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.

 

CYCLE TOURING EUROPE - PART TWO

43-45 EUROPE - PART 2

5 July – 27 August 2011

3 438 Kilometres -  52 Days

 

 

MAP

PHOTOS FRANCE (2)

PHOTOS SPAIN

PHOTOS PORTUGAL

43 France (2)

1 901 Km – 23 Days

 

5 July - Budapest, Hungary – Basel, Switzerland - By train

I left my comfortable hotel and headed to the station to board a train to Basel and then pick up the bike path leading west from Basel to the Atlantic coast in France. Unfortunately, my inexpensive ticket meant jumping on and off the train to move the bike from one car to the next. It further meant I had only a seat, which made sleeping virtually impossible.

 

6 July - Basel, Switzerland – Mulhouse, France - 50 km

Arriving in Basel left me slightly confused and disorientated. The town is located at the Swiss, French and German borders. Although located in Switzerland, it has suburbs in both France and Germany. With the result, I wasn’t quite sure in which country I found myself.

Basel is a fascinating city with an old historic centre. Still, I was keen to get on the bicycle and head west to the Atlantic coast. Thus, I hopped on the bike path and ambled to Mulhouse, France. The ride was a short one next to the Rheine, or rather the Rheine canal.

The route was particularly picturesque, with a forest to the one side and a canal with ducks on the other. The path was well marked, and arrival in Mulhouse was in good time. My early arrival gave ample time to explore and pick up bread and cheese. Then, off to the campsite where not only did they have Wi-Fi, but also sold pizzas. Tired from a lack of sleep, I planned on crawling in early- not easy in a place that stayed light until 9.30 p.m.

 

7 July - Mulhouse – L’Isle-sur-le Doubs - 80 km

I ate the last of the bread and cheese and slowly loaded up, making it 10 a.m. before getting underway. My chosen path followed the Veloroute 6 cycle path and ran easterly alongside the Canal du Rhone. The path wasn’t as congested as the Danube cycle path but still well-used and was shared with fellow cyclists, runners and Nordic walkers. These paths were the best thing since sliced bread.

The canal was busy with barges and boathouses cruising the waterways. However, the going seemed slow as numerous locks existed where boats had to wait in line. Each lock had a “lockmaster”, with a house situated directly opposite the lock. Most of these were picture pretty with lovely colourful gardens.

There were hardly any stopping as dark clouds gathered and the weather soon came in. Unfortunately, the dreary weather made for pulling into the next best campground. The tent was barely up before the thunder and lightning started. Safely in the tent, I ate the leftover bread and cheese but spotted a mobile pizza stand at the entrance to the camp. As soon as the rain subsided, I made a beeline for the pizza stand and scoffed half a pizza, saving the rest for breakfast.

 

8 July - L’Isle-sur-le Doubs – Ranchot - 110 km

I woke to a misty Friday morning, but the mist soon cleared, and the day turned into a beautiful, sunny one. Waiting for the tent to dry, I drank coffee and ate the remaining pizza.

The path continued along the Rheine canal, past rustic-looking settlements that appeared uninhabited. No peep came from any of the houses. In contrast, the channel was filled with houseboats, slowly moving up and down the canal.

Besancon begged to be investigated as a colossal fort/citadel dominated the town. The citadel occupies eleven hectares atop Mount Saint-Etienne. Situated high up on a hill, the complex even had a tunnel running underneath. Pedalling through the tunnel, I popped out on the other side, only to discover the fort even more significant than anticipated. Although Besancon is quite a large town, it was best to continue as it was still early.

An unexpected sign indicated the distance of a mere 730 km to Nantes on the Atlantic coast. Far closer than envisaged.

Armed with that information, I felt I’d covered enough ground for the day and pitched the tent at Rancho. Albeit a basic camp, the smell of the freshly mowed lawn and the sound of the river made it heaven on earth. Unfortunately, finding food proved harder than foreseen. The campground was situated in a remote area, and I had to return to the previous village to find bread. Not a big deal, as the distance was a meagre 1.5 kilometres.

 

9 July - Ranchot – Verdun-sur-le-Doubs - 105 km

Back to my old sleeping habits, all but a few campers had already gone by the time I emerged. They must have been in a great hurry.

The day’s ride started with a short 25-kilometre amble to Dole, the birthplace of Louis Pasteur, dating back to the Middle Ages. The Collegiale-Notre-Dame is likely the most important building in town. Located in the centre of the old city, the basilica can be seen from quite a distance away. Then, following a short cycle through the well-preserved historic centre of Dole, I returned to the bike path en route to Seurre.

It drizzled the best part of the day, and fed up with the dreary weather, a campsite at pretty Verdun-sur-le-Doubs, lured me in. At 5 euros, it was by far the cheapest encountered on the trip. The place even came with an English-speaking lady at reception and Wi-Fi.

