Enjoy!
 |
| Via Algarvania |
Sunday, February 15, 2009
Friday, February 13th – Last Post : V. do Bispo – San Vincente
The morning air with filled with both anticipation and expectation. The window in my room faced out in a south-westerly direction, so I gave the horizon a good long stare before gathering my things, packing up and moving down to breakfast.
It was one of the shorter stages, the last in 300k of journeying. I wasn’t on the road until eleven, but made quick progress down the grassy sandy paths. Seagulls occasionally flew overhead, inviting me seawards. The vegetation had changed again, smaller deep green thickets of hardier plants in the salty air. The cacti still remained, still water laden from the rains, some smaller colourful varieties reached out like clowns hands from the verges, crunching like fresh green bean pods if you stood on them.
I heard the Atlantic before I saw it, a muted roar as it crashed against the cliffs I could not yet see. I then saw San Vincente’s red lighthouse, it rose and fell into view as I made my way over the last few remaining hills. Before I knew it, I had arrived. I passed the few stalls and trinket sellers, their music raising the atmospherics up a notch.
I looked out over the cliffs, a good hundred meters above the waves that crashed heartily against them. I was holding my sliotar tight, glad it had made it all the way, but feeling that it could fall from my hand at any second. They say the reason people are afraid of heights is not that they fear falling, rather that they fear they will jump. My sliothar wanted to jump.
There were a dozen or so tourists around, so I asked the most northern European looking of them (an elderly German couple) if they spoke English and if they would do me a small favour. Once they agreed, I explained my path to them and asked the husband if he would mind pointing my camera (in camcorder mode) at me while I send the sliothar out over the cliffs and on to sea.
He said he would be glad to. So, I handed it to him, walked towards the cliffs, threw out the ball, and drove it far out from the cliffs, into the gusting sea air. I don’t think I’ve ever struck a ball as cleanly, as straight or as true.
As it happens, the German gentleman pressed play as I wound up to strike the ball, stopping the recording and uncapturing the moment (and I thought German’s were supposed to be good at following orders).
It may be a bit a little selfish, but I’m almost happy that he did. It was my moment, one that I’ll always be able to replay in my head. I don’t really feel the need or desire to share it anyone.
I will tell you how it felt though. Different to what I had I expected. More low key. It was just a quiet pride, more a thirst quenched than a hunger satisfied. It didn’t feel like I had brought anything new into my life, but it did seem to make everything that was already there a little more at ease with itself.
I won’t harp on about how this fits into the world, or my view of it, but I will say I find it hard to think of any time in my life that I found more enjoyable. The best part being the people I met. My big discovery is that if you throw yourself at the world, bringing nothing but yourself, it will welcome you with a warmth which will both surprise and humble you.
Many Thanks to all I have met on this and all other journeys.
It was one of the shorter stages, the last in 300k of journeying. I wasn’t on the road until eleven, but made quick progress down the grassy sandy paths. Seagulls occasionally flew overhead, inviting me seawards. The vegetation had changed again, smaller deep green thickets of hardier plants in the salty air. The cacti still remained, still water laden from the rains, some smaller colourful varieties reached out like clowns hands from the verges, crunching like fresh green bean pods if you stood on them.
I heard the Atlantic before I saw it, a muted roar as it crashed against the cliffs I could not yet see. I then saw San Vincente’s red lighthouse, it rose and fell into view as I made my way over the last few remaining hills. Before I knew it, I had arrived. I passed the few stalls and trinket sellers, their music raising the atmospherics up a notch.
I looked out over the cliffs, a good hundred meters above the waves that crashed heartily against them. I was holding my sliotar tight, glad it had made it all the way, but feeling that it could fall from my hand at any second. They say the reason people are afraid of heights is not that they fear falling, rather that they fear they will jump. My sliothar wanted to jump.
There were a dozen or so tourists around, so I asked the most northern European looking of them (an elderly German couple) if they spoke English and if they would do me a small favour. Once they agreed, I explained my path to them and asked the husband if he would mind pointing my camera (in camcorder mode) at me while I send the sliothar out over the cliffs and on to sea.
He said he would be glad to. So, I handed it to him, walked towards the cliffs, threw out the ball, and drove it far out from the cliffs, into the gusting sea air. I don’t think I’ve ever struck a ball as cleanly, as straight or as true.
As it happens, the German gentleman pressed play as I wound up to strike the ball, stopping the recording and uncapturing the moment (and I thought German’s were supposed to be good at following orders).
It may be a bit a little selfish, but I’m almost happy that he did. It was my moment, one that I’ll always be able to replay in my head. I don’t really feel the need or desire to share it anyone.
I will tell you how it felt though. Different to what I had I expected. More low key. It was just a quiet pride, more a thirst quenched than a hunger satisfied. It didn’t feel like I had brought anything new into my life, but it did seem to make everything that was already there a little more at ease with itself.
I won’t harp on about how this fits into the world, or my view of it, but I will say I find it hard to think of any time in my life that I found more enjoyable. The best part being the people I met. My big discovery is that if you throw yourself at the world, bringing nothing but yourself, it will welcome you with a warmth which will both surprise and humble you.
Many Thanks to all I have met on this and all other journeys.
Friday, February 13, 2009
Thursday, February 12th – The day before tomorrow : Bensafrim - V. do Bispo
It would have been all too easy to have spent the morning out on Monte Rosa’s picnic table, drinking coffee and chatting, enjoying the garden, so beautifully dressed in sunshine.
But I said my goodbyes and set off by ten, packed lunch in hand, eager to eat up the miles ahead of me.
I can’t say I remember all that much of what I saw throughout the day, spending most of it within my own head (where else would you be on a sunny day). I do remember going through a quarry of some sort, then through a marsh. Most of ground I covered in the morning was a sticky liquid clay, this didn’t do my last remaining sliothar any good, it has seen better days. However, we have discussed it at length (the sliothar and I) and we feel that it will have no problem reaching it’s final destination (rather than simply being resigned to it’s fate, it actually seems to be looking forward to it).
The day ended with costal views, grass verges, more like Mayo (with the occasional giant cactus) than the forests of previous days. Once I arrived in V do Bispro, a dude (by which I mean a Portuguese surfer dude) was able to sort me out with a fine room in the centre of town.
There was the inevitable slogging periods in the middle of the day, sometimes they come early, sometimes later, but they always happen, part of getting from A to B. If there was one thing I wanted to get straight in my head on this trip, it was how we get things done, how we get from A to B. Consistently.
Here is looks from where I’m sitting.
Firstly, it’s very important to know where B is, that always seems to be the first step. The second (and oft forgotten) step, is find out where A is, i.e. where you are now. After that, it’s all about preparation, gathering all the information, knowing your route, having all the tools, experience and support at your disposal to get you there. But that’s not all, because you always have to know how to handle the obstacles that will be in your path. Be they barking dogs or rivers to traverse, chances are they will not only knock you off course, but also remove your facility for straight thinking. Only experience can teach you this.
Having said all that, I am more than aware that life and what we face within it is not linear.
We all have our own journeys, we all have our own compass, and hope it can tell us where or who we want to be. If we are lucky, it will point to true north before we look at any map.
With a bit of luck, we are north of where we have been and south of where we want to be.
It’s difficult to navigate adventure’s maps, when distance traveled is measured not in miles, but heartbeats.
But I said my goodbyes and set off by ten, packed lunch in hand, eager to eat up the miles ahead of me.
I can’t say I remember all that much of what I saw throughout the day, spending most of it within my own head (where else would you be on a sunny day). I do remember going through a quarry of some sort, then through a marsh. Most of ground I covered in the morning was a sticky liquid clay, this didn’t do my last remaining sliothar any good, it has seen better days. However, we have discussed it at length (the sliothar and I) and we feel that it will have no problem reaching it’s final destination (rather than simply being resigned to it’s fate, it actually seems to be looking forward to it).
The day ended with costal views, grass verges, more like Mayo (with the occasional giant cactus) than the forests of previous days. Once I arrived in V do Bispro, a dude (by which I mean a Portuguese surfer dude) was able to sort me out with a fine room in the centre of town.
There was the inevitable slogging periods in the middle of the day, sometimes they come early, sometimes later, but they always happen, part of getting from A to B. If there was one thing I wanted to get straight in my head on this trip, it was how we get things done, how we get from A to B. Consistently.
