little rough around the edges, but it offered refuge. Setting up my tent in the downpour was a comedy of errors — everything soaked before the flysheet was even on. Once inside, I made coffee, changed into dry clothes, and felt a wave of contentment wash over me. Warm, sheltered, caffeinated — sometimes that’s all a person needs.

 

Holiday Crowds, Kind Drivers, and a Tailwind at Last

The day began with the same dreary skies and the same impossible task: drying anything. I stuffed my wet gear into plastic bags and set off, determined to make progress despite the weather.

The Vendee’s cycle paths were scenic but slow, crowded with families enjoying their holidays. I felt like an interloper among their leisurely rides. When I switched to the roads, I braced for impatience — but the French drivers surprised me. They waited, waved, and passed with kindness. Their small gestures softened the day.

The route wound through canals and coastal forests, then into lively resort towns buzzing with summer energy. By the time I reached Port Bourgenay, the sun had finally broken through, and a tailwind pushed me along as if offering an apology for the past week.

The campsite was affordable, the terrain flat, and for the first time in days, I felt the freedom of easy cycling. The Vendee had its own rhythm — gentle, forgiving, quietly joyful.

 

Sun, Cream-for-Yoghurt, and an Airport Campsite Circus - Port Bourgenay to La Rochelle (107 km)

Sunlight returned in full force, warm and generous. I spread my tent out to dry, revelling in the simple pleasure of warmth. Breakfast was an unexpected delight — what I thought was yoghurt turned out to be cream, turning my muesli into a decadent treat.

La Tranche was my first stop, a lively seaside resort bursting with colour and noise. I wandered among stalls and merry-go-rounds, absorbing the holiday atmosphere before accidentally veering onto a cycle path that led nowhere. With no GPS or smartphone, I relied on my paper map and intuition—a combination that eventually brought me back to the right road.

The wind picked up as I approached La Rochelle, whipping my windbreaker into a flag behind me. I intended to ride past the city, but a charming, inexpensive campsite tempted me to stop.

The charm came with a catch: it sat directly under the airport’s flight path. Planes roared overhead, rattling my nerves. The owner, delighted by my “impossible” itinerary, announced my journey to everyone within earshot. Suddenly, I was the centre of attention — hot, sweaty, and very much not in the mood for a photoshoot. Still, their enthusiasm was infectious, and I ended the day amused despite myself.

 

Wind, Highways, and a Ferry Across the Bay — La Rochelle to Verdon-sur-Mer (113 km)

I started sluggishly, weaving through the city’s busy streets until I finally escaped onto a quiet country lane. The wind was as fierce as the day before, pushing against me with stubborn persistence.

Eventually, I surrendered to practicality and took the highway — noisy, chaotic, but fast. Royan appeared like a reward, and from there a ferry carried me across the choppy bay to Verdon-sur-Mer. The thirty-minute crossing felt like a small adventure within the larger one.

On the other side, I grabbed a quick coffee and bread roll before cycling the last few kilometres to the campsite. The day had been long, windy, and loud, but the promise of rest made everything soften.

 

A Surprise Camino and a Storm-Soaked Evening — Verdon‑sur‑Mer to Gujan‑Mestras (121 km)

The day began with a surprise: the Camino route. At first, I thought I’d taken a wrong turn — the signs felt too symbolic, too storied. But soon the scallop shells and yellow arrows confirmed it. I was riding along a pilgrimage path, surrounded by families on Sunday outings, while I pedalled with my fully loaded bike, feeling both out of place and oddly connected.

At the campsite, I met a Frenchman on his first cycling holiday — one of the few cycle tourists I’d encountered since leaving my group. We swapped stories until the sky opened and rain poured down, sending us scrambling to our tents.

The campsite’s tiny store saved dinner: bread, cheese, and biscuits for breakfast. Simple, comforting, enough.

