I’M GOING
SALLY McLEAN
ON THE first day of cycling around the Alentejo region of Portugal, I was too tired to take proper notes. The combination of the sunshine and exertion left me struggling for adjectives.
My record of the first morning began: “Hills + heat + unfit Scot who marched around Lisbon the day before.” I then scribbled the black moon emoji, very badly, with a grumpy face.
Luckily, our guide Teresa was not fazed by a lost-for-words sweaty person unused to hills and temperatures in double figures.
She slowed down our itinerary for the day and took us for coffee instead of the carpet museum.
By the time we were sitting down to an epic lunch in a winery, I had managed to use words again.
My notes read: “Cheese, own olives, own olive oil, black pig chorizo and WINE JAM.” I might have underlined that last item a couple of times.
So it took me about two hours and my first experience of spreadable vino to get the hang of this holiday.
As soon as I slowed down and focused on the blue skies, vineyards, olive farms and sleepy villages, I loved every minute.
Portugal Best Cycling are one of several firms who take visitors around the back roads of this spectacularly gorgeous country.
They are a small company, set up by Teresa on her family’s farm.
As I marshalled the last of my resources for the final bit of track to the gate, she pointed out the donkey, a sheep with several black lambs and the goose who had eight new babies.
Another one, who was still sitting on her eggs, gave me the hairy eyeball as I peched past.
The farm, in a tiny village outside the staggeringly lovely medieval city of Evora, was our base for the three-day Cycling in Paradise tour.
In spring, with the trees coming into leaf and the verges green with wild herbs, it felt well-named.
It’s ideal cycling terrain, with quiet roads and an infrastructure of off-road tracks. Our routes, while not as flat as I would have liked on day one, were perfectly manageable, with blissful downhill stretches in between the climbs.
What made it such a joy was not the sunshine or the views or the birds singing as we zoomed past. They were great.
But what made it wonderful was having Teresa there to organise it all.
Having spent the last two decades in charge of sunblock, snacks, route planning and marching wilting weans around historical
monuments, the real holiday for me was not having to be mum.
My bike was waiting for me in the morning. Any issues from the day before were sorted, or the bike replaced. The pannier was packed with a spare inner tube.
Fruit was provided – on the understanding that bananas were eaten, not left to ferment in a forgotten pouch.
Shaky legs? Have a biscuit from Teresa’s ever-present stash.
She grew up in Evora and knows everything there is to know about Alentejo’s architecture, history, which goes back to the Romans, politics, culture, agriculture and food. This, too, was great.
But what was even better was that she managed to share this without it feeling like a lecture or chore.
How is cork made? Why are there so many egg-based desserts? Is the Catholic Church still an important influence in rural Portugal? Where can I pick a handful of wild fennel to counteract the effects of too much garlicky migas (stale bread salad) for lunch?
Teresa can answer all these questions and more. Her English is so good that she can make jokes. And understand them.
All routes were pre-planned and explained in advance.
If it was too far to cycle, the van was loaded up and we drove to a suitable starting point.
On one return trip, Teresa suggested with huge tact that I would not enjoy a mountain bike trail down steep hills with free-falling rocks and sandy dips.
One call and it was taxi for Burnside. And her bike.
And if the day’s cycling ended in a winery, there was no need to spit out the gastronomic rose or water wine, made using a technique based on shipwrecks. There was always a lift home.
By the end of my three days, I had recovered my use of language.
My notebook is full of caustic observations about the Jeremy Clarkson bomber jackets in the leather factory and the thrilling Gothic creepiness of Evora’s bone chapel.
But if I had still been relying on emojis, it would definitely have been a row of thumbs up.