Here is looks from where I’m sitting.
Firstly, it’s very important to know where B is, that always seems to be the first step. The second (and oft forgotten) step, is find out where A is, i.e. where you are now. After that, it’s all about preparation, gathering all the information, knowing your route, having all the tools, experience and support at your disposal to get you there. But that’s not all, because you always have to know how to handle the obstacles that will be in your path. Be they barking dogs or rivers to traverse, chances are they will not only knock you off course, but also remove your facility for straight thinking. Only experience can teach you this.
Having said all that, I am more than aware that life and what we face within it is not linear.
We all have our own journeys, we all have our own compass, and hope it can tell us where or who we want to be. If we are lucky, it will point to true north before we look at any map.
With a bit of luck, we are north of where we have been and south of where we want to be.
It’s difficult to navigate adventure’s maps, when distance traveled is measured not in miles, but heartbeats.
Thursday, February 12, 2009
Wednesday, February 11th – Spring : Marmelete – Bensafrim
A cold and early start, but with the third last day in progress, there is something special in the air. I could almost smell the coast, and having heard the water temperature is fifteen degrees, I’ve promised myself a swim when I get there. Life has not been this exciting since Swedish prog-rock band Europe released “The final countdown” in 1986.
The rain seems to have moved on, nothing but blue skies all day. Early morning was downhill through the mountains; pretty sure I heard a woodpecker along the way. By mid-morning the temperature had risen to the upper teens. The hills were ridding themselves of their excess water, all rivers, streams and rivulets were gushing, noisy and full.
Spring was in the air, bettering the timeless long distance views with youthful vibrant energy, all happening five feet from your face. It seemed each puddle I jumped over sent a frog jumping left of right. Lemon yellow butterflies played kiss chasing through the heather. Dragonflies. Buttercups. All of nature there and drunk on sunshine.
I made steady progress and by half four, I was in Besafrim. I had decided to go just a little bit further, to Monte Rosa, which came highly recommended.
I had the loveliest walk there through a cork forest, in the last hour before the sun set, the sun throwing long shadows across my path and painting all else it could see golden. Cricket calls and bullfrogs in the still evening air adding to the atmosphere.
I had put in a good 35k walk, so was glad of a very warm welcome from my Dutch hosts in their tranquil, homely idyll. Although they were not serving food, they found time to rustle me up an omelette which would satisfy any hunger. They couldn’t help themselves from finishing me off with some tart, cream and almond cake.
I then got myself tucked away in a colourful little houeslet, with clean towels and a hot high pressure shower. They told me I was the first Via Algarvania customer they have received. Monte Rosa, may you get all the weary paying customers you deserve.
The rain seems to have moved on, nothing but blue skies all day. Early morning was downhill through the mountains; pretty sure I heard a woodpecker along the way. By mid-morning the temperature had risen to the upper teens. The hills were ridding themselves of their excess water, all rivers, streams and rivulets were gushing, noisy and full.
Spring was in the air, bettering the timeless long distance views with youthful vibrant energy, all happening five feet from your face. It seemed each puddle I jumped over sent a frog jumping left of right. Lemon yellow butterflies played kiss chasing through the heather. Dragonflies. Buttercups. All of nature there and drunk on sunshine.
I made steady progress and by half four, I was in Besafrim. I had decided to go just a little bit further, to Monte Rosa, which came highly recommended.
I had the loveliest walk there through a cork forest, in the last hour before the sun set, the sun throwing long shadows across my path and painting all else it could see golden. Cricket calls and bullfrogs in the still evening air adding to the atmosphere.
I had put in a good 35k walk, so was glad of a very warm welcome from my Dutch hosts in their tranquil, homely idyll. Although they were not serving food, they found time to rustle me up an omelette which would satisfy any hunger. They couldn’t help themselves from finishing me off with some tart, cream and almond cake.
I then got myself tucked away in a colourful little houeslet, with clean towels and a hot high pressure shower. They told me I was the first Via Algarvania customer they have received. Monte Rosa, may you get all the weary paying customers you deserve.
Tuesday, February 10, 2009
Tuesday, February 10th – Pool Rules : Monchique - Marmelete
Well, two days rest at the Casas de Monchique Mountain resort and Spa did me the world of good. Although, I’m not sure if it was tiredness that made me cynical, but I can’t say I really liked the place.
It has been “a place to rejuvenate and lift the spirits since Roman times”, although it didn’t seem to have that effect on the staff, who came complete with the four star brand of respectful snottyness which people seem to like.
For all it’s turrets and castellations, it didn’t fool me, it looked like someone had dropped a small german village on the Portuguese mountainside. There wasn’t many people around, a German mother who seemed to be constantly disciplining her children (and if they know what was good for them, they would be taking her advice). There were a few Portuguese, a sprinkling of Americans. Over lunch an American husband tried his best to explain to his wife how to use their camcorder, each of the four times he tried, she patonisingly added “Why thank you Mr Spiel-berg”. I ate lunch outside on the second day.
My break did give me a chance to get down to see Paulo (my good Samaritan friend) and his band playing in the Café Anglais in Silves, I haven’t had much music while I’ve been away, so my aching bones were soothed greatly by it. Ana from Via Algarania came up and joined us for dinner, much chattering and stories told, all the worlds problems solved.
Perhaps it’s this sunny itinerant lifestyle that I’ve got used to, but I couldn’t wait until I got out on the hills, and felt lousy until I did. But once there, all was right with the world again.
It was probably the nicest day’s walking yet, one of the shorter stages, climbing out of the upper streets of Monchique up to Foia, the Algarve’s highest point. It then brought me down through stonewall layered mountainside, with hilltops swimming into the distance as far as the eye could see. Breathtaking.
The trek then passed under four giant hillside wind turbines, their thirty meter long arms swooping down gracefully from a great height. I stood below them with hurley and ball in hand, like a modern day Don Quixote. You all know that I am far too grown up to have hit the ball fourty meters up through their oncoming blades (but if I had, it would have made an interesting “ping” noise when it hit them).
The road then winded through a sweet smelling eucalyptus forest, leading me down to my destination, Marmelete (or as I like to call it, “Marmalade”).
I can’t say how much I enjoyed the day, difficult as it was to get started, a real joy. My mind wandered to what I was doing, what I was up to. The conclusion I came to was that doing something that is of no consequence is of the highest importance.
The way I see it is this. If we consider our minds to be like a swimming pool, we have all sorts of things going on in it, all sorts of thoughts and responsibilities to contend with, there are kids playing, there are lane-swimmers, well trained, getting on with their constant muscular work. All I am doing is emptying the pool, getting everything out, enjoying the calm water.
Once you do that, you can let one elegant thought in at a time, appreciate all that there is to see in it. It might even give you a chance to put down some new pool rules.
No running, no diving, no pushing, no divebombing, no rough play, no skinnydipping.
Well, maybe some skinnydipping.
It has been “a place to rejuvenate and lift the spirits since Roman times”, although it didn’t seem to have that effect on the staff, who came complete with the four star brand of respectful snottyness which people seem to like.
For all it’s turrets and castellations, it didn’t fool me, it looked like someone had dropped a small german village on the Portuguese mountainside. There wasn’t many people around, a German mother who seemed to be constantly disciplining her children (and if they know what was good for them, they would be taking her advice). There were a few Portuguese, a sprinkling of Americans. Over lunch an American husband tried his best to explain to his wife how to use their camcorder, each of the four times he tried, she patonisingly added “Why thank you Mr Spiel-berg”. I ate lunch outside on the second day.
My break did give me a chance to get down to see Paulo (my good Samaritan friend) and his band playing in the Café Anglais in Silves, I haven’t had much music while I’ve been away, so my aching bones were soothed greatly by it. Ana from Via Algarania came up and joined us for dinner, much chattering and stories told, all the worlds problems solved.
Perhaps it’s this sunny itinerant lifestyle that I’ve got used to, but I couldn’t wait until I got out on the hills, and felt lousy until I did. But once there, all was right with the world again.
It was probably the nicest day’s walking yet, one of the shorter stages, climbing out of the upper streets of Monchique up to Foia, the Algarve’s highest point. It then brought me down through stonewall layered mountainside, with hilltops swimming into the distance as far as the eye could see. Breathtaking.