When my tent was pitched, I was starving and rode to the mini-market to purchase bread, cheese, chips, beer and coffee. The day was short but enjoyable as Verdun-sur-le-Doubs was an old settlement with beautiful old buildings, narrow passages and old stone bridges.

 

10 July - Verdun-sur-le-Doubs

Surfacing to thunder and lightning made me stay the day. But, first, I had to do laundry, and, as the camp was equipped with a washing machine and drier, I thought it an excellent place to hang a day.

Verdun-sur-le-Doubs is an ancient medieval city. In 843, the town became a border town. Thus, the scene of many deadly struggles between Burgundy and France and between Catholics and Protestants during the religious wars. The city lost its border status at the end of the 17^th century and finally experienced calm.

It felt ever so French scooting around on my bicycle, drinking coffee at pavement cafés and buying a baguette and camembert cheese from the village grocer. Before returning to camp, I popped in at the supermarket to get gas for my stove, washing powder to do much-needed laundry and salt for the bland food. My panniers were getting heavier instead of lighter.

The rain abated, and with the campsite on the river, one could watch houseboats putt-putting by as serious-looking fishermen cast their lines. But, as usual, no one caught anything.

I was dying to pick up a little French as it’s such a beautiful-sounding language. I tried throwing in the odd “Bonjour”, “Merci”, and “Au revoir”, but judging by the expressions on people’s faces, they most likely thought I was swearing at them.

 

11 July - Verdun-sur-le-Doubs – Paray-le-Monial - 132 km

The next day became a beautiful sunny day. The good weather made me put foot and bike to Paray without the usual coffee stops. Instead, the entire day was spent alongside the canal. The path went up over the hills, but I stuck to country lanes, making the way more manageable. This was a totally different area of France. Vineyards abounded and gone were the forests of the previous days. Only once did I venture off-road on a path the map indicated as “rough” but found no more than a grassy jeep track. Clearly, “rough” in Europe doesn’t have the same connotation as in Africa.

Still, houseboats occurred in large numbers, and one even had a substantial South African flag. I couldn’t pass up the opportunity to say hello, and they looked as surprised as I was to find a fellow citizen in this part of France. We’d a quick chat and then it was their turn to move through the lock.

I crawled into Paray, hungry and tired. Fortunately, a mobile pizza stand operated at the campsite gate. The pizza was one of the better ones - or I was starving. The good weather allowed for sitting outside until the sun disappeared, at around 10 p.m.

 

12 July - Paray-le-Monial – Nevers - 115 km

The day dawned bright and sunny, and I made an early start in case the weather turned. Biking was along the banks of the Loire River, but the cycle path seemed to head over the hills. I stuck to farm roads that followed the river and past medieval-looking towns, which appeared deserted. Decize sported a campground, but I only had coffee and pedalled on to Nevers as it was early and the weather was good.

In Nevers, the campsite was right on the Loire River with a view of the old town and cathedral. A short walk into town revealed a Carrefour. I popped in, grabbed a ready-made salad, two baguettes, more coffee and was set for an evening of gorging myself.

What an extraordinary place Nevers was. Its narrow, winding streets, old houses, and cathedrals made it an excellent place to overnight.

 

13 July - Nevers – Cosne-Cours-sur-Loire - 90 km

It was disappointing to wake to a dreary and icy morning. But, unfortunately, winter was back, and I was slow in rising. With the result, it was 10 a.m. before setting off heavy-heartedly into the drizzle. Scarcely an hour into the day, a cosy-looking pub made a good enough coffee stop.

The day dragged on as I’d my head down, pedalling into a slight headwind and a constant drizzle. The weather felt and looked more like autumn than summer.

Cosne allowed drawing money and buying a SIM card for the modem. The detour revealed a suitable place to pitch the tent and thus indicated the end of the day’s ride. Finally, the rain subsided, which allowed for sitting outside, enjoying my usual bread and cheese.

 

14 July - Cosne-Cours-sur-Loire - Orleans - 124 km

I didn’t expect the day to be quite as hard. But, unfortunately, the way led straight into a headwind and I didn’t appreciate the gravelly sections in such dire conditions.

Coffee was in a commune, which, despite looking closed, fortunately, had one open pub. Sully offered lunch at the castle, then back on the bicycle and into the wind. Resulting in it being pretty late by the time I rolled into Orleans; mercifully, it stayed light until late.

A plate of French fries and a beer were needed before crawling in. Bastille Day, the French National Day, was in full swing but no amount of fireworks was going to keep me from my slumber. The poor people had to wait until 11 p.m. to start the fireworks as the sun only set around 10 p.m. Thousands of euros must have gone up in smoke that night.

