Leaving Europe

Portugal offered me a host of different travelling experiences mentally. It firstly faced me with my own irrationalities, where stubbornness met self-imposed restrictions, procrastination encountered the fear of missing out, where a longing for efficiency crossed with laziness. What do all these vague contentions mean? They are part of my structures and the things that move me. I for example have been having for a while the longing of doing more than 100km a day. Of course I have had more than a few days of doing less and the kind of game I play with myself consists of covering the current gap, where if I now do a shorter day of biking, I feel the urge to even up to a hundred the next day. It is a self-imposed rule, a kind of driver that comes from my longing for distance, advancement. Of course it means that if I fail the target, or halt somewhere along the way, it feels like stalling. I have to remind me, when this slight competitive panic gains traction, that the purpose of the travel is mostly to not feel pressures and “being in a flow”. Weird how I can stress myself out sometimes.
Another of my irrationalities is that when I started to feel really dirty and unwashed, my last shower dating from Salamanca, I did not really stop somewhere to wash. In my vision the first shower I would have would be in Lisbon. I did wash myself a bit, but it did not help me feeling fresh. I realised that I was craving a “resting” place to completely crash: showering, washing clothes, charging, fixing things. Somehow I did not allow myself to do that before. It is my typical strictness that put itself in the way. Not wanting to pay for accommodation, and always feeling I would be much too late to find something on warmshowers I kind of hushed myself to continue, thinking about Lisbon. It is a mental trick, where every time I admit to the strict part of myself that although it would be nice, I ultimately do not really need this and could do without it for a bit longer. It is also a kind of laziness where I don't have to focus on organising a stay and which that way just puts advancing on the bike as the thing I can focus on.

First impressions of Portugal
were awe-inducing

A last example is that I did almost no research for my Portuguese vertical crossing, and that no wise person on my way gave me suggestions for where to go. I of course could have decided to set myself in a cafe with wifi-connection when entering the country to figure it out and create a route I would be happy about, but I didn’t, because I procrastinated it. I felt that at the moments when the questions arose (where am I actually going?), that I should continue (100km a day!) and so I based myself on the rather vague (and quite honestly disappointing) Michelin map looked at a few times. The only thing I was sure of is that I wanted to visit Lisbon. I also knew that I wanted to partly bike along the coast and if possible through the most beautiful mountainous regions. But then came the dilemma, would I sacrifice extra days to venture deeper in the hinterland, to for example explore the Serra de Estrella (that I eventually spotted on Komoot)? In theory I certainly had time for it, but somehow I wanted to continue, because I felt that Morocco was calling. But then again, why couldn’t I spare two or so days? I was clearly subject to inner conflicts between mental and emotional forces.

Lush Eucalyptus forests

To me Portugal indeed was a green oasis compared to the sometimes very dry Spain. Lush Eucalyptus tree plantations are everywhere and a lot of the country hinterland has a kind of “Tolkienesque Shire” vibe, with many tiny houses and little gardens and different cultures. The Douro valleys extensive vineyards were also impressive, but what I was missing in Portugal was a more pronounced separation between villages and quieter, natural areas. The sprawl of habitations was often quite impressive and although very well-integrated in the surrounding landscape, I did not often experience what I would title as “natural landscapes”. I felt a certain monotony, as if the landscape had been tamed and dimmed out, most of the hills terraced and most of the forests originating from plantations. Certainly the grey days right after entering the country didn’t help, neither the semi-isolation, for the almost complete unintelligible Portuguese made conversation impossible. And I was left feeling rather estranged by what I saw and what I experienced. 

But this feeling got brutally broken when I probably got the worst bicycle trouble of my life. It was a complete chain reaction, literally starting at my chain: a wrongly linked chainlink of the new one I bought in Spain (I learned a lesson there) tore at the derailleur, that got completely bent, then broke of with half of the hanger, getting caught between the spokes, some of them in their turn tearing themselves out of the rim. When the derailleur got stuck, I happened to just be climbing and thus got to an immediate standstill, wearing clipless pedals and thus falling to the side. The bags, cushioning the fall and sparing me of the impact, did snap one of the bolts holding my rear rack.

Big problem and starting to solve it.

From the estranged feeling, I suddenly arrived in a mindset of problem-solving: how to go from a crippled bike to arriving in Lisbon? I started by turning my bicycle into a single-speed bike by removing the broken derailleur and using the tension of the shortened chain to keep it in place on one cassette cogwheel. I then set out to repair each of the problems and already the same day, a Sunday to be more precise, I was helped by an incredibly kind father and son who had a bicycle and motor repair shop. They managed to remove the stuck bolt and the broken hanger, while I got invited by the local youth for a port wine aperitif in a next door cafe. The next day I managed to replace the cracked rim, a bit of a time consuming job, but I made a good deal with the local bike shop, who was very friendly too. It was also there that I realised that I would have to order specific parts online and decided to ship them to the capital. Another reason to advance swiftly to Lisbon!