The trek then passed under four giant hillside wind turbines, their thirty meter long arms swooping down gracefully from a great height. I stood below them with hurley and ball in hand, like a modern day Don Quixote. You all know that I am far too grown up to have hit the ball fourty meters up through their oncoming blades (but if I had, it would have made an interesting “ping” noise when it hit them).
The road then winded through a sweet smelling eucalyptus forest, leading me down to my destination, Marmelete (or as I like to call it, “Marmalade”).
I can’t say how much I enjoyed the day, difficult as it was to get started, a real joy. My mind wandered to what I was doing, what I was up to. The conclusion I came to was that doing something that is of no consequence is of the highest importance.
The way I see it is this. If we consider our minds to be like a swimming pool, we have all sorts of things going on in it, all sorts of thoughts and responsibilities to contend with, there are kids playing, there are lane-swimmers, well trained, getting on with their constant muscular work. All I am doing is emptying the pool, getting everything out, enjoying the calm water.
Once you do that, you can let one elegant thought in at a time, appreciate all that there is to see in it. It might even give you a chance to put down some new pool rules.
No running, no diving, no pushing, no divebombing, no rough play, no skinnydipping.
Well, maybe some skinnydipping.
Monday, February 9, 2009
Saturday, February 7th – Late Night : Silves - Monchique
I got both the early start and the passage out of town right for a change, it was a rainy start, but that had moved on by ten o’ clock when I hit the hills. Monchique, Monchique, the name and rest ahead were seldom far from my mind all day.
It was more pretty hills and perfect pathways all morning, the only distraction being two scrambling motorbikes. They buzzed in and out of earshot on nearby hills like noisy gnats that needed a good swatting. It wasn’t long before either they moved on or I did, back to just me and the hills, the way I like it.
I was excited about the progress I had made, by two o’ clock in the afternoon I had already put in five hours of movement, without much of a break. I wasn’t entirely sure how far I had come, in that I hadn’t downloaded the relevant maps onto my phone, which meant my GPS was only useful for telling me which way I was going. This wasn’t helped when my laptop battery died, on which I had the only available copy of the day’s map.
I, however, was undaunted, I had gotten pretty good at locating and following the red and white signs, they had got me where I wanted to go before and I was in confident that I would be having dinner in Monchique before dark.
I moved out of the hills around three, the road sweeping into a longer vista. I foolishly sent a sliothar over a blind hill in my excitement and had only the faintest idea where it had landed. I spent a good half hour thrashing through some undergrowth trying to find it. I had only brought three sliothars, and had already lost in the darkness coming into Messines. My decision to give up on sliothar number two was hastened by the barking dog which appeared at the top of the ridge I was thrashing through. I had to climb my way up past him, I doubt it, but I really hope it was an as uncomfortable experience for him as it was for me. I moved on, feeling like I had just had my lunch money stolen, thinking I must not lose this last sliothar. Striking a tennis ball off the Fortaleze de San Vicente just won’t cut it.
I was only another couple of hundred meters down the road when I came to a river crossing. No problem I thought, at least there is a bridge. Well, there was most of a bridge. All but the part that leads you onto the bridge and the part that leads you off it. As it turned out, at it’s deepest point, the river was only up to my upper thigh, so I waded across, none too happy, but on the right side.
Wet up to my waist and with my shoes foaming out river bubbles, I proceeded a good kilometer in the wrong direction. I had taken instruction from a mature German couple who had watched me cross the river with great amusement. This thought me an important lesson, never take advice from people in matching his and hers jackets.
By the time I made it back to the “bridge” I was in quite a mood, I even said the unthinkable, said hurling is a stupid effin’ game. I cursed pretty much everything I could think of, the bridge, the river, my bag, the gps. The laptop got a pretty good going over too.
I hadn’t been aware that it was possible, but I then managed to get in a sulk with myself for the guts of an hour, first ignoring myself, then telling myself to shut up anytime I thought something.
I stole an orange from a tree in someone’s garden which seemed to make things a bit better, but it wasn’t long before I was spitting the pips out contemptuously, cursing them individually.
I had been sure when I’d passed the river, that Monchique could not be far, but the empty hills ahead told a different story. It was six o’clock and the dark was not far off, I was still on track, so at this stage something more primal took over. One thing I hadn’t previously known about Monchique was that it was the highest town in the Algarve. So the body took over, it switched off the mind and brought me steadily up the most arduous of hills. I climbed in this numbness until darkness fell, sure that, after eleven hours walking at a good clip, it must be around every next corner. It never came, so by half seven, thankful of the moonlight and a clear sky, having now lost the chance of spotting any red and white signs, I considered myself lost.
I later found that the route does not in fact go through Monchique, so I had for the last while been eating into the next day’s journey. This did not help.
I hadn’t heard or seen a person or car (I was lucky at this stage to be walking along a road) in over an hour, but was greatly pleased to see a vehicle coming towards me. I flagged him down, he pulled over and I asked if I was going in the right direction for Monchique (He didn’t have any English, so I asked by repeating “Monchique, Monchique”). He told me to go back the way I had come, and I was pretty sure he said it was 6 kilometers in that direction and that I just had to stay on this same road.
Although it wasn’t the best situation I’ve been in, it would be a little bit like being up the Wicklow mountains and being told to walk two hours in the dark in the hope of reaching Roundwood, not the end of the world. So I pointed myself in the right direction, set off, figuring each stride was about a meter and started counting down from six thousand.
Tiredness played it’s part, but I got a little boost of adrenaline every time a nearby dog barked out in the darkness. For some reason my mind was playing tricks on me, I was half imagining seeing dogs in the roadside foliage, but strangely it would imagine up small terrier like dogs. I would have thought that if I was trying to freak myself out, large dogs would have made a lot more sense.
By the time my countdown was finished, the lights of Monchique were in my sights, at I hit the outskirts, a large proportion of the canine community seemed to be there to welcome me. I had decided at this stage that I actually wanted a dog to bite me, just to get it over with, so I could move on with the rest of my life. I was even going to present the winning dog with a prize of both a hurley and sliother. I didn’t care much about anything at this stage except a bed.
It was nine o clock when I arrived, Saturday night and all the young and pretty things were making their way around town. I headed for the centre, asked in a bar about a room and got one.
I can tell you, when I hit that bed, after thirteen hours of walking, there was no showering, no washing of teeth, no eating, no taking off of clothes, nothing. There was a falling, a curling, a covering and a great sleeping.
It was more pretty hills and perfect pathways all morning, the only distraction being two scrambling motorbikes. They buzzed in and out of earshot on nearby hills like noisy gnats that needed a good swatting. It wasn’t long before either they moved on or I did, back to just me and the hills, the way I like it.
I was excited about the progress I had made, by two o’ clock in the afternoon I had already put in five hours of movement, without much of a break. I wasn’t entirely sure how far I had come, in that I hadn’t downloaded the relevant maps onto my phone, which meant my GPS was only useful for telling me which way I was going. This wasn’t helped when my laptop battery died, on which I had the only available copy of the day’s map.
I, however, was undaunted, I had gotten pretty good at locating and following the red and white signs, they had got me where I wanted to go before and I was in confident that I would be having dinner in Monchique before dark.
I moved out of the hills around three, the road sweeping into a longer vista. I foolishly sent a sliothar over a blind hill in my excitement and had only the faintest idea where it had landed. I spent a good half hour thrashing through some undergrowth trying to find it. I had only brought three sliothars, and had already lost in the darkness coming into Messines. My decision to give up on sliothar number two was hastened by the barking dog which appeared at the top of the ridge I was thrashing through. I had to climb my way up past him, I doubt it, but I really hope it was an as uncomfortable experience for him as it was for me. I moved on, feeling like I had just had my lunch money stolen, thinking I must not lose this last sliothar. Striking a tennis ball off the Fortaleze de San Vicente just won’t cut it.
I was only another couple of hundred meters down the road when I came to a river crossing. No problem I thought, at least there is a bridge. Well, there was most of a bridge. All but the part that leads you onto the bridge and the part that leads you off it. As it turned out, at it’s deepest point, the river was only up to my upper thigh, so I waded across, none too happy, but on the right side.
Wet up to my waist and with my shoes foaming out river bubbles, I proceeded a good kilometer in the wrong direction. I had taken instruction from a mature German couple who had watched me cross the river with great amusement. This thought me an important lesson, never take advice from people in matching his and hers jackets.