 

15 July - Orleans – Chaumont-sur-Loire - 84 km

I emerged to a lovely, sunny morning on the banks of the Loire River. I had no breakfast as I was slack at shopping the previous day. Instead of packing up, conversations with other campers meant the time was after ten before I headed downstream. Twenty kilometres later, I discovered a picture-perfect settlement with a quaint pastry shop.

The day consisted of weaving through medieval-looking communities while sticking close to the Loire River. This time I shopped and soon afterwards came upon a conveniently located campground. Cycling into the wind the past few days left me exhausted and best to do a short ride. Bastille Day celebrations were still in full swing. We were treated to a fireworks display and the sound of bands, drifted from across the river.

 

16 July - Chaumont-sur-Loire – Montsoreau - 110 km

Early morning, I hurriedly saddled up as it was already spitting. The day turned out blustery and cold as I biked past Amboise, where people live in caves, which reminded me of Coober Pedy in Australia. I further learned caves make excellent wine cellars.

Next, the path led past impressive Tours, where I grabbed a quick coffee and then back on the bike and into the howling wind and rain. What an utterly miserable day. I was desperate to find a toilet, and on spotting a forest area, I quickly squatted - only to find I’d placed myself squarely on a patch of stinging nettles. Nevertheless, my ass was on fire, and I covered the last 15 kilometres to camp in record time.

 

17 July - Montsoreau – La Possonniere - 78 km

Getting out of the tent was with great reluctance, as the weather was freezing, windy and overcast. My path led up hills, through vineyards, past impressive castles, and back to the river.

Around midday, the wind became even more fierce and almost blew me off my bicycle. I became increasingly irritated, grinding into the wind, which drove a bitterly cold rain into my face. Finally, sopping wet, I pulled my cap down low, put my head down and battled on until La Possonniere, where a basic campsite signalled the end of the day’s ride. Phew!

 

18/19 July - La Possonniere - Nantes - 92 km

I slept well and only rose at around 8 a.m. With little change in the weather, I was long-lipped but nonetheless packed up. Thirty kilometres down the drag, my stomach told me it was breakfast time and I stopped at a café for coffee and a croissant. Rounding a corner and spotting old castles and forts never failed to surprise. The route was so pretty the dreary weather was soon forgotten and my lip went back into place.

Nantes was the last big city before leaving Veloroute 6, but searching for a place to pitch the tent took some time. Two sites were indicated on the map, but neither existed. This lack of camping left me no other option but to look for budget accommodation in town. Sadly, none were found and, eventually, I weakened and settled for a reasonably priced hotel and paid for two nights.

Nantes is a vast city with all the items I was looking for. Amongst these was a roadmap for the route south via the Atlantic coast to Spain. I did the usual rest day tasks, sorted out my internet connection and did personal maintenance. Still, it remained a pleasure to wander the narrow pedestrian lanes where locals chatted and sipped coffee at sidewalk cafés.

 

20 July - Nantes – La Bernerie - 95 km

In anticipation of a headwind, I was ready shortly before 8.30 a.m. The wind was nevertheless the least of my problems as rain came gushing down the entire day. The path followed the last stretch of the Loire River before it flowed into the Atlantic Ocean, or Bay of Biscay, at St Nazaire. St Nazaire also indicated the end of the Eurovelo 6 cycle path and from where the plan was to head south. Regrettably, the weather was shite, and I just about had enough of the dreadful weather.

Surprisingly, a sign pointed to a cycleway known as the Vélocéan. It was fun following the little arrows until reaching La Bernerie, where a rather fancy campsite lured me in. I was soaked to the bone and happy to call it a day. Trying to keep things dry while putting up a tent in bucketing rain was useless. Before the flysheet was on, the entire tent was sopping wet. Once inside, I was as happy as the proverbial pig with dry clothes and a steaming mug of coffee in hand.

 

21 July - La Bernerie - Port Bourgenay - 113 km

There was no chance of drying the tent or clothes in such miserable weather. So the wet clothes were promptly stuffed into plastic bags before hitting the road.

Following the path was slow going and frustrating, but avoided the hectic main roads. Although scenic, the way was more suited to families with children on a day out. Truth be told, cycling would have been a great deal quicker if I had taken the vehicle route. Minor routes were small and narrow but still very busy, making cycling frustrating for cyclists and motorists. I must, nevertheless, give it to the French: they patiently sat behind cyclists on these minor roads, waiting to overtake. And when they eventually got a chance to pass, they waved and gave the thumbs up.

The path took me across the Vendee, down canals, through forests, while closely following the coast. Then, past large and popular resort towns, until reaching Port Bourgenay, which sported bargain camping. But rather than miss out on inexpensive accommodation, I pulled in. The Vendee is a flat area where the highest point is a mere 295m, and with a good tailwind and no rain, cycling was easy.