One nicely found camping spot

The next days I mostly followed the coastline down south. It was very diverse, but often not that spectacular. It started with very extended and beautiful empty heathlands close to Marinha Grande, but soon became rather typical grasslands and cliffs, powdered with holiday villa’s and surf tourism infrastructure. Many new real estate projects were in construction, a sign that Portugal’s coastal tourism is far from dwindling. Only the last day was very interesting: I firstly met Ronald, the first bike packer since Sabrina in the Pyrenees. What was extraordinary is that he was also from Antwerp and we even had some acquaintances in common. Unfortunately we were heading opposite directions, otherwise we would have certainly travelled a bit together. Later that day I arrived at the Cabo de Roca, the westernmost point of Europe. It was a weird idea to have reached that and to be actually standing there, amidst tourist from all over the world, but at the same time a very normal place at the coast. 

Arriving in Sintra

After that I crossed over the hilly natural park of Sintra to the famous village of palaces. I was more impressed by the majestic, jungle-like nature of the first than the wealth and extravaganza of the latter. I decided to do the effort of riding the 30km to my Warmshowers hosts, even though I had lost quite some time pushing my bike up the hilly bits, but thought it would be okay to ride mostly downhill to Lisbon. But my bike started protesting right after leaving and the slightly elongated chain started skipping on my cassette, not being held back by the derailleur, which led to sometimes a complete blockage of my drivetrain. I could only help it by manually loosening the wheel and putting the chain back on a smaller cogwheel. To make matters worse, I also experienced another flat tire, which held me back even more and I walked a substantial part of the last stretch, both because of the often blocked chain and wheel and the hilly Lisbon suburbs. 

Lisbon under threatening clouds

Luckily I was very well received by my hosts, Quentin and Agathe, French expats. In the following days I was finally to savour the luxury of a place to stay and "crash" again since Salamanca, with laundry, showers, a soft couch to sleep on and a shelter for the almost tropical rain that fell continuously on the city during my stay (good timing on my part). Visiting the town was thus limited to indoor things, but I managed to repair my bicycle fully on the second day. On the first day I also met two very important people, Valentine and Elorri. They were also bike packers and had contacted Agathe as well, who passed on the message to me that they wanted to meet me. When we finally sat in front of each other, we not only had an amazing time talking and exchanging about our travels, but it turned out we were going in the same direction and even ultimately to Morocco! I suggested at the end of our evening that we bike together for a bit and so it happened that when I left Lissabon on the 1st of March, my birthday, I was not alone, but in the company of these two French co-travellers. 

And suddenly we were three...

That day, in splendid weather, we started exploring the famously beautiful coast south of the capital, taking two ferries to get to and from the Setubal peninsula, that was extremely beautiful. The elevated natural park of Arrabida was truly astonishing as was the dark, moonlit ferry crossing to the Troia peninsula. There we slept in the wild heathlands and cooked a nice birthday meal of Mexican tortillas. Having the vague idea of splitting up the next day at noon, we cycled together further down the wilder coast, with dry forests and heathlands. 

A road submerged by waves and suddenly Elorri, Valentine and I are back on the road together

We decided to split up in the afternoon, but when we both came stuck shortly after each other on a road at the beach that sometimes got submerged by waves we coagulated again like blood cells. We realised that it wasn’t yet time to split up, as we were clearly advancing at the same speeds, as we had different plans on how to get from Portugal to Sevilla we still agreed on the idea of parting when needed. The mood was always good and they both were interesting conversation partners. 

Cycling over gravel with
Elorri in the background

They amazed me with their natural way of travelling sociably. They were incredibly comfortable asking for help and meeting and staying in touch with people. They had since they left in January barely bivouacked and always asked locals to camp in their garden. Almost always were they eventually invited in and helped out. Another thing they liked to do is asking in bakeries or restaurants for the unsold food, which worked sometimes and got them excellent food for free. I was in a way jealous of this travel mindset and got more confronted with what I see as my rather shy and socially lazy behaviour. I have no problem talking back to people, but starting a conversation with anyone, let alone asking for a favour is often quite an undertaking. It’s weird, because it is so simple and yet I often prefer to try to fix my own things, see if I can work out a solution before asking for help or a place to stay (in the same vain as the strict mindset I talked about before: "do I really need it?"). Both travel styles have there advantages, but I greatly admire those that put meeting people on the first place.

