Days 7 & 8
We were on the road by nine, heading to Portugal, with an ethereal bank of fog hanging over the valley.
I considered it might be tree sweat.
Or sleeping clouds that had drifted too low.
Or spirits gathered after an all-night celebration.
By the time we left Spain behind and entered Portugal, the sun was shining. The mountain villages we passed through were vibrant and pretty, and perhaps it was the brilliant blue sky, but my first impression was that everything looked remarkably clean.
We headed to another mountain track. At the entrance to the track we encountered an old man and a herd of goats. He didn’t speak English. We don’t speak Portuguese. But he gestured towards the track ahead, waving his hands and making it clear that, as far as he was concerned, we were heading towards peril.
We thanked him, nodded and smiled.
Then thought to use Google Translate to better communicate.
This seemed to delight him.
He told us his name was Rodrigues and explained that he didn’t know where the littlest goat had come from. It wasn’t his, apparently. But it was a good kid nonetheless.
The littlest goat watched us.
We waved goodbye then continued along the track we’d intended to explore. More steep inclines and declines, washouts and dust greeted us. All of it exhilarating.
Eventually we rejoined the tarmac roads and stopped at Restaurante O Abocanhado, perched high above the valley. We sat out on the veranda, chatting and soaking up the sun, because the view was simply too stunning to sit inside.
Back on the road, we passed a dam before taking another single-track road, only to discover that a digger had completely blocked our route a couple of miles ahead. There was no sensible space to turn around, so began another exercise in tight manoeuvring. Fortunately, we’d had practice. And Peter was on hand.
Once back on our way, we passed through more mountain villages, many of which had colourful Romaria decorations hanging from lampposts. They looked wonderfully festive, and I couldn’t help wishing we’d been able to see them lit up at night.
The villages themselves were beautiful. Granite blocks formed some of the road surfaces, fitted together with intricate patterns that looked too carefully laid to drive over. They were also extremely noisy beneath the tyres. In places, the granite would give way to tarmac. This felt wrong on every level. After all that stone and craftsmanship, covering it with a layer of black asphalt seemed almost sacrilegious.
We arrived at our hotel in Póvoa de Lanhoso, where we could wind down for the evening.
Which is more than could be said for the receptionist who appeared to be doing the work of several people. She was also our waitress later in the evening. Possibly the chef. I’m still not entirely sure. But she kept everything moving, and we settled in for a very chilled evening.
The following morning began with a glamorous expedition to Lidl to stock up on camping supplies. Then it was onto the Portuguese rally tracks.
These were dusty.
Like, extremely dusty.
As we drove, Peter’s car ahead kicked up clouds of pale dust that swirled around us in a constantly shifting vortex. Visibility came and went as we travelled through it. The rally tracks gradually gave way to more technical off-road terrain and the scenery, as ever, made the effort worthwhile.
Eventually, we made our way to our campsite at Arco de Baúlhe. The season was winding down, so there was plenty of space and we were able to spread ourselves out.
As we cooked dinner, darkness began to settle over the campsite. Then the Harvest Moon began to rise above the trees.
Earlier that evening, Peter had spoken to a local man who told him that the nearby village was celebrating the São Miguel festival. It explained the crowds and bustle we’d noticed when we’d passed through earlier, with fairground rides and food stalls filling the village.
Later that evening, fireworks began popping in the distance and local dogs barked their objections into the night.
The Harvest Moon climbed higher, eventually wearing a pale halo.
It was a beautiful night.
Sometime in the small hours, I woke to the unmistakable bass of rave music drifting across the valley. It continued until around five in the morning. Apparently, São Miguel was still going strong.
As well as the local dogs. For the first time on this trip, The Barkening finally caught up with us.
The nearby roosters joined in too, each one determined to have the final say.