 

22 July - Port Bourgenay – La Rochelle - 107 km

The sun came out for the first time in days and, at last, the tent could dry. It’s not always easy to shop in a foreign country and what was purchased in good faith as yoghurt, turned out, cream. Breakfast no doubt consisted of muesli and cream.

My first stop was at the seaside resort of La Tranche, which had a real holiday feel with all kinds of stalls, merry-go-rounds, and wind-surfing shops. I looked around but then made the mistake of following the cycle path, which promptly disappeared and made me wonder where the hell I was. It must be mentioned, that I had no smartphone or GPS at the time, solely a paper map.

Eventually, I was back on a marked road and continued towards La Rochelle. By then, the wind had picked up to near storm strength, my windbreaker roaring in the wind like a Boeing 747. I’d every intention of continuing past La Rochelle but weakened on spotting a campsite that didn’t look too pricey. However, the reason for the discounted price soon became apparent.

The site was right on the flight path of aircraft to and from the nearby airport. What a noisy place. The campground owner was rather impressed by my “itinerary” and kept repeating “impossible” in his lovely French accent. He then proceeded to inform the entire grounds. All the attention made me feel like a celebrity - photoshoot and all. This is something that has always left me embarrassed.

 

23 July - La Rochelle – Verdon-sur-mer - 113 km

I had a relatively slow start but eventually got going. It took forever to clear the city limits, but 20 kilometres later, my route finally spat me out on a country lane. The day was frustrating as it was a continuous search for minor roads. Much as predicted, the wind was as strong as the previous day. I hated the idea but eventually opted for the big, congested road and gunned it to Royan.

At Royan, a ferry carted people across the windy bay to Verdon-sur-Mer, a short ferry ride of about 30 minutes. Starving, just enough time remained for a quick coffee and a bread roll before arriving at our destination. Once there, only about eight or ten kilometres remained to a campsite.

 

24 July - Verdon-sur-Mer – Gulan Mestras - 121 km

Finding myself on the Camino route was an unexpected but pleasant surprise. At first, I believed it was a mistake, but the signs were clear and soon one could see Camino accommodation advertised. The way was crammed with families on a Sunday afternoon meander, and ”Moi” the only daft one with a loaded bike.

I chatted to one of the first cycle tourers since leaving Budapest - a French chap on his first cycling holiday. Unfortunately, the rain came pouring down, and there was little chance to swap war stories as we stayed huddled in our tents. Fortunately, the camp had a basic store to buy bread and cheese (which became supper) as well as biscuits for breakfast.

 

25 July - Gulan Mestras – Farm Bias - 91 km

By 11h00, there was still no sign that the rain would subside, leaving no option but to face the weather. The day was thoroughly dismal as it never stopped raining, and my route spat me out on a busy motorway. The traffic, combined with low visibility, made me call it a day early.

My chosen spot revealed more unhappy campers huddled together under a makeshift shelter, packing up to return home. They had had enough of the terrible weather and had nowhere to go with their active kids.

The tent was pitched in a great hurry, but almost everything got wet before the flysheet was up. What a good thing I’d stopped to replenish my dwindling food supply. I lay in my tent, munching on sweets and crisps. By evening, I warmed up the ready-to-eat meal I’d bought at Lidels earlier. Most campgrounds had small shops where one could find something to eat, but this one had no such facilities as it was located on a farm.

 

26/27 July - Farm, Bias – Capbreton - 91 km

After donning my last dry clothes and downing a quick coffee, it was back on the road. The show must go on, and there was no point in lying around. The idea of another wet and rainy day wasn’t appealing, but what else was there to do? I mostly had my head down as the rain pelted down the entire day. Midday, a supermarket appeared, which made stocking up easy. Fed up with this rainy affair, the next available camping spot had to do.

The following morning, the sun almost came out, indicating time to use the camp ‘laverie’. The laundry made easy washing and drying of clothes that had been in plastic bags a few days and smelled to high heaven. A quick trip into Centre Ville revealed a map of Spain and a camera shop to purchase a memory card. The general store provided an adapter to fit Europe’s strange power points. I further posted memory cards home with photos from the past months.

 

 

44 Spain

967 Km – 16 Days

 

28 July - Capbreton, France – San Sebastian, Spain - 91 km

With both tent and clothes dry, loading up was at leisure before pointing the bike in the direction of the border. My chosen route stuck close to the coast and spat me out in ritzy Biarritz. Still, the trail continued towards the border and reached Spain without any fanfare. There was no sign, and one arrived without knowing it.

There was, however, no doubt that I found myself in Spain. The architecture wasn’t only different but a new language and culture awaited. The landscape further became a great deal hillier. San Sebastian was significantly larger than anticipated. Still, signs indicating free Camino accommodation were clearly visible.

