PORTUGAL: UNFINISHED BUSINESS
Empty roads, good food and good value sum up Portugal, according to Dick Underdown and friends
What a change. The last three tours had begun in driving wind and rain, but the sun is shining as I ride to Portsmouth and meet the rest of the group – we have all known each other for many years and toured together for most of them. Four years ago, we did a lap of Spain and promised ourselves we would come back for Portugal. The country, it seemed, was a hidden motorcyclists’ paradise. Empty roads with smooth surfaces in the main, through every type of terrain. Great hotels, food and wine, and all very reasonably priced. In other words, we had unfinished business.
I usually ride on my own in this group. They all ride litre-plus bikes of varying types, and quite rightly want to stretch their legs and enjoy them. All are considerably more talented riders than I, and my Ténéré 660 would struggle at their pace, while mine would frustrate them. It works well for us. Splitting after the usual breakfast banter and regrouping for evening meals at pre-determined and pre-booked hotels. Cheapest when booked early, and always the promise of a hot shower and cold beer in a location of our choosing. To each their own, but I've spent too many days in the past hotel hunting in poor weather and increasing darkness, being forced to take everyone else’s leftovers, so for me, the planned approach works.
TOASTIES AND SOUP
After the 24-hour ferry to Bilbao and a ride through northern Spain, we reach Portugal after skirting around Leon. Before toll roads were built in Portugal two main arteries moved traffic from north to south – the N1 and N2. Brodders, the map mogul of our group, reckons you can do a tour of the whole country on the N2 taking stunning, unused roads providing every type of riding. But we've done some of them before and it was easier for me to slip south more directly on the N218, 219 and 221, which really is
deserted between the villages. I ride through square miles of fire residue, seeing at first hand the devastation I had watched on the news months before. But it’s already recovering and nature is reclaiming what initially looked like the surface of another planet. And all the time I’m not that far west of Porto, a great city packed with history and culture, not to mention the differing varieties of port – well worth a long weekend if you have the time.
Lunch is tosta, a Portuguese favourite. Remember the old Breville sandwich makers? Portugal did it first, and still does. Delicious fresh bread slapped around cheese, ham, tuna, or whatever is local and happens to be fresh. Cheap, too, at €2.50 a go. On southwards to Sierra Estrella, Portugal’s national park with its highest mountain – not exactly Alpine, but ruggedly spectacular in its own way.
The N238 takes me to the overnight in Serta, a Roman town and now a World Heritage site. It was once described to me as like Cambridge without the bikes, but I think that’s a bit unfair.
Another early start and I’m away before the others who neglected to fill up the night before – one of the bikes needs super unleaded and the garage selling it is yet to open. First off is a stretch of N2, wide and well surfaced, climbing back up into the national park with wide sweepers swooping away from jaw-dropping vistas. It’s damp, but early-morning traffic has created a dry line and before long the Iberian sun has finished the job and the Tarmac is perfect. Later on, another Portuguese lunch, this time of caldo verde soup. Once a peasant dish but now, like so many things, it’s become quite trendy. It's potato and cabbage soup with a slice of chorizo and a hunk of fresh bread to mop it up. Most people are very friendly here, as seems to be the norm. Another chance to practise speaking, but a map makes this easier and everyone points to somewhere they think I should visit.
The N2 is spectacular, running down the last 60 miles to tonight's rendezvous at Loule. Brodders calls it a ‘flick flack road’ – constantly flicking the bikes from one side to the other. The hills are covered with
cork trees, which is produced here on a greater scale than anywhere else worldwide, so I’m told. It’s a very physical ride and when we arrive at the hotel everyone is ready for a beer before checking in.
We had already decided to lay over for a couple of days in Loule, so there's no pressure for an early start, and no luggage to load on meant we could enjoy shorter days travelling with a lighter load. There is so much to see around here and, of course, the weather is about 10 degrees warmer than the UK. It almost feels like cheating.
ANGRY CLOUDS
Heading back north we have our first bad weather forecast. A big, angry, black cloud hangs over the centre of southern Portugal, and to be honest I’m not keen on the N2’s twists and turns on my semi-trail tyres, trying to grip a surface which will be seeing its first rain in months. To try to miss it I run out west and can feel the rain spots starting as I head towards a piece of enforced motorway up towards Lisbon. And I’m lucky – I can see the rain to my right as I plod north, but never get more than a few drops. By lunchtime the weather has cleared and I'm in Portugal's capital.
It's a great city. The glossy, cosmopolitan centre could be anywhere. But that would be ignoring the beach at Estoril, the science fiction-inspired area built for the 1998 exhibition and my favourite, Old Lisbon, though the latter is a nightmare on a bike, what with all the cobbles, tram lines and low-flying tuk tuks, which are a perfect method of buzzing tourists around all the back streets, showing the sights.
Our last night in Portugal is to be spent in Braganca again. Initially all is well, but I get to where the route follows the River Zezere to find it well and truly blocked by the Police. There are only two alternatives, and the N344 climbs immediately up into the surrounding hills, roughly following the river far below. The compass in my tank bag confirms I’m running in the right direction, but there are so few turn-offs that it would be hard to go wrong, and I can’t believe the GPS route I
planned could be any better than this. The views are great and I don’t mind the extra 30 minutes or so it ends up costing me.
After about an hour I can slip back down to my original course, and stop at a service station for coffee. Like so many in Portugal, it has its own café, and fresh pastries are always available. This one overlooks the river and hills, and I wonder if the cashier ever gets bored of the view. It’s not a bad office window.
The cashier tells me that the road closure is due to a serious accident, adding that with it being so remote out here, you can end up waiting a long time for emergency help.
Once again I’m at the hotel first and watch the others arrive. They have obviously been enjoying themselves, because we all started off with nearly fresh tyres, but heavy, powerful bikes being enjoyed have resulted in some serious wear in places. A lot of the bike shops here only cater for smaller machines, especially in the more outlying areas, so it's worth checking your tyres before setting off.
On the last day, the ferry doesn't leave until 4pm so I have a final ride through the Picos. Not snow-capped yet, but rugged and angular, casting multi-coloured shadows around me. The vegetation is still vibrant because the warmth hangs on for longer in the year and it seems to be a season behind the UK.
Running back along the coast absorbing the last of the sun, I reflect on the holiday. It’s not cheap to get here, but if you can tolerate four in a cabin, everything else more than makes up for it.
Petrol is a similar price to the UK, but everything else is muchcheaper for the tourist. As I ride off the boat in Portsmouth the heavens open, so I have just one message for Portugal – I'll be back.