By the time I made it back to the “bridge” I was in quite a mood, I even said the unthinkable, said hurling is a stupid effin’ game. I cursed pretty much everything I could think of, the bridge, the river, my bag, the gps. The laptop got a pretty good going over too.
I hadn’t been aware that it was possible, but I then managed to get in a sulk with myself for the guts of an hour, first ignoring myself, then telling myself to shut up anytime I thought something.
I stole an orange from a tree in someone’s garden which seemed to make things a bit better, but it wasn’t long before I was spitting the pips out contemptuously, cursing them individually.
I had been sure when I’d passed the river, that Monchique could not be far, but the empty hills ahead told a different story. It was six o’clock and the dark was not far off, I was still on track, so at this stage something more primal took over. One thing I hadn’t previously known about Monchique was that it was the highest town in the Algarve. So the body took over, it switched off the mind and brought me steadily up the most arduous of hills. I climbed in this numbness until darkness fell, sure that, after eleven hours walking at a good clip, it must be around every next corner. It never came, so by half seven, thankful of the moonlight and a clear sky, having now lost the chance of spotting any red and white signs, I considered myself lost.
I later found that the route does not in fact go through Monchique, so I had for the last while been eating into the next day’s journey. This did not help.
I hadn’t heard or seen a person or car (I was lucky at this stage to be walking along a road) in over an hour, but was greatly pleased to see a vehicle coming towards me. I flagged him down, he pulled over and I asked if I was going in the right direction for Monchique (He didn’t have any English, so I asked by repeating “Monchique, Monchique”). He told me to go back the way I had come, and I was pretty sure he said it was 6 kilometers in that direction and that I just had to stay on this same road.
Although it wasn’t the best situation I’ve been in, it would be a little bit like being up the Wicklow mountains and being told to walk two hours in the dark in the hope of reaching Roundwood, not the end of the world. So I pointed myself in the right direction, set off, figuring each stride was about a meter and started counting down from six thousand.
Tiredness played it’s part, but I got a little boost of adrenaline every time a nearby dog barked out in the darkness. For some reason my mind was playing tricks on me, I was half imagining seeing dogs in the roadside foliage, but strangely it would imagine up small terrier like dogs. I would have thought that if I was trying to freak myself out, large dogs would have made a lot more sense.
By the time my countdown was finished, the lights of Monchique were in my sights, at I hit the outskirts, a large proportion of the canine community seemed to be there to welcome me. I had decided at this stage that I actually wanted a dog to bite me, just to get it over with, so I could move on with the rest of my life. I was even going to present the winning dog with a prize of both a hurley and sliother. I didn’t care much about anything at this stage except a bed.
It was nine o clock when I arrived, Saturday night and all the young and pretty things were making their way around town. I headed for the centre, asked in a bar about a room and got one.
I can tell you, when I hit that bed, after thirteen hours of walking, there was no showering, no washing of teeth, no eating, no taking off of clothes, nothing. There was a falling, a curling, a covering and a great sleeping.
Friday, February 6th – Words/Pictures : Messines – Silves
I had the early start I promised myself, awakening in Ti Raquels, a place that would not have to splash out an awful lot on furnishings if it ever wanted to convert itself into a roadside knocking shop. But warmth and food is all I was looking for and both were in good supply.
The early start did not do me much good; I spent two hours trying to make my way through Messiness, with a 30km trek ahead, it wasn’t what I needed.
Once out on the road, it broke into the mountains, round a mud brown lake. I decided to solo run the first 5k at a light jog to try and make up lost time. Almost all of it was on a ten meter wide path, which was unnaturally formed above a fifty meter drop into the lake. I thought it looked like a miniature grand canyon, filled with mud, but I’ve never been to the grand canyon, so I wouldn’t take my word for it.
Once past the lakes, I crossed a large dam, which brought me back up into the mountains. After a lot of steep climbs, I was once again overlooking a sea of mountains. The clouds above and the resultant intermittent rain drew rainbows over different hills, each hill taking its turns to colour itself into full illumination.
I was eager to move on and skipped through many ups and downs, with good tracks and not a soul in sight, the next few hours were tiring, but as much fun as I have had. As I came down into the valleys, I knew I was asking more of my body than it would gladly give, but that being part of the exercise, I will not complain.
In the foothills, late in the day, as the darkness approached (once again, not the band), I could do nothing but increase the pace, as I didn’t want a repeat of the previous day's unlit finish. When the sun did disappear, I could see the well lit castle of Silves on the hill ahead of me.
This was fine day, beautiful images that I will always have with me. Some people have asked for photos and I have taken some along the way. But I have done my best to describe how feels, rather than how it looks.
They say that a picture is worth a thousand words. The truth in that is pictures draw a sketch which we colour in with a thousand of our own words, with what we already know. There will come a time when we are all gone, and everyone that ever knew us is gone. At that point, one single page of our own words will describe us more than every photograph we take and every photograph that was ever taken of us. Good to get some words down.
The early start did not do me much good; I spent two hours trying to make my way through Messiness, with a 30km trek ahead, it wasn’t what I needed.
Once out on the road, it broke into the mountains, round a mud brown lake. I decided to solo run the first 5k at a light jog to try and make up lost time. Almost all of it was on a ten meter wide path, which was unnaturally formed above a fifty meter drop into the lake. I thought it looked like a miniature grand canyon, filled with mud, but I’ve never been to the grand canyon, so I wouldn’t take my word for it.
Once past the lakes, I crossed a large dam, which brought me back up into the mountains. After a lot of steep climbs, I was once again overlooking a sea of mountains. The clouds above and the resultant intermittent rain drew rainbows over different hills, each hill taking its turns to colour itself into full illumination.
I was eager to move on and skipped through many ups and downs, with good tracks and not a soul in sight, the next few hours were tiring, but as much fun as I have had. As I came down into the valleys, I knew I was asking more of my body than it would gladly give, but that being part of the exercise, I will not complain.
In the foothills, late in the day, as the darkness approached (once again, not the band), I could do nothing but increase the pace, as I didn’t want a repeat of the previous day's unlit finish. When the sun did disappear, I could see the well lit castle of Silves on the hill ahead of me.
This was fine day, beautiful images that I will always have with me. Some people have asked for photos and I have taken some along the way. But I have done my best to describe how feels, rather than how it looks.
They say that a picture is worth a thousand words. The truth in that is pictures draw a sketch which we colour in with a thousand of our own words, with what we already know. There will come a time when we are all gone, and everyone that ever knew us is gone. At that point, one single page of our own words will describe us more than every photograph we take and every photograph that was ever taken of us. Good to get some words down.
Friday, February 6, 2009
Thursday, February 5th – Dog day afternoon : Alte – Messines
It’s not that I wish there were no dogs in the world, just the ones that look like they could eat you, bark and growl at you like they want to eat you, and force you to walk half a mile up a hill backwards in a state of mild panic.
The day had started well, I stayed the night in the Hotel Alte, a very pleasant little hotel which sat on a hilltop overlooking the equally pleasant town of Alte (well presented, all riverways and white stone cobbled streets). I set off late, for the first time I had to apply suncream before I left (I know, the hardship). I then got myself lost for an hour trying to find the path. Between everything, I wasn’t really on the road until 1pm, but the sun was shinning brightly, so I ambled on in carefree fashion.
About two hours into my walk, I had the above incident, which not only left me confused as to which way I was going, but also drove me slightly into the wilds. I had a sneaking suspicion that the dog may have followed me, so when a dog jumped out of the bushes barking, it almost took my skin off. Thankfully I was a much smaller dog, and with his owner, an Englishman who had lived locally for the last ten years. He very kindly walked me down towards his house by which the track passed (thank you, Mr Smith).
Today’s walk was a funny one, very nice lush riverside walks at both beginning and end, but the inescapable reality was that it was mostly about crossing beneath the North-South motorway which bisects this fine land.
It was getting dark by the time I arrived in Messines, for the first time I thought I would put away the hurley as I made it into town (in the dark, the hurley gives you a sort of axe-murderer look), I walked the mile into town and looked for directions to Ti Raquel. I was then promptly directed one mile out the road to 30 meters from where I had put the hurley away (serves me right for cheating).