In no time, I had a Pilgrim’s Passport (or ‘credentials’ as they call it), and a whole new world opened to me. Unfortunately, the doors at the ‘Refugio’ closed at 10 p.m. and by 10.30 p.m, the lights were out. Although pretty early, I didn’t complain as it was free. Still, I had to get into the Camino way and figure out when and where to eat. Fortunately, four bread rolls were left in my panniers. Not much of a meal, but better than nothing.

 

29 July - San Sabastian – Mutriku - 58 km

We were kicked out of the ‘Refugio’ at 8h00, and I opted for coffee and a croissant while waiting for the bike shop to open. The gears on my bicycle needed adjusting, but there seemed little they could do. At least I had the brake blocks replaced in anticipation of the severe downhills.

Then off to the computer shop to seek a SIM card for the modem. Hence it was midday before departing the resort town of San Sebastián via cobbled streets. My route took me along the Bay of Biscay, a picturesque but mountainous region.

The day was windless and sunny as I churned my way up steep hills at a snail’s pace, simply to fly down the other side like a kamikaze pilot. Holy crap, Spain is hilly. There was more stopping than cycling, mainly to take in the unusual landscape.

I pitched my tent at Mutriku as the map didn’t indicate other suitable places nearby. It took huffing and puffing up a near-vertical hill to the campground. The place was worth every sweaty pedal stroke as it came with excellent lawns and stunning scenery.

I sat in the sun studying the map, and it, quite frankly, scared the living daylights out of me. Spain was far more mountainous than envisaged. I had no intention of going back up the hill for food. I thus warmed up a rice dish I had in my bag for ages, followed by coffee and chocolate biscuits for dessert.

 

30 July - Mutriku – Bilbao – 86 km

It dawned bright and sunny as I prepared for a hilly ride. My route followed the Camino route, not necessarily the easiest or shortest way, but I followed the signs anyhow. The people encountered were friendly and greetings of “Hola” and “Welcome to the Camino” were frequently heard as I passed people heading in the opposite direction. Still, there was no sight of cycle tourers. There were nonetheless masses of cyclists on road bikes powering up the hills. Spain must indeed have the best hill climbers in the world. One was chatting on his mobile phone, going up a steep hill.

My path left the coast and turned inland over the mountains, passing through small villages with ancient-looking churches high up on hills. Thank goodness for a granny gear. I sometimes seriously doubt my choice of routes and, for that matter, my sanity.

Bilbao came as a pleasant surprise; not merely was the city massive but also jaw-droppingly beautiful. However, the lack of campsites made settling for a pension in the old town.

 

31 July - Bilboa

My legs felt lame, my knees sore, and the town of Bilbao looked inviting enough to take a break. Paying for two nights was a no-brainer before donning a backpack to explore. Not only were there impressive old buildings and churches, but I realised I was firmly entrenched in the land of sangria and tapas. Although everything was firmly shut, as it was Sunday, it seemed pretty all right to have a glass of wine at 10h00. Street artists were hard at work trying to earn a living. Soon the cafés opened and people were outside sipping coffee or a glass of wine.

A pleasant surprise awaited as I had word from my friend Ed, who lived in the UK, that he was heading in my direction by motorbike. So, I stayed an additional day to meet up with him.

 

1 August - Bilbao

Ed arrived around midday, and we’d loads to chat about. We walked the narrow lanes of the old city and talked for hours on end about the good old days over a bottle or two of red wine.

2 August - Bilbao – Laredo – 50 km

The next day, time came to move along, and after coffee and cornflakes, which Ed had in his panniers, we got back on our bikes. He lent me his GPS, and I followed the voice directions out of the city. However, it soon became apparent the device wanted me to go in a different direction. I ignored the lady’s friendly voice and followed my nose.

Having company was rather pleasant, albeit by motorbike. I continued along the Camino route, stopping at small settlements and soon caught up with Ed, as he’d already uncovered a camping spot. It was scarcely midday, but he must have assumed the hills were sharper than they really were. Nevertheless, I was pleased with the short day and not having to negotiate more hills. Unfortunately, it started raining, which left no option but to retreat to our tents.

 

3 August - Laredo – Santillana Del Mar – 88 km

I pedalled out of camp ahead of Ed, who soon caught up, armed with bread and jam. After our roadside breakfast, we continued at our own pace. I could count on finding him at scenic spots admiring the vistas. We missed the city of Santander and followed a minor road adjacent to the coast. Ed went to find camping and soon sent an SMS announcing he’d come across a site at Santillana Del Mar. It took me a while to get there as the way was pretty hilly. En route, I encountered several friendly walkers and cyclists following the Camino.

Tracking down Ed was pretty easy. Afterwards, we wandered into town to the “supermarcado” on the hunt for food and to admire the old buildings and crooked cobblestone streets.