 

Motorways, Monsoon Rain, and Lidl Salvation — Gujan‑Mestras to Farm Camp, Bias (91 km)

Rain hammered the tent all morning. By 11 a.m., I accepted defeat and packed up anyway, stepping into a world soaked and grey. The day was miserable — heavy rain, busy roads, poor visibility. Eventually, I found myself on a motorway, cars hissing past in sheets of spray.

I stopped early at a farm campsite, where a group of equally bedraggled campers huddled under a makeshift shelter, their children restless and their patience frayed. The atmosphere was bleak, but shared misery has its own camaraderie.

I pitched my tent in record time, nearly soaked through by the end. Thankfully, I’d stocked up earlier: sweets, crisps, and a ready-to-eat meal from Lidl. The campsite had no amenities, but inside my tent, warm food and dry clothes felt like luxury.

 

A Break in the Clouds and a Return to Order— Farm Camp, Bias to Capbreton (91 km)

In the morning, I put on my last dry clothes, brewed a strong coffee, and set off. The rain continued, but staying put wasn’t an option. I lowered my head and pedalled through it, each kilometre a small act of defiance.

Around midday, the rain eased long enough for me to find a supermarket. I stocked up, knowing I’d stop at the next available campsite.

Morning brought a hint of sunshine — enough to wash my clothes in the camp laundry and let them dry without fear of another downpour.

A trip into Centre Ville yielded treasures: a map of Spain, a new memory card for my camera, and an adapter for the campsite’s power points. I sent home memory cards filled with months of photos, feeling a wave of nostalgia as I sealed them. Each image was a fragment of the journey — proof that I had lived these days fully.

 

 

SPAIN

967 Km – 16 Days

 

Prologue

Borders are strange things. On maps they look sharp, decisive. In real life, they blur. One moment I was pedalling through the polished glamour of Biarritz; the next, the architecture changed, the language shifted, and Spain rose around me like a new chapter already in motion. No fanfare, no signpost — just a quiet crossing into a country that would ask me to climb again.

 

A Border That Whispers and a Pilgrim’s Passport

Morning in Capbreton broke bright and forgiving, my tent finally dry, my clothes no longer clinging with the memory of yesterday’s storms. Packing up felt almost celebratory. I pointed my bike toward the border with the kind of optimism that only a sun-washed dawn can conjure.

The road curled along the coastline like a ribbon tossed carelessly by the wind. Biarritz shimmered as I passed through — glamorous, polished, almost too beautiful to be real — but I didn’t linger. Spain was calling, and I was eager to answer.

The border itself was a whisper rather than a proclamation. One moment, France; the next, Spain — as if the land had simply inhaled and exhaled in a different language. Colours shifted. Architecture thickened. The air buzzed with a new cadence. Hills rose abruptly, as though Spain wanted to test my resolve from the very first pedal stroke.

San Sebastián arrived after 90 kilometres and in a rush of noise and movement, far larger and livelier than I’d imagined. Yet amid the bustle, a small sign pointed toward free Camino accommodation — a beacon for the weary and the hopeful. Within minutes, I had my credentials, my Pilgrim’s Passport, and with it, the sense that a new chapter had quietly opened beneath my wheels.

The Refugio closed its doors at ten, lights out by half past. The sudden hush felt almost monastic. I lay in the dark, amused at how quickly I’d been absorbed into the Camino rhythm — early to bed, early to rise, and grateful for whatever shelter the day offered. Dinner was four slightly stale bread rolls from my panniers, but after the long ride, they tasted almost luxurious.

Spain had welcomed me with hills, heat, and humble hospitality. I drifted to sleep feeling that something ancient had taken me by the hand.

 

Steep Roads, Wild Views, and a Campsite in the Clouds — San Sebastián to Mutriku (58 km)

Morning arrived with a gentle shove rather than a whisper. At precisely eight o’clock, the Refugio volunteers ushered us out the door with the brisk efficiency of people who have done this a thousand times. I blinked into the early light, still half‑asleep, and sought refuge in a café where a croissant and coffee restored my will to live. And that was the first and last time I used a Camino Refugio - too many rules for my wayward personality. I laughed at myself peddling away.