Bivouacking at Nouno's!

They showed me how they did it that evening and we ended up bivouacking next to the holiday house of Nouno who happened to prepare the house there for guests for the next day. What a luxury as we could use the water and electricity of the outside kitchen of the place (but absolutely no fire!). Elorri, Valentine and I had an amazing night there, talking and learning each others games to play in group. The next day saw us continuing on small dust roads and between beautiful barren coastal nature and boring fields. We split up eventually as they wanted to visit some kind of “eco-lieu” up in the mountains. I was completely focused on going to the symbolical south-westernmost point of Portugal, the Cabo de São Vicente. We knew we were heading the same way and would probably meet up again in Morocco somewhere, so the goodbye wasn’t sad at all. I was mostly very grateful for the unexpected and amazing company I had had during those three days. 

The Cabo de São Vicente, Southwesternmost point of Europe.

I cycled further south, lunching at one of the most beautiful beaches of Portugal and followed a part of the Eurovelo over delicious gravel roads. I reached the Cabo at nightfall and took it all in for a while, the idea of having almost cycled the whole of Portugal and the beauty of the coast. I slept very close to it, with a view on the sea, listening to the crashing waves and mentally ready to get to Sevilla and Morocco. 

Difficult to describe the landscape and how I felt about it

The vibe changed after that day completely. I left the Portuguese coast and went back to the hinterland, this time almost devoid of the eucalyptus trees and consisting of broad hilly plains, populated by flowering bushes. The landscape was semi-agricultural, alienating and empty, but thinking back at it, it was very beautiful. The weather took a change for the worse too, with a big downpour just as I left the coastal city of Sagres. It was a warning shot for the next days, as conditions would decline gradually. 

Pulo do Lobo, truly impressive

It turned out later that this March in Spain was the wettest one in decennia. I remember especially the moment when, close to the Spanish border, I decided to do a multi-day detour, in order to see the Pulo do Lobo rapid and crossing into Spain to see the Parque Natural de Sierra de Aracena. I was sealing my fate for wet weather that rendered it very hard to enjoy most of the things I wanted to see. To get to the Pulo do Lobo, where the Guadania river suddenly cuts through a rocky valley, starting with an impressive waterfall, I cycled through the surrounding natural Parc under pouring rain the evening before, with submerged crossings, one of them forcing me to push my bike hundreds of meters through bushes to get to the other side using a shallower ford. The next day, luckily the weather had its last good moment.

Midway crossing the swollen streams during the night

For all this time I listened to an excellent podcast (but with an awful lot of terrible ads that every time broke the listening experience) about the life of David Bowie, with many interviews with key-figures from different stages of his career. Remembering the those days leaving Portugal was thoroughly marked by the gradual (re)discovery of Bowies life, including his more negative sides. Looking at the wild, meaningless landscape, I was instead picturing London of the 60's and 70's, sweaty studios, screaming crowds of fans, the meany dissapointments of a struggling you Bowie and the many adventures of his rising fame. I left Portugal after a beautiful last stretch, but in a totally casual and non-symbolic manner. Of the Sierra de Aracena, I saw almost nothing the next day: I cycled under the rain and in misty conditions, my head withdrew in my jacket as deeply as I could. I was aware of the lush forests, but not really invested.

The Cerro Colorado mine, wow!

Ironically the most impressive view and the highlight of my day was when crossing the Rio Tinto open mine site, with the Cerro Colorado mine, an enormous hole in a mountain and the biggest open-pit mine of Europe. It was populated by monstrous trucks that like ants went up and down carring the mined copper ore rocks, every building was huge industrial architecture. The name clearly came from differently coloured lakes, basins to store the probably toxic waters and chemicals released during the mining process. I later learned that it gave its name to the Rio Tinto Group, the second biggest mining company in the world. After that I arrived in an enormous, empty landscape of bushy hills, similar to what I saw in Portugal. Under the continuous rain, I felt little for sleeping in my wet tent (hadn’t been able to dry it), when by chance I stumbled upon a kind of refuge. Although rather dirty and unwelcoming, like an abandoned house, there was dry wood stored in a chimney and enough room to hang up my clothes and tent. What a comfort, to warm in front of a fire and be sheltered from the rain. The rain would not stop that night and continued violently in the morning.

Incredibly thankful for that refuge!