 

4 August - Santillana Del Mar – Llanes – 60 km

We surfaced to a brilliantly sunny morning, and I instantly knew the day would be a stinker, from one extreme to the next. The road was no less hilly than the previous days, which could be expected as we were along Spain’s famous Costa Verde. The Costa Verde conjured up romantic images, but there was nothing romantic about wheezing up hills in the sweltering heat. The area was nonetheless stunning, with one picturesque hamlet after the other. People were in a holiday mood, and several called me to stop and have a beer; fortunately, I thought better of it.

It became a short day of riding, something I was pleased about as it gave me plenty of time to do necessary housekeeping. Ed is a keen photographer and we sauntered around town, allowing him to take endless pictures. In the end, I found a tranquil bay to update my diary and watch the sunset over the bay.

 

5 August - Llanes – Nava - app 80 km

Waking to a rainy morning came as a surprise. There was, however, little one could do but saddle up as quickly as possible. Thus, breakfast was a quick affair and consisted of cornflakes and coffee before getting underway.

It drizzled on and off all day, and as my map was covered, I never bothered taking it out. Therefore, it was no surprise that I took a wrong turn somewhere during the day. However, this was no disaster as the ride was stunning and adjacent to a river. The area had a festive vibe as a canoe race was in progress with hundreds of participants. The river was lined with people and music and food stalls abounded. Spectators cheered me on as I made my way upriver. The mistake solved my problem of whether to continue via the coast or head inland. Informing Ed of my decision, we arranged to meet at Nava.

 

6 August - Nava – Salas – 85 km

Breakfast consisted of croissants and coffee before departing our cosy accommodation. A relatively easy cycle led to Oviedo. Unfortunately, road signs were rather inadequate. It took pedalling around for what felt like forever before eventually making my way out of town.

I felt frustrated, having wasted so much time in the city, and I didn’t appreciate the strong and gusty wind encountered. The hills became steeper and dark clouds soon gathered. Eventually, we called it a day and settled for a room in Salas.

The little town of Salas was fascinating, with cobbled streets and a quaint old church right in the centre. Villagers sipping coffee or enjoying wine at sidewalk cafes lend a pleasant community atmosphere.

 

7 August - Salas – Pola de Allande - 55 km

The stretch between Salas and Pola de Allande provided fantastic riding. We decided on a short distance as this was Ed’s last day. The road snaked up gentle hills and, although hilly, the climbs were reasonably straightforward. Fortunately, the mountainous terrain indicated on the map turned out far more manageable than expected. The gradient wasn’t as sharp as predicted and cycling was a pleasure, although slow going. Still, I was happy to spot historic Pola de Allande, way down in the valley, surrounded by the Cantabrian Mountains, instead of up a steep hill.

 

8 August - Pola de Allande – Fonsagrada – 70 km

I said goodbye to Ed, who sadly had to return to London and work. The road went up a pass and the map indicated a tough climb. Following an hour and a half of gasping my way to the top, I sped downhill at breakneck speed, only to find a steady climb waiting. This set the trend for the remainder of the day. Lunch was at a dam, after which a steep climb led to Grandas. Once there, an hour or so was spent watching a festival before continuing to Fonsagrada.

Although wind farms are a fantastic concept, I wasn’t all excited spotting them cycling. They inevitably meant a notoriously windy area and in this area, they seemed located at the highest points. Thus, the road climbed steeply to the turbines before descending equally sharply into the valley.

The more the road climbed, the smaller and more rural the communities became. I barely encountered anyone, and it was eerily quiet. The only people spotted were a lonely hiker singing at the top of his lungs and later an elderly farmer herding cattle.

Although I envisioned continuing a further 20 kilometres, my legs felt tired. It came as no surprise to find Fonsagrada situated up a two-kilometre climb. Once there, uncovering a room was easy, and so was the walk to the supermarket. Despite it being early, I was done for the day.

 

9 August - Fonsagrada – Lugo – 59 km

The day started much as envisaged, and the route descended into the valley. The weather was icy and I was happy it wasn’t winter. Road signs warned motorists of heavy snowfalls and, judging by the snow poles, these warnings were just. A steady climb led to more wind farms, from where one could see an enormous valley below.

Concerned about my bicycle’s front hub, I hoped it would hang in until Lugo. Despite my concern, it was fantastic biking and I felt sorry to reach the end. Lugo was a pleasant surprise and revealed ancient Roman walls built between the 3^rd and 4^th centuries.

My pension in Lugo was adjacent to a bike shop where they replaced the cones. Replacing the hub would have been preferable but they couldn’t or didn’t want to. So, instead, they tried selling me the entire wheel, complete with rim, spokes and hub. They already overcharged me for the cones, as 30 euros felt like a tad of a rip-off. At least the owner of the pension was super welcoming. He carried my bags and bicycle upstairs and offered me the use of his kitchen and washing machine (which I didn’t use but, in hindsight, should’ve).