My bicycle, however, had other opinions. The gears protested, the chain sulked, and the bike mechanic could only offer a sympathetic shrug before replacing my brake blocks — a small mercy considering the descents Spain had in store.

By midday, SIM card secured and cobblestones conquered, I finally escaped San Sebastián’s charming grip. The Bay of Biscay unfurled beside me, a jagged coastline of cliffs and green folds that rose and fell like the breath of some ancient creature. The sun shone with theatrical brilliance, and the wind, for once, behaved itself. The climbs were steep enough to make me question my life choices, but the descents — oh, the descents—sent me flying like a kamikaze pilot with questionable judgment and excellent brakes.

Spain, I quickly learned, is not a country that believes in flat roads. I stopped more often than I cycled, partly to catch my breath, partly because the landscape demanded admiration. Every bend revealed something new: a cliffside village, a church perched improbably on a hill, a valley that looked painted rather than grown.

By late afternoon, I reached Mutriku — or rather, I reached the bottom of the hill beneath Mutriku. The campground sat somewhere near the stratosphere, and the climb up felt like a pilgrimage of its own. But the reward was worth every sweaty pedal stroke: lush lawns, sweeping views, and a serenity that wrapped itself around me like a warm blanket.

I sat in the sun with my map, tracing the road ahead. Spain, it seemed, was a labyrinth of mountains masquerading as a country. The thought sent a shiver through me. Dinner was a rice dish that had been ageing gracefully in my panniers, followed by chocolate biscuits and a cup of coffee — a humble feast, but perfect in its own way.

As the light softened and the hills glowed gold, I felt the quiet satisfaction of a day well earned. The road had challenged me, but it had also given me beauty in return.

 

Climbing Into the Basque Heartland

Morning in Mutriku rose bright and sharp, the kind of light that makes even steep hills look innocent. I followed the Camino signs out of Mutriku, letting them lead me into a world of rolling green and quiet villages perched on improbable slopes. Walkers greeted me with warm holas, while sleek road cyclists flew past as if gravity were merely a suggestion. One even chatted on his mobile while climbing — a level of athletic arrogance I could only admire from a distance.

The road wound inland, climbing through forests and stone hamlets, each church standing like a sentinel over centuries of pilgrims. My granny gear earned its keep. More than once, I questioned my sanity, but the mountains answered with views that silenced every complaint.

After 80-odd kilometres, I rolled into Bilbao, my legs felt like overcooked noodles, and my knees were staging a quiet rebellion. The city’s promise—its art, its food, its sheer Basque charisma—was far too tempting to resist. Two nights felt like the bare minimum. I dropped my bags and wandered out, swept up immediately by the elegance of old stone buildings and churches that seemed to glow in the morning light.

It was Sunday, which meant shutters drawn and streets hushed, but apparently that didn’t apply to wine. At ten in the morning, locals were already swirling glasses of red as if it were the most natural thing in the world. Street artists filled the square with colour and music, while café-goers lingered over their coffee-and-wine breakfasts. I happily joined the ritual.

Then my phone buzzed. Ed—my friend from the UK—was on his motorbike and heading my way. The timing felt like a gift. I immediately booked an extra night.

 

A Reunion, Rioja, and the Warmth of Old Friendship

Ed arrived at midday, and the moment he swung off his bike, it was as if no time had passed at all. We slipped easily back into our old rhythm, wandering the narrow lanes of the old town, swapping stories, laughing too loudly, and sharing a bottle (or two) of Rioja. Bilbao felt even warmer with a friend beside me.

 

Cornflakes, GPS Rebellion, and Rain on Canvas – Bilbao to Laredo Camping

Morning came with the soft clatter of panniers and the smell of instant coffee. Ed produced cornflakes from his seemingly bottomless bags, and after breakfast we set off—me on my bicycle, him on his motorbike, a mismatched but cheerful duo.