So I dropped off my bag, walked like a drunk into the adjoining restaurant and filled myself with fuel for the day ahead (a nice walk through the lakes). I went straight to bed, promising myself an earlier start in the morning.
The day had started well, I stayed the night in the Hotel Alte, a very pleasant little hotel which sat on a hilltop overlooking the equally pleasant town of Alte (well presented, all riverways and white stone cobbled streets). I set off late, for the first time I had to apply suncream before I left (I know, the hardship). I then got myself lost for an hour trying to find the path. Between everything, I wasn’t really on the road until 1pm, but the sun was shinning brightly, so I ambled on in carefree fashion.
About two hours into my walk, I had the above incident, which not only left me confused as to which way I was going, but also drove me slightly into the wilds. I had a sneaking suspicion that the dog may have followed me, so when a dog jumped out of the bushes barking, it almost took my skin off. Thankfully I was a much smaller dog, and with his owner, an Englishman who had lived locally for the last ten years. He very kindly walked me down towards his house by which the track passed (thank you, Mr Smith).
Today’s walk was a funny one, very nice lush riverside walks at both beginning and end, but the inescapable reality was that it was mostly about crossing beneath the North-South motorway which bisects this fine land.
It was getting dark by the time I arrived in Messines, for the first time I thought I would put away the hurley as I made it into town (in the dark, the hurley gives you a sort of axe-murderer look), I walked the mile into town and looked for directions to Ti Raquel. I was then promptly directed one mile out the road to 30 meters from where I had put the hurley away (serves me right for cheating).
So I dropped off my bag, walked like a drunk into the adjoining restaurant and filled myself with fuel for the day ahead (a nice walk through the lakes). I went straight to bed, promising myself an earlier start in the morning.
Wednesday, February 4, 2009
Wednesday, February 4th – Know the river : Salir – Alte
The skies were overcast, but not a drop of rain when I awoke, so I gathered my things and made my way into town for breakfast. As I got tucked into my food, the rain began, and was soon torrential. The restaurant I was breakfasting in was run by a French woman, who let me know that the forecast was for the rain to continue at the same belt all day. This left me in something of a dilemma, in that, cheapskate that I am, I was hoping to make it to the Monchique Mountain Spa resort for two nights by Saturday (they have a two nights for the price of one offer in February!). The only way I was going to make it was to complete a stage a day. So nothing for it, I had to gird my loins and brave the elements.
Once I got out on the road, the rain was actually pretty thin, so I went merrily on my way. Half an hour into it, the rain picked up, so I increased the pace. This led me to send a sliotar into the river which ran beside the path (well, five foot wide river, but swelled by all the rain), the ball was quickly swept downstream, so I was forced to follow it, it got snagged after a while, I’m sure you can see where this is going. The bank I leaned out on collapsed and I fell, rucksack and all into the river. I quickly righted myself, by was still waist deep, clambered out, none too happy.
The American Indians say “know the river and you know all things”. I think I got to know this river a little more than I would have liked to. Luckily my phone and laptop seem to be riverproof, my passport’s wavy pages will be a reminder of today for years to come.
At least this made the rain a bit more bearable, when you are soaked through, the rain doesn’t make much difference. I kept marching on.
The rain came and went, as did the sun, it was a very enjoyable day overall, moving into ground more heavily cultivated, some nice walks, through olive groves and through fields filled with oranges.
It struck as I was getting well into my hurling groove, that this was actually how hurling may well have been for thousands of years, just a man, a stick, a sliotar and a mountain. I think that’s worth remembering, that hurling isn’t something owned by anyone, the GAA (wonderful organization that they are), or anyone else, it just something there to be enjoyed. There to be enjoyed by anyone who wants to pick up a hurley, then pick up a ball and hit it.
Brian Cody said you only need three things to become a great hurler, a stick, a ball and a wall. If you don’t have a suitable wall, I can assure you that a mountain makes a great alternative.
Once I got out on the road, the rain was actually pretty thin, so I went merrily on my way. Half an hour into it, the rain picked up, so I increased the pace. This led me to send a sliotar into the river which ran beside the path (well, five foot wide river, but swelled by all the rain), the ball was quickly swept downstream, so I was forced to follow it, it got snagged after a while, I’m sure you can see where this is going. The bank I leaned out on collapsed and I fell, rucksack and all into the river. I quickly righted myself, by was still waist deep, clambered out, none too happy.
The American Indians say “know the river and you know all things”. I think I got to know this river a little more than I would have liked to. Luckily my phone and laptop seem to be riverproof, my passport’s wavy pages will be a reminder of today for years to come.
At least this made the rain a bit more bearable, when you are soaked through, the rain doesn’t make much difference. I kept marching on.
The rain came and went, as did the sun, it was a very enjoyable day overall, moving into ground more heavily cultivated, some nice walks, through olive groves and through fields filled with oranges.
It struck as I was getting well into my hurling groove, that this was actually how hurling may well have been for thousands of years, just a man, a stick, a sliotar and a mountain. I think that’s worth remembering, that hurling isn’t something owned by anyone, the GAA (wonderful organization that they are), or anyone else, it just something there to be enjoyed. There to be enjoyed by anyone who wants to pick up a hurley, then pick up a ball and hit it.
Brian Cody said you only need three things to become a great hurler, a stick, a ball and a wall. If you don’t have a suitable wall, I can assure you that a mountain makes a great alternative.
Tuesday, February 3rd – Happy Birthday to me! : Bar. do Velho – Salir
Is there anything better than the warm glow that surrounds you each time you realise it’s your birthday? It certainly pushed me up a few hills today.
The legs benefited from the day of rest, and a short 16km section today meant that I could enjoy it. Another fine day, mist for a while, but fifteen degrees when the sun was out, a lot better than the snowy conditions I see back home.
I had a quick look at the papers while internetting, it’s shocking how detached from everything you get after just a few days away. Good shocking.
I saw the bad economic news continues, which wasn’t far from my thoughts all day. I saw talk that only the Euro is saving Ireland from being the next Iceland.
It brings up an interesting question, because if nature abhors a vacuum, capital likes it even less. Iceland has naturally realigned its cost base by the devaluation of its currency. Surely the same cost realignment is required in Ireland, but the Euro stalls it from happening. No doubt there are many difficult years ahead, with government being forced to fill the vacuum with whatever that can be sucked out of home values, pensions, state services. Difficult days indeed.
On the good news front, the recession is having no effect whatsoever out in the woods. I can assure you that down by the river, things are in fact blooming. Let’s hope that this is the result of the current realignment, that people are forced to remember the value of a good walk in the woods. Let’s hope crooked teeth and home made jumpers come back into vogue.
The rain started as I entered Salir, which is probably the largest town I’ve been in yet. I’m further south now, closer to the coast and Faro. You can tell you are closer to the urban centers as the proportion of people wearing sunglasses increases dramatically. Must be the bright lights.
I’m staying in a fantastic little place about a mile north of the city called casa de mae. For thirty Euro a night, you get your own little hobbitesque house (complete with six foot door height and four foot bath).
Being a bit out from town, by the time I was settled, there was no way of getting into town through the then lashing rain. I gave it an hour but it was unrelenting. So it forced me into a two mile fast jog into the restaurant, breathless and soaked through. I arrived and eat, dried off a little, then had to do the same back before it got dark. Not Ideal, but I think my underpants drying on top of the TV are giving the place a real homely feel.
The legs benefited from the day of rest, and a short 16km section today meant that I could enjoy it. Another fine day, mist for a while, but fifteen degrees when the sun was out, a lot better than the snowy conditions I see back home.
I had a quick look at the papers while internetting, it’s shocking how detached from everything you get after just a few days away. Good shocking.
I saw the bad economic news continues, which wasn’t far from my thoughts all day. I saw talk that only the Euro is saving Ireland from being the next Iceland.
It brings up an interesting question, because if nature abhors a vacuum, capital likes it even less. Iceland has naturally realigned its cost base by the devaluation of its currency. Surely the same cost realignment is required in Ireland, but the Euro stalls it from happening. No doubt there are many difficult years ahead, with government being forced to fill the vacuum with whatever that can be sucked out of home values, pensions, state services. Difficult days indeed.
On the good news front, the recession is having no effect whatsoever out in the woods. I can assure you that down by the river, things are in fact blooming. Let’s hope that this is the result of the current realignment, that people are forced to remember the value of a good walk in the woods. Let’s hope crooked teeth and home made jumpers come back into vogue.