 

10 August - Lugo – Santiago de Compostela – 105 km

I had a relatively slow start to the day and first biked through the walled city before getting on the road to Santiago. It turned out one of the more leisurely days as the way descended until reaching a valley where it was much warmer. The berry season was practically over, but there were still plenty of good ones around, which were by then very sweet.

Sixty-five kilometres from Santiago, my path joined the famous French Camino route. At first, the hordes of people came as a surprise as there were masses of walkers, cyclists and even people on horseback. The settlements became larger, all with lively touristy trades and one could find all kinds of “Camino” trinkets. That said, it only took a few kilometres to get used to the people. Being part of this large group of pilgrims en route to Santiago felt quite appropriate. Whilst nearly on my final leg to Santiago, pilgrim walkers still had a two-day walk ahead of them. I was delighted to find a campsite outside the city centre. Although thrilled to reach the end of this well-known route, I was equally pleased this wasn’t the end of my journey as quite a way remained to Lisbon.

 

11 August - Santiago de Compostela

Albeit envisioning a day of R&R, sightseeing and routine rest day tasks left me more exhausted than cycling. However, the town allowed brushing up on my knowledge of the Camino. Embarrassingly enough, I’d been cycling along the “Northern route” and part of the “Original route”, and even parts of the “French route”, but still didn’t quite know what the Camino was about. Luckily, there was enough literature around town to fill in the gaps. Seeing I was firmly entrenched in the Camino way, it made sense to follow the “Portuguese way” to Lisbon.

 

12 August - Santiago de Compastela – Redondela – 80 km

The camp was a popular one with several other hikers and cyclists. We chatted until all was ready to head off in their respective directions. As a result, the time was shortly before 11.30 before finally cycling out of Santiago.

The route became even more exciting. The tiny hamlets took on a different look and feel; they all seemingly had small patches of vineyards. Old churches and statues were still in abundance, and recent mowing of lawns left a smell of wild aniseed. I thought myself lucky out on the bike on such a pleasant day.

My path took me to Pontevedra, where the plan was to overnight, but hardly midday, I pedalled onto Redondela. A budget-looking hotel got my attention, and as the owner offered me a room with a sea view at 25 euros, I thanked him and settled in.

 

45 Portugal

570 Km – 10 Days

 

13 August - Redondela, Spain – Viana do Castelo, Portugal - 95 km

There remained a meagre 35 kilometres to Tui and the Portuguese border. The weather was excellent: pleasantly hot and with a tailwind. Following coffee in Tui, the road crossed the river and entered Portugal. As always, I was bursting with excitement to see what this new country would bring.

The first town I encountered was Valença, and my impression of Portugal will forever be one of cobbled streets. My route continued beside the ocean and I was again amazed to experience a whole new culture simply by crossing a river. The heat must have made me thirsty as spotting juicy peaches, I bagged a few. Not much further, I flopped down under a tree and scoffed the whole lot.

The N13, a brand-new road, was a pleasure to cycle as it came with a lovely wide shoulder. Viana do Castelo was home to an old fort, a historic centre, and old churches. Encountering a lively festival made me call it a day.

Across the river was an unusual campsite, more like a farm with plenty of animals. The showers were converted horse stables and were huge. One could have quite a party in there.

 

14 August Viana do Castelo – Porto - 70 km

The previous night the fireworks continued until 3 a.m. I only woke at 8 a.m. and discovered the place quiet as a mouse, making me wonder if there was a time change.

The day started promising but soon a fine drizzle set in. Sunday markets were in full swing, and the narrow coastal road was jam-packed with what appeared city slickers in their fancy convertibles. All seemingly out to buy fresh, home-grown veggies from the countryside.

I had my first flat tyre in Europe. Fixing a flat tyre always leaves me covered in grease.

In Porto, signboards pointed to “Centro”, and I was blown by the scene that greeted me. The town had been declared a World Heritage Site by UNESCO, and rightly so. I further learned it’s the birthplace of port wine and thus the name Porto—time to sample the good stuff. Travelling without a guidebook can be pretty exciting as everything comes as a surprise.

 

15 August - Porto

Porto warranted a day of exploring, as the town offered a multitude of attractions. The historic railway station was still in full use, and walls were lined with tiled panels depicting Portugal’s early history.

A trip to the harbour revealed narrow alleyways flooded with the smell and smoke of fish barbeques. The day’s fresh catch was on the coals and ready to be devoured. Seagulls, no doubt, knew what was on offer as thousands were hovering over the area.