He lent me his GPS, though the device seemed determined to send me on a pilgrimage of its own. After a few kilometres of arguing with the chirpy digital voice, I abandoned her entirely and trusted my instincts instead. It seemed I couldn’t even follow instructions from a GPS.

Ed, had already scouted a campsite in Laredo. It was barely midday, but he suspected more challenging hills ahead and decided to call it early. I didn’t protest. The sky soon darkened, and rain began to fall in steady sheets. We retreated to our tents, listening to the soft percussion of raindrops as we swapped stories through the canvas. Adventure could wait; for now, we were dry, fed, and content.

 

Cliff Roads, Camino Greetings, and Medieval Street – Laredo Camping to Santillana del Mar

I left camp buzzing with energy, pedalling ahead until Ed caught up, triumphantly holding bread and jam like a breakfast hero. We ate by the roadside, sun warming our backs, the morning fresh and full of promise.

We skipped Santander’s bustle in favour of a quiet coastal road that clung to the sea. The views were spectacular—cliffs, waves, and endless blue. Somewhere along the way, Ed texted to say he’d found a campsite in Santillana del Mar. The hills between us were steep, but the scenery softened the effort. Camino walkers and cyclists passed with cheerful greetings, each exchange a tiny spark of camaraderie.

Finding Ed was easy. Together we wandered the cobblestone streets, admiring medieval buildings and stocking up at the supermercado for a well-earned feast.

 

Heat, Hills, and the Green Coast Unfurling

The morning sun was already fierce when we set off from Santillana del Mar, confirming my suspicion that the day would be a scorcher. The Costa Verde lived up to its name—lush, dramatic, and relentlessly hilly. Romantic, yes, but only if you weren’t the one sweating up its inclines.

Holidaymakers lounged outside bars, calling out, “Stop for a beer!” with enviable enthusiasm. Tempting, but I kept pedalling. Thankfully, the ride was shorter than expected. I tackled laundry while Ed roamed with his camera, capturing Llanes from every angle.

Later, I found a quiet bay where I sat with my diary, watching the sun melt into the sea in a blaze of gold and rose. A perfect ending to a demanding day.

 

Where Mountains lean into the Sea.

Rain greeted us at dawn, a rude surprise after the previous day’s heat. We packed quickly, gulped down cornflakes and coffee, and set off into the drizzle.

My map soon turned to papier-mâché, and somewhere along the way I took a wrong turn. But the mistake became a gift: the road followed a lively river where a canoe race was underway. Music blared, food stalls perfumed the air, and spectators cheered as I cycled past, as if I were part of the event. Their energy lifted me.

The detour settled my internal debate about staying on the coast or heading inland. Inland it was. I messaged Ed, and we agreed to meet in Nava. Sometimes the best decisions are the accidental ones.

 

Cliffs, Coves, and the Slow Surrender to Asturias

We started the day in Nava with croissants and steaming coffee—simple, perfect fuel. The ride toward Oviedo should have been straightforward, but the city had other ideas. Its streets twisted and tangled, and the road signs seemed designed to confuse. I circled the city more times than I care to admit, frustration mounting as the wind picked up and the clouds darkened.

By the time I escaped Oviedo’s maze, I was exhausted. Later Ed phoned and mentioned he was in Sala, perched like a quiet gem among the hills, and I was happy to surrender to its charm, where we checked into a small room.

The town was delightful—cobblestones, an old church, and locals sipping wine and coffee at sidewalk cafés. After the chaos of the day, Salas felt like a balm.

 

A Gentle Road for a Final Day Together

For Ed’s final day, we chose a shorter ride, and it turned out to be one of the most beautiful stretches yet. The road wound gently through rolling hills, the climbs steady but kind. The mountains, which had looked intimidating on the map, revealed themselves to be far more welcoming.