The rain started as I entered Salir, which is probably the largest town I’ve been in yet. I’m further south now, closer to the coast and Faro. You can tell you are closer to the urban centers as the proportion of people wearing sunglasses increases dramatically. Must be the bright lights.
I’m staying in a fantastic little place about a mile north of the city called casa de mae. For thirty Euro a night, you get your own little hobbitesque house (complete with six foot door height and four foot bath).
Being a bit out from town, by the time I was settled, there was no way of getting into town through the then lashing rain. I gave it an hour but it was unrelenting. So it forced me into a two mile fast jog into the restaurant, breathless and soaked through. I arrived and eat, dried off a little, then had to do the same back before it got dark. Not Ideal, but I think my underpants drying on top of the TV are giving the place a real homely feel.
Tuesday, February 3, 2009
Monday, February 2nd – Coincidence : Rest in Bar. do Velho
Here are three recent examples of coincidence in my life.
1. I was in work a couple of weeks ago, checking the details of an order delivery address, when a colleague asked me to have a look at the address of another order set to go out. I looked over at her screen, saw the address was 47 Pennine Way, then told her that I was just sorting that order out, so she didn’t have to worry. My colleague then told me that it couldn’t be the same order, as she had just made it available to view. We double checked and found that there were two orders to go out with the same first address line, one with an address in Derbyshire, one with an address in Northumberland. Both on the same day, from a hundred orders due out. What are the chances?
2. The weekend before I left for Portugal, I was driving through Dalkey village on Saturday morning and as I approached a junction, a silver Maserati in front of me hesitated, then reversed slightly, at which I raised my hands off the steering wheel and threw my eyes to heaven. As the driver steadied himself and pulled off, I realised it was none other than Bono from U2. Our paths never having crossed before, I felt a little bit privileged to have almost been frontended by him. On Sunday evening, I went to meet some friends for a drink, and who was sitting at the next table? Only my good friend Bono. He did a round of handshaking at our table before he left, most likely because we left him alone, and as he shook my hand, I said, “Paul, do you drive a silver Maserati?” He said he did, so I reminded him of the Saturday morning incident. He was very gracious, apologised and said “It’s a musician thing man, we have a problem with space”.
No problem. Myself and Bono are all squared up.
3. Monday was my first and well deserved rest day. Well, rest from walking, when I get myself some broadband and catch up with work. I asked the landlady when the bus went into Sa Bras de Alpotel (I had downloaded a list of free Wireless Internet hotspots from the net and it was the closest). She told me that there was only one bus a day, at 8 o clock, that I missed it, but I should be able to thumb in easy enough. It was 14 km, but I set off in the right direction, sticking my thumb out as cars went past. I was about half way there before a car stopped, but I was glad for the lift. Paolo was a very decent sort, late twenties, born in Canada to Portuguese parents, so perfect English and plenty to talk about. I told him what I was up to, we exchanged email addresses and I told him I’d send him on a link to the blog. When we made it to town, I asked him if he knew the address of my hotspot, he said he didn’t, but said there was internet available at the library/civic buildings where his girlfriend worked. We called in, they were very accommodating and I got free internet for the day. Paolo had apoligised for not being around to give me a lift back out in the evening (this is the sort of generosity that Portuguese people tend to extend), but went in and chatted to his girlfriend, who agreed to give me a lift back at six. Fantastic. So, at six o' clock, she and a female colleague, both full of smiles, appeared with car and asked me to hop in. My non-existent Portuguese was getting me nowhere, so I switched to Spanish. As we chatted, it turned out that her friend was actually involved with the Via Algarvinia, and had painted most of the signposting that I’d been following for the last couple of days. This gave us plenty to talk about and when we switched to English, I was actually able to understand what was being said. When we got to near where I was staying, the girls invited me over the road for a drink. We were chatting away, I was giving feedback, telling them about the blog, they spoke passionately about the project, telling me about the difficulties they were having and all the positives so far. As we were chatting, one of the girls’ phone rang, she said it was her boss and she had to take the call. She told her boss that she was talking to me, that I was walking/hurling the Via Algarviana, explained that I was writing a blog, told him my name. As this point, her face took on a surprised look; she then turned to me and said, “He knows you”. I didn’t understand at first, but she told me his name, it turned out he was the email contact for the Via Algavinia and we had been corresponding for the last couple of weeks via email.
Now. I would say that all three of these events have about the same chance of occurring. But, isn’t it great that the further they are removed from the work/eat/sleep routine, the more interesting they get. Coincidence?
1. I was in work a couple of weeks ago, checking the details of an order delivery address, when a colleague asked me to have a look at the address of another order set to go out. I looked over at her screen, saw the address was 47 Pennine Way, then told her that I was just sorting that order out, so she didn’t have to worry. My colleague then told me that it couldn’t be the same order, as she had just made it available to view. We double checked and found that there were two orders to go out with the same first address line, one with an address in Derbyshire, one with an address in Northumberland. Both on the same day, from a hundred orders due out. What are the chances?
2. The weekend before I left for Portugal, I was driving through Dalkey village on Saturday morning and as I approached a junction, a silver Maserati in front of me hesitated, then reversed slightly, at which I raised my hands off the steering wheel and threw my eyes to heaven. As the driver steadied himself and pulled off, I realised it was none other than Bono from U2. Our paths never having crossed before, I felt a little bit privileged to have almost been frontended by him. On Sunday evening, I went to meet some friends for a drink, and who was sitting at the next table? Only my good friend Bono. He did a round of handshaking at our table before he left, most likely because we left him alone, and as he shook my hand, I said, “Paul, do you drive a silver Maserati?” He said he did, so I reminded him of the Saturday morning incident. He was very gracious, apologised and said “It’s a musician thing man, we have a problem with space”.
No problem. Myself and Bono are all squared up.
3. Monday was my first and well deserved rest day. Well, rest from walking, when I get myself some broadband and catch up with work. I asked the landlady when the bus went into Sa Bras de Alpotel (I had downloaded a list of free Wireless Internet hotspots from the net and it was the closest). She told me that there was only one bus a day, at 8 o clock, that I missed it, but I should be able to thumb in easy enough. It was 14 km, but I set off in the right direction, sticking my thumb out as cars went past. I was about half way there before a car stopped, but I was glad for the lift. Paolo was a very decent sort, late twenties, born in Canada to Portuguese parents, so perfect English and plenty to talk about. I told him what I was up to, we exchanged email addresses and I told him I’d send him on a link to the blog. When we made it to town, I asked him if he knew the address of my hotspot, he said he didn’t, but said there was internet available at the library/civic buildings where his girlfriend worked. We called in, they were very accommodating and I got free internet for the day. Paolo had apoligised for not being around to give me a lift back out in the evening (this is the sort of generosity that Portuguese people tend to extend), but went in and chatted to his girlfriend, who agreed to give me a lift back at six. Fantastic. So, at six o' clock, she and a female colleague, both full of smiles, appeared with car and asked me to hop in. My non-existent Portuguese was getting me nowhere, so I switched to Spanish. As we chatted, it turned out that her friend was actually involved with the Via Algarvinia, and had painted most of the signposting that I’d been following for the last couple of days. This gave us plenty to talk about and when we switched to English, I was actually able to understand what was being said. When we got to near where I was staying, the girls invited me over the road for a drink. We were chatting away, I was giving feedback, telling them about the blog, they spoke passionately about the project, telling me about the difficulties they were having and all the positives so far. As we were chatting, one of the girls’ phone rang, she said it was her boss and she had to take the call. She told her boss that she was talking to me, that I was walking/hurling the Via Algarviana, explained that I was writing a blog, told him my name. As this point, her face took on a surprised look; she then turned to me and said, “He knows you”. I didn’t understand at first, but she told me his name, it turned out he was the email contact for the Via Algavinia and we had been corresponding for the last couple of weeks via email.
Now. I would say that all three of these events have about the same chance of occurring. But, isn’t it great that the further they are removed from the work/eat/sleep routine, the more interesting they get. Coincidence?
Monday, February 2, 2009
Sunday, February 1st - Any given day: Cachopo - Bar. do Velho
The sun charmed me out of bed good and early, after a night of heavy rain. I’d say a full two inches, I was sure that the clouds had given all they had to give for the month. A quick sandwich and coffee and I was on my way.