It would be my last stop before Sevilla, and somehow I made the stupid decision to go to its camping; one hour of cycling from the centre and really expensive for the lone traveller. I added a few mistakes to the bad decision: I decided to wash my clothes (but had to dry them somehow) and find Valentine and Elorri in the city centre, eventually going out with them. It was an amazing evening, discovering Sevilla, eating well and then dancing, something I hadn’t really done since New Year (I will not consider the fruitless and rather silly attempt in Madrid to get a party started in a cocktail lounge as so). But all the stupid decisions came together when I arrived under the rain in the camping rather drunk at four in the morning, discovering all my clothes and other stuff completely wet. I consequently suffered from a pretty bad hangover the next morning, which was not helping to deal with the mess of wet clothes, and organising the departure towards Tarifa. It also stripped me completely of any desire to explore Sevilla further, something I kind of regret now, especially because it turned out the hostels were much cheaper in town.

Although a short stay in Sevilla, I was
able to admire the Plaza de Espagna

I also have to tell a bit about the night going out with the two girls, as at the end I kissed one of the two. Mostly motivated by drunkenness and the general attractiveness of Valentine, we had been dancing closer and closer. As our ways split again when leaving the club, and especially when I sobered up when riding home, I realised that it was not ideal. I felt that when riding before with them I was a fine addition to two very close friends. Having gotten closer, I felt like I was making that friendship maybe more imbalanced. It would definitely have been difficult to travel together. Valentine and I didn’t really feel the need to talk about it a lot, clearly we both had enjoyed our closeness. But I needed energy to thoroughly deal with it and combined with feeling awful from to much alcohol, I thusly decided to travel alone further to the south, feeling like cycling was the only thing I could bring myself to.

It shouldn’t be a surprise that that day was awful. Strong headwind, rain and the empty plain south of Sevilla. The low point was that evening when I wanted to eat somewhere sheltered and tried to ask at different houses I encountered. Unfortunately, many of them were completely surrounded by walls and had no doorbells (and seemed quite desolate), so I ate at the first accessible roof I found, a highway restaurant that seemed closed. Only mid-through cooking my pasta, the lights went on and I realised that without asking, this wet, tired and miserable heap of a man was probably not very welcome on the terrace. Luckily for me, no-one showed up and the owners did not bother to come out. I left silently and camped at the outskirts of a village on a side road. Fortunately, the more I travelled south the next day, the more the landscape gained in beauty. Not being in a state of hungover and some sunny moments helped immensely to regain motivation and cycle into the mountains that lie southeast of Sevilla. Calling my brother Marius, who was travelling too, assisted enormously as well as cleaning my bike chain a bit and so I was again stunned when in the evening I arrived in the heart of the Parque Natural de Los Alcornocales. 

Waking up after a wet night, narrowly escaping another terrible rainstorm and later that day being able to dry the stuff (and a view on the boring plain of the Quadalquivir river)

Lush nature in Los Alcornales

I travelled up a valley that was only used by a huge highway (towards Algeciras) and its maintenance road. Although rainy, it was incredible being again in such splendid nature after Sevilla. The last day went quickly: I took a gravel road, part of another Eurovelo through a sidevally (met a  dutch couple of cyclists) and biked to the coast. On the last stretch before the seaside I met a cyclist from Québec who had been travelling for two months from Mauritania all the way up through Morocco and really recommended me the Anti-Atlas, something I kept in mind. Arriving in Tariffa was kind of underwhelming, an ugly coastal town it seemed. 

Last punctured of the 'tired'
 front tire in Los Alcornales

I had booked my ferry the evening before, but around noon I got the message that it had been cancelled due to the very windy conditions. I had thus time to explore old city and actually Tariffa is kind of cute at its heart. The coast of Morocco is very well visible across the Straight and that was kind of intimidating. The cancelled ferry also gave me time to prepare my stay in Morocco in a better way: I pulled out an important sum of euro’s to exchange them later for Moroccan Dirhams, bought a new front tire (the old second hand one I had saved from my bike shop in Antwerp had been worn out), and read about things to do in Tanger. I ritually drank a last beer that evening and slept in a quiet motocross park outside of town. I must admit that I was quite nervous. Morocco had been the ultimate objective, but I had a consistent feeling of not being prepared at all for discovering it, nor the destinations, nor the cultural differences. I was afraid of the unknown. I talked to a friend about it, but it did not relieve the anxiousness. The next morning I took the ferry to Tanger. It was a bit expensive, but very well organised for travellers with bicycles (with a kind of VIP treatment as I was the only cyclist). Talking to an old Spanish lady that was visiting Tanger for one day and only understanding half of what she said, I felt my fear turning into excitement as the Moroccan coast approached.

The good eye will see the Rif mountains on the horizon, exciting!