Each ascent felt like a small triumph, and the descent into Pola de Allande was pure joy. The village lay nestled in a peaceful valley, a soft landing after days of effort. It was the perfect place to celebrate Ed’s last day on the road—quiet, scenic, and full of that unmistakable Camino spirit.

 

Climbing Into Wind, Sky, and Solitude

Ed rode off toward London, and the silence he left behind felt heavier than my panniers. I turned toward the mountains, where the road rose sharply into a rugged pass. For an hour and a half I climbed, lungs burning, legs protesting, but the summit opened like a doorway into wind and sky.

The day became a rhythm of ascents and plunging descents — a rollercoaster carved into the earth. I lunched beside a dam shimmering in the sun, then pushed upward again toward Grandas, where a festival burst unexpectedly into music and colour. I lingered just long enough to feel part of it.

Wind turbines appeared on the horizon, tall and indifferent, signalling the fierce gusts waiting at the top. I climbed into their domain, then dropped into a lush valley where villages grew smaller and quieter, as if retreating from the world.

By the time I reached Fonsagrada — perched atop a final, punishing climb — my legs staged a full rebellion. I found a room, bought supplies, and surrendered to exhaustion long before sunset.

 

A Soft, Luminous Arrival Among Pilgrims

Lugo’s ancient walls watched me roll out slowly, as if reluctant to let me go. The morning unfolded into one of the gentlest, most luminous days of the journey. The valley softened around me, the sun warm but forgiving, the road kind enough to let me breathe.

Berry season was fading, but I still found sweet remnants along the way. Sixty-five kilometres from Santiago, I merged with the French route and was suddenly surrounded by walkers, cyclists, even horses, all moving with the same quiet determination. Shops overflowed with Camino trinkets, and the air buzzed with shared purpose.

The crowds overwhelmed me at first, then comforted me. We were all heading toward the same ancient destination, each carrying our own reasons. I reached Santiago by late afternoon, found a campsite just outside the centre, and felt the strange exhilaration of finishing something vast — while knowing my journey was far from over.

 

Santiago de Compostela - Letting the City Teach Me Its Story

I had planned a day of rest, but Santiago swept me into its history with the force of a tide. I wandered its streets, reading everything I could about the Camino, embarrassed by how little I’d understood despite cycling its routes.

By evening, the city had woven itself into me. Continuing along the Portuguese Way felt not just logical, but necessary — as if the road itself had whispered the next step.

 

Santiago to Redondela - Heat, Vineyards, and a Room With a View

The campsite buzzed with pilgrims swapping stories, and I lingered longer than planned. By the time I left, the sun was high and the day already humming with heat.

The road carried me through villages scented with wild aniseed, past vineyards glowing in the light, past statues and churches that seemed to watch over the passing pilgrims. I reached Pontevedra early but kept going, carried by momentum and curiosity.

Redondela appeared before midday, and a faded hotel offered me a room with a sea view for twenty‑five euros. I accepted instantly. Some gifts don’t need thinking over.

 

 

PORTUGAL

570 Km in 10 Days

 

 

Prologue

Portugal greeted me not with fanfare but with a shift in light. The air thickened with salt and eucalyptus. The villages glowed white against the hills. The road bent toward the ocean as if it, too, had been waiting for this moment. I didn’t know what Portugal would ask of me — only that it would ask something. Every country had. Every stretch of road had. But as I pedalled south, I felt a quiet anticipation rising in me, a sense that this coastline, this language, this light would mark a new turning in the journey.

 

 

A Border Crossed in Sunlight and Festival Air — Redondela to Viana do Castelo

The morning opened warm and generous, the kind of day that seems to lean forward and whisper, Go on then — something new is waiting. Only thirty-five kilometres separated me from Portugal, and the tailwind nudged me along as if eager to see me cross.