There was a different feel again to today’s stage; a national park feel to it, with the odd rundown little cottage, which could well have been inhabited by hobbits (but everyone knows hobbits only speak English).
The trees were taller, eucalyptus and conifers, mixed with the occasional cork tree (howarya buoy). It seemed a little less authentic, in that they were planted, rather than running wild, but prettier none the less.
An hour into my walk, the drizzle started, after two hours, the wind picked up and the rain was pouring down with gusto. It got to the point where I was thought it best to seek some shelter, so I spent half an hour under a cork tree, biding my time. It did revert to drizzle, so I decided it best to move on. Cold and wet, it reminded me of a hurling game we played at under twelves, that day the rain turned into hailstones and our goalie began to cry. At least he had gloves I thought.
But I kept moving on, telling myself that later on in the season, turning out for Cuala’s third team, when I was being skinned for speed by someone half my age, this is what I would be thinking about and it might just makes the old bones move a little faster.
I told God that if it would just stop raining, I would gladly walk the next mile uphill. The next mile was uphill, but the rain did not stop. Oh Lord, why dost thou smite me so.
I was glad to find the next town, on the main road, had a bus shelter. So I sat in for a while, eating the cheese sandwich I had been promising myself for the last hour. The rain eased off again and the sun reappeared. I won’t bother telling you about the next few hours, as it was more of the same, but after seven hours of walking/hurling, with wet shoes and wet feet, I made it to Bar do Velho.
I’m not sure if its masochism or optimism that makes me do it, but I hadn’t booked ahead. I found the Tia Bia guest house from the recommended accommodation list was central and open. It opened into a bar of beery Portuguese soldiers, but the landlord quickly confirmed he had rooms available and brought me through the back to the restaurant.
This is when it happened. He took my bag and sat me down in a corner beside a fire and in fifteen minutes his wife had prepared the most enjoyable meal I think I will ever eat.
This is the yin and yang of any given day. It can take and take until you think you have no more to offer and then give back what makes it all worthwhile. And you realise that these are the days of your lives.
Any given day could be the worst or best of your life, but you have to ask of it.
If you do raise the bar and through adventurousness or foolishness ask a bit more, it will answer that question with honest experience. More of those days for me.
There was a different feel again to today’s stage; a national park feel to it, with the odd rundown little cottage, which could well have been inhabited by hobbits (but everyone knows hobbits only speak English).
The trees were taller, eucalyptus and conifers, mixed with the occasional cork tree (howarya buoy). It seemed a little less authentic, in that they were planted, rather than running wild, but prettier none the less.
An hour into my walk, the drizzle started, after two hours, the wind picked up and the rain was pouring down with gusto. It got to the point where I was thought it best to seek some shelter, so I spent half an hour under a cork tree, biding my time. It did revert to drizzle, so I decided it best to move on. Cold and wet, it reminded me of a hurling game we played at under twelves, that day the rain turned into hailstones and our goalie began to cry. At least he had gloves I thought.
But I kept moving on, telling myself that later on in the season, turning out for Cuala’s third team, when I was being skinned for speed by someone half my age, this is what I would be thinking about and it might just makes the old bones move a little faster.
I told God that if it would just stop raining, I would gladly walk the next mile uphill. The next mile was uphill, but the rain did not stop. Oh Lord, why dost thou smite me so.
I was glad to find the next town, on the main road, had a bus shelter. So I sat in for a while, eating the cheese sandwich I had been promising myself for the last hour. The rain eased off again and the sun reappeared. I won’t bother telling you about the next few hours, as it was more of the same, but after seven hours of walking/hurling, with wet shoes and wet feet, I made it to Bar do Velho.
I’m not sure if its masochism or optimism that makes me do it, but I hadn’t booked ahead. I found the Tia Bia guest house from the recommended accommodation list was central and open. It opened into a bar of beery Portuguese soldiers, but the landlord quickly confirmed he had rooms available and brought me through the back to the restaurant.
This is when it happened. He took my bag and sat me down in a corner beside a fire and in fifteen minutes his wife had prepared the most enjoyable meal I think I will ever eat.
This is the yin and yang of any given day. It can take and take until you think you have no more to offer and then give back what makes it all worthwhile. And you realise that these are the days of your lives.
Any given day could be the worst or best of your life, but you have to ask of it.
If you do raise the bar and through adventurousness or foolishness ask a bit more, it will answer that question with honest experience. More of those days for me.
Saturday, January 31, 2009
Dog attack: Vaqueiros – Cachopo
I got my lift back up to Vaqueiros in the morning, sad again to leave my newfound friends behind. John told me that the first two looks you get from Portuguese people will be strange ones, but after that, they open up and show their charms. I’d have to say I agree, heartened to think the Portuguese aren’t all a pack of Cristiano Ronaldos.
They have a pretty bleak future in front of them in small towns like Furnazinhas, the large majority of whose occupants are over sixty. They all spoke of how their children have either moved to bigger towns or overseas. As a result, the next generation is not arriving, the school closed down a couple of years ago, the village has no children. Couple that with the fact that farming is no longer sustainable, more and more land is falling fallow, all crafts, methods and traditions are dying out. A pretty unpalatable mix. A very good reason for people to walk/cycle/skip the Via Algarvia and breed new life into the area.
The rain had moved on and I was greeted with blue skies all morning, it was back to the huffing up hills and falling arseways into ditches. About half way through my journey, I was ambushed by a three legged dog (the most vicious type of dog there is), he came at me from a ledge above, while his small terrier partner took up the rear. I rounded the corner to find the dog’s owner shaking his head and telling them both to be quiet. He motioned to me, suggesting I should give the dog a good belt with the hurley, I turned the hurl thin end up and suggested an upward thrusting motion. He laughed and spread his hands wide, indicating it was my choice as to how the medicine was best delivered. Although I may live to regret it, I let this golden opportunity pass me by.
I got to Cachopo by four o’clock, a pretty little town, with a choice of three restaurants. The first one I went to had rooms up above for rent, so I took up their offer. After orientating myself, I went downstairs and ate a fine meal in three courses, washed down with two beers. The bill, including the room rental, was twenty euro. Viva la vida via Algarvia.
P.S. Apart from the place I kicked off from, I haven’t found anywhere with broadband access along the way. I hooked up my phone as a 3G modem for my laptop which seems to do the trick, the guys at Vodafone didn’t even know how to do that. Bet they’ll know how to charge me for it though.
They have a pretty bleak future in front of them in small towns like Furnazinhas, the large majority of whose occupants are over sixty. They all spoke of how their children have either moved to bigger towns or overseas. As a result, the next generation is not arriving, the school closed down a couple of years ago, the village has no children. Couple that with the fact that farming is no longer sustainable, more and more land is falling fallow, all crafts, methods and traditions are dying out. A pretty unpalatable mix. A very good reason for people to walk/cycle/skip the Via Algarvia and breed new life into the area.
The rain had moved on and I was greeted with blue skies all morning, it was back to the huffing up hills and falling arseways into ditches. About half way through my journey, I was ambushed by a three legged dog (the most vicious type of dog there is), he came at me from a ledge above, while his small terrier partner took up the rear. I rounded the corner to find the dog’s owner shaking his head and telling them both to be quiet. He motioned to me, suggesting I should give the dog a good belt with the hurley, I turned the hurl thin end up and suggested an upward thrusting motion. He laughed and spread his hands wide, indicating it was my choice as to how the medicine was best delivered. Although I may live to regret it, I let this golden opportunity pass me by.
I got to Cachopo by four o’clock, a pretty little town, with a choice of three restaurants. The first one I went to had rooms up above for rent, so I took up their offer. After orientating myself, I went downstairs and ate a fine meal in three courses, washed down with two beers. The bill, including the room rental, was twenty euro. Viva la vida via Algarvia.
P.S. Apart from the place I kicked off from, I haven’t found anywhere with broadband access along the way. I hooked up my phone as a 3G modem for my laptop which seems to do the trick, the guys at Vodafone didn’t even know how to do that. Bet they’ll know how to charge me for it though.