Not much further, fishermen were casting their lines; most seemed unlucky, although one could see fish swimming in the ocean. Being a sunny public holiday, beaches were crammed with holidaymakers.

While browsing my pictures, I realised one could get the wrong idea about Portugal. Portugal is a modern country with an abundance of modern buildings designed by famous local and foreign architects. Still, I’m more taken with the old buildings and hardly ever take pictures of the everyday stuff. They don’t seem interesting to me. The same goes for the smoky fish BBQ in the back alleys: they are far more fascinating than the glitzy restaurants in the city centre.

 

16 August - Porto – Ilhavo - 88 km

Breakfast was at the hotel, followed by an easy day’s ride past Valadares and Espinho’s excellent beaches. Being a long weekend due to Assumption Day celebrations, people were out cycling and running. This, however, remained the Atlantic Ocean, with water temperatures hovering between 15-17°C – I never saw anyone running into the ocean. Instead, bathers entered rather gradually.

Aveiro was reached around midday and came with countless canals, colourful boats, and old churches. Sadly, the place was very touristy without any camping facilities. The nearest campsite was a further 10 kilometres away, and best to continue to Ilhavo. Still, I couldn’t find any camping, merely a costly hotel. I succumbed to temptation and enjoyed a bath, TV and a room with a balcony.

 

17 August - Ilhavo – Coimbra - 65 km

Included in the hefty room rate was a lovely breakfast spread. I operated in low gear as only a short pedal remained to Coimbra. A friendly cyclist caught up and shared plenty of information regarding the area. We even stopped and raided a fig tree, which he seemed pretty happy to do. Maybe it’s no big deal in Portugal.

When people say, “You can come shower at my place”, I think it’s time for a good scrubbing and laundry. Once in Coimbra, I took a room for the shower as the campsite was quite far out of town. No time was wasted in investigating the well-known city of Coimbra.

Coimbra has a history dating back to the Middle Ages and thus offers many exciting sights. Even more famous is the University, situated high up on a hill and surrounded by narrow cobblestone lanes with niches and steep staircases.

 

18-19 August - Coimbra – Nazare - 100 km

Of course, I had breakfast at the hotel and then set out toward Nazare. The day was uneventful as I’d been spoilt with stunning vistas by then. What would typically be considered an excellent ride was described as “uneventful”.

As usual, I dreaded getting to my destination and was going slower and slower to avoid the inevitable. In addition, it was hard to deal with feeling lethargic after feeling particularly strong (both mentally and physically) the past few months.

The following day my energy returned, but I stayed one more day. It’s impressive how one can do absolutely nothing an entire day. Although a lovely site, the flies bothered me endlessly. I thus explored the area by bicycle to escape the pursuing flies. Unfortunately, the weather was too hazy to take pictures, and I returned to my fly-infested site.

 

20 August - Nazare - Obidas - 42 km

Back on the bike the road followed the coast towards Lisbon. Again, the chap I met three days previously, this time in a car, stopped for a quick chat.

The day’s first stop was at Caldas da Rainha where I nearly stayed as it was immensely picturesque. The Saturday market was in full swing and the cobbled alleys, where people sat at sidewalk cafes, looked inviting. I continued, a good thing too, as soon the ancient walled city of Obidos appeared high up on a hill. I couldn’t cycle past without stopping and again booked into a rather pricy room.

My efforts were well rewarded as the city has a history dating to BC and has changed hands innumerable times over the years. Today, it’s considered one of the seven wonders of Portugal, and rightly so. I trundled around snapping gazillion pictures, ate small “milk tarts”, and drank liqueur from small chocolate cups.

 

21 August - Obidas – Ericeira - 60 km

I didn’t anticipate the day to be quite as hard. Not only was it hilly, but worse still, it came with a howling headwind. At least the views were unsurpassed, but such stunning vistas seldom come without climbing a few hills.

Due to the wind, camping was early at Ericeira, a good site with all the necessary facilities.

 

22 August - Ericeira – Cascais - 50 km

Loading up was in a fine drizzle for the final stretch into Cascais. The road led past beautiful Sintra, situated on the Portuguese Riviera and dominated by the Pena Palace. Finally, the road spat me out in Cascais, the end of my European tour and where my friend Carlos lived.

I’ve known Carlos since working together at Syfrets Trust in Cape Town, South Africa, many moons ago. During my visit, Carlos, his wife, Melody, and her two beautiful daughters, lived in Cascais. They had a lovely home high up on a hill overlooking the coast. I was shown a large comfortable room where I could spread out (what luxury).

That evening, Carlos, in true South African style, lit a fire, and we’d an authentic South African braai with boerewors made by a South African who lived in Portugal.

The next day, we took the bicycle to a bike shop, where they put it in a box for the return flight to Rio on the 27^th, which gave me four days of R&R in Cascais.