Tui offered a final Spanish coffee, rich and comforting, before I rolled across the river into Portugal — a crossing so simple it felt almost ceremonial. Valença greeted me with cobbled streets that seemed to echo with centuries of footsteps. The coastline beyond was a dream: wide shoulders, smooth tarmac, and the Atlantic breathing beside me like a steady companion.

Peaches from a roadside stall became my lunch — sun-ripened, sweet, devoured in the shade of a tree. By the time I reached Viana do Castelo, the town was alive with festival energy, music drifting through the streets like confetti.

The campsite felt more like a whimsical farm, complete with wandering animals and showers housed in old horse stables. I laughed out loud at the absurd charm of it all. Portugal had welcomed me with warmth, fruit, and a sense of play.

 

Markets, Rain, and the Taste of Port

Fireworks had crackled until three in the morning, leaving the campsite wrapped in a strange, post-celebration hush. I woke to drizzle and grey skies, the world softened at the edges.

Sunday markets spilt onto the narrow coastal roads, cars inching forward as city folk hunted for fresh vegetables. The air smelled of earth and rain. Somewhere along the way, I earned my first flat tyre in Europe — a greasy badge of honour that left my hands blackened and my patience tested.

Porto rose before me like a revelation. The city shimmered with history, its tiled facades and steep alleys tumbling toward the river. I learned it was the birthplace of Port wine, which felt like destiny. Travelling without a guidebook meant every discovery was a surprise, and Porto was the best kind — unexpected, layered, intoxicating.

 

I spent the following day wandering Porto’s heart, letting the city reveal itself piece by piece. The railway station dazzled with its blue‑and‑white tiles, each panel a story. The harbour was alive with the scent of fish grilling over open flames, seagulls circling like opportunistic thieves.

Holidaymakers crowded the beaches, chasing the sun. Fishermen cast their lines with patient hope, though the ocean seemed in no mood to share. As I scrolled through my photos, I realised how Portugal straddled two worlds — modern architecture rising beside crumbling, soulful buildings. And though the new was impressive, it was the old that tugged at me.

 

Porto to Ílhavo (88 km) Beaches, Canals, and an Unexpected Night of Comfort

Breakfast at the hotel felt like a feast, and I set off along the beaches of Valadares and Espinho, where locals jogged and cycled in holiday spirits. The Atlantic remained icy, its waters a stubborn 15–17°C, daring only the bravest to enter.

Aveiro appeared at midday, all canals and colourful boats, but it was overflowing with tourists and devoid of campsites. So I pushed on to Ílhavo, where the only options were expensive hotels. I surrendered to comfort — a hot bath, a balcony view, and the quiet luxury of clean sheets. Sometimes indulgence is its own kind of pilgrimage.

 

Figs, River Roads, and a City Built on Stories

The hotel breakfast was extravagant enough to fuel me for days. With only a short ride ahead, I pedalled lazily, letting the morning unfold. A friendly cyclist joined me for a stretch, chatting easily before we stopped to raid a fig tree — a small, sweet rebellion.

Coimbra rose steeply from the river, its medieval heart perched high above. I booked a room quickly — the campsite was too far from the city’s pulse — and set out to explore. Cobblestone lanes twisted upward toward the ancient university, each turn revealing another pocket of history. Coimbra felt like a city built on stories.

 

A Quiet Road Toward the Land of Giant Waves

The ride to Nazaré felt strangely muted, as if the road had slipped into a quieter register. Beautiful, yes — but after weeks of dramatic landscapes, my senses had grown greedy. I arrived with a mix of relief and reluctance, slowing down as if my body knew the chapter was nearing its end.

The next day I did nothing, gloriously. The campsite buzzed with flies, driving me out for a ride, but the haze made photography pointless. Eventually, I returned, resigned to sharing my afternoon with the persistent little pests.

 

Nazaré - Óbidos - A Fairytale Fortress and a Feast for the Senses

Back on the bike, I felt the exhilaration of the open road as it wound its way along the stunning coastline toward Lisbon. To my surprise, the same guy I had met three days earlier stopped again, this time in a car, and we shared a quick chat amidst the salty air and crashing waves.

My first stop of the day was Caldas da Rainha, and I was almost tempted to call it a day right there. The town was a visual feast, bursting with colours and life, especially with the Saturday market buzzing in full swing. Cobblestone alleys were lined with charming cafes where locals enjoyed their meals under the warm sun, and the whole scene was inviting. But I pressed on, and I was glad I did—the majestic walled city of Óbidos soon appeared, perched high on a hill like a fairytale fortress.

There was no way I could pass this enchanting place without stopping. I treated myself to a rather upscale room that felt worth every cent. As I strolled through the narrow streets, I was captivated by the rich history that dates back to BC, and by the city's having changed hands countless times over the centuries. It's no wonder that Óbidos is celebrated as one of the seven wonders of Portugal! I lost track of time snapping an endless array of photos, indulging in delectable "egg tarts," and savouring liqueur from delicate chocolate cups. This day was a feast for the senses, and every moment felt like I was living inside a postcard.

 

Óbidos to Ericeira Wind, Cliffs, and the Call of the Surf Coast

The hills rose sharply, and a fierce headwind pushed against me with theatrical determination. Yet every climb revealed another breathtaking view — cliffs, ocean, villages clinging to the land like stories refusing to fade.

By early afternoon, I surrendered to Ericeira, where a well-equipped campsite offered refuge. The wind howled outside, but inside my tent, everything felt still.

 

A Silvery Ride Into Friendship and Farewell

The road into Cascais welcomed me with a fine, silvery drizzle — a gentle reminder that not every ending arrives wrapped in sunshine. The air was soft, the world washed in a muted glow, and the ride carried me past the fairytale hills of Sintra. The Pena Palace rose above the mist like something imagined rather than built, its colours muted by the weather but no less majestic. It felt like a fitting final landmark — whimsical, improbable, perched between earth and sky.

As the drizzle eased, I wound through the last stretch of coastal road and rolled into Cascais, the place where my European journey would come to rest. Waiting there was something even more precious than a destination: an old friend.

Carlos and I go back decades, to our days at Syfrets Trust in Cape Town. Seeing him again felt like opening a door to a part of myself I hadn’t visited in years. His wife, Melody, and her two beautiful daughters welcomed me into their home perched high on a hill, the kind of place where the coastline unfurls beneath you like a painted horizon. The room they prepared for me was spacious and warm — a luxury after weeks of tents, damp clothes, and the constant choreography of living out of panniers. For the first time in a long while, I could spread out, breathe, and simply be.

That evening, Carlos lit a fire for a true South African braai — a taste of home carried across continents. We savoured boerewors made by another South African who had settled in Portugal, the familiar flavours grounding me in a way I hadn’t realised I needed. The smoke curled into the night air, mingling with laughter, stories, and the quiet comfort of old friendship.

The next morning, Carlos drove me and my bicycle to a local shop where it was expertly packed for its next adventure — a flight to Rio. With the bike safely stowed, I allowed myself a few blissful days of rest in Cascais. I wandered the waterfront, lingered over coffee, let the Atlantic breeze wash over me, strolled around the narrow lanes of Lisbon and felt the accumulated fatigue of Europe slowly dissolve.

Then came the news that lifted my heart: my sister Amanda would be joining me in Brazil. The thought of sharing the next chapter with her filled me with renewed excitement and lifted my heart. Europe had been extraordinary — challenging, beautiful, transformative — and I felt myself arriving at its end not depleted, but invigorated.

Before I left, I stood for a moment at Carlos’s home, looking out over the coastline. Gratitude rose in me like a tide. His generosity — the meals, the laughter, the space to rest, the lift to the airport — had been a gift I could never have anticipated but deeply needed. I genuinely don’t know how I would have managed without him.

Landscapes shape some journeys. Others are shaped by people.

This ending was shaped by both.