And then the rain came: Furnazinhas – Vaqueiros
John walked me up to where I had left the path the previous evening, before he sent me off with a pat on the back, he told me that I had a fine days walking ahead of me, what his sister called a sea of mountains. She wasn’t far wrong, it was the real deal, rio grande-esque country.
It threw up a couple of interesting hills, which threw up a couple of interesting valleys. Not much wildlife about, birds torpedoing themselves out of trees that I’ve sent a sidewinder into, the odd jack rabbit and the occasional imagined bear or panther to keep me on my toes.
I am beginning to get into the swing of this hurling thing (pun intended). There is nothing like doing something for the majority of your day to give yourself a bit of a handle on it. It’s not that I feel this self-imposed hurling boot camp is going to turn me into the next Christy Ring, but it will improve me. Better than last year, if we can stick to that with all that is important to us, we won’t go far wrong. It’s good to put the hours in. I was lucky enough to be born the son of two craftspeople, I have seen first hand the dedication required to improve. Having only scored a single point in competitive matches in the last two seasons (as a forward), it will not be too difficult to chart any progress.
It seems to me that is why Kilkenny and Dublin are where they are in the hurling world. The difference between the two is that in Kilkenny you have not only a stream of available talent, but a stream of hurlers willing to put in the fifteen hours plus per week over a number of years to develop that talent.
Living in a world where the average number of hours spent watching TV per week is ten plus, it’s strange that we can’t cultivate the same culture in Dublin. It seems to come down to this, if you live in Killkenny and you get the nod for the senior hurling team, you will receive the sort of admiration and adulation usually reserved for Astronauts.
Who wouldn’t put in fifteen hours a week for that?
If you spent over 15 hours a week playing hurling for most of your adult life in Dublin, people would just think you were a bit of a spacer.
This is what occupied my mind for the last grueling hour of today’s walk, when the rain came down in driving sheets. I was thankful that it was only for the last hour, and was almost happy to hear and see the dogs of Vaqueiros. Unfortunately the accommodation recommended for that stage end was not open yet for the season. Damn you recommended accommodation list. It ended up that the only option was to pay someone to drive me back to Furnazinhas. John wasn’t around but the village people (not the band) brought me into one of their simple homes and warmed me with their fire and laughter. Within twenty minutes they had located Olivia, who arrived with her beautiful French speaking daughter. We somehow managed to communicate all the information through my dreadful French, and they soon had me stowed away in John’s guest house with warmth and promises of Portuguese soup.
It threw up a couple of interesting hills, which threw up a couple of interesting valleys. Not much wildlife about, birds torpedoing themselves out of trees that I’ve sent a sidewinder into, the odd jack rabbit and the occasional imagined bear or panther to keep me on my toes.
I am beginning to get into the swing of this hurling thing (pun intended). There is nothing like doing something for the majority of your day to give yourself a bit of a handle on it. It’s not that I feel this self-imposed hurling boot camp is going to turn me into the next Christy Ring, but it will improve me. Better than last year, if we can stick to that with all that is important to us, we won’t go far wrong. It’s good to put the hours in. I was lucky enough to be born the son of two craftspeople, I have seen first hand the dedication required to improve. Having only scored a single point in competitive matches in the last two seasons (as a forward), it will not be too difficult to chart any progress.
It seems to me that is why Kilkenny and Dublin are where they are in the hurling world. The difference between the two is that in Kilkenny you have not only a stream of available talent, but a stream of hurlers willing to put in the fifteen hours plus per week over a number of years to develop that talent.
Living in a world where the average number of hours spent watching TV per week is ten plus, it’s strange that we can’t cultivate the same culture in Dublin. It seems to come down to this, if you live in Killkenny and you get the nod for the senior hurling team, you will receive the sort of admiration and adulation usually reserved for Astronauts.
Who wouldn’t put in fifteen hours a week for that?
If you spent over 15 hours a week playing hurling for most of your adult life in Dublin, people would just think you were a bit of a spacer.
This is what occupied my mind for the last grueling hour of today’s walk, when the rain came down in driving sheets. I was thankful that it was only for the last hour, and was almost happy to hear and see the dogs of Vaqueiros. Unfortunately the accommodation recommended for that stage end was not open yet for the season. Damn you recommended accommodation list. It ended up that the only option was to pay someone to drive me back to Furnazinhas. John wasn’t around but the village people (not the band) brought me into one of their simple homes and warmed me with their fire and laughter. Within twenty minutes they had located Olivia, who arrived with her beautiful French speaking daughter. We somehow managed to communicate all the information through my dreadful French, and they soon had me stowed away in John’s guest house with warmth and promises of Portuguese soup.
Walking the banana : Balurcos – Furnazinhas
I once saw a TV program in which an psychologist got a teenager who was a little too concerned about what others thought of her, to tie a banana to a piece of string and walk it down her local high street.
I have to say I felt a little like that as I walked through some of the villages. I decided to tame down my act a bit and gently push the ball left to right in front of me, in my head, I called this walking the banana.
This days trek was shorter, but considerably hillier, which has its ups and downs. Nothing flushes the mind like a panting up a worthy hill. The good news is that the signposting has started to appear, two small reassuring lines in red and white. Even marking when you should turn left or right (useful).
It seems spring hits the Algarve a little bit early, plenty of plants flowering, lambs in the fields, birdsong, the works.
It’s all very much the same as Ireland, until you look a bit closer, the occasional host of cacti where you would expect to see daffodils, harder wooded trees, darker greens and fewer of them. I sat down for a sandwich about half way through, by a quiet river. I finished it off with half a bar of chocolate, it’s great, that feeling of out there, when the half bar of chocolate is the only bit of chocolate in the world, and you stow it away in your bag thinking it might be VERY useful in an emergency.
I was very glad to arrive at Furnazinhas by early evening and found John, a retired technician from the ministry of agriculture, who ran the guest house in the town, very glad to see me. He also seemed to be the only man in the northern Algarve who didn’t own a dog, which endeared him to me greatly. He’s as decent a sort as you would meet; inside to greet me, there was fruit, cakes, a flask of tea, water and a couple of beers in the fridge. When I asked about a restaurant, he drove me about 5 miles to one, waited chatting with his mates while I ate, then drove me home.
The hospitality was raised a notch when I woke for breakfast the next morning, I found a fine spread prepared for me by Olivia, a beautiful barrel of a woman in her sixties who lived up the road, who sang every word she spoke with the pride of a cockerel. She then managed to convince me in Portuguese (I didn’t understand her at first, so she spoke louder, and that got the message through) that I should take a sandwich with me.
There was much shaking of hands, cheek kissing and waving on the street as I left. It seemed half the village was out at their doors to see me off in the morning, all bemused by my hurling. Who would have thought it, everyone wanted to see my banana.
I have to say I felt a little like that as I walked through some of the villages. I decided to tame down my act a bit and gently push the ball left to right in front of me, in my head, I called this walking the banana.
This days trek was shorter, but considerably hillier, which has its ups and downs. Nothing flushes the mind like a panting up a worthy hill. The good news is that the signposting has started to appear, two small reassuring lines in red and white. Even marking when you should turn left or right (useful).
It seems spring hits the Algarve a little bit early, plenty of plants flowering, lambs in the fields, birdsong, the works.
It’s all very much the same as Ireland, until you look a bit closer, the occasional host of cacti where you would expect to see daffodils, harder wooded trees, darker greens and fewer of them. I sat down for a sandwich about half way through, by a quiet river. I finished it off with half a bar of chocolate, it’s great, that feeling of out there, when the half bar of chocolate is the only bit of chocolate in the world, and you stow it away in your bag thinking it might be VERY useful in an emergency.
I was very glad to arrive at Furnazinhas by early evening and found John, a retired technician from the ministry of agriculture, who ran the guest house in the town, very glad to see me. He also seemed to be the only man in the northern Algarve who didn’t own a dog, which endeared him to me greatly. He’s as decent a sort as you would meet; inside to greet me, there was fruit, cakes, a flask of tea, water and a couple of beers in the fridge. When I asked about a restaurant, he drove me about 5 miles to one, waited chatting with his mates while I ate, then drove me home.
The hospitality was raised a notch when I woke for breakfast the next morning, I found a fine spread prepared for me by Olivia, a beautiful barrel of a woman in her sixties who lived up the road, who sang every word she spoke with the pride of a cockerel. She then managed to convince me in Portuguese (I didn’t understand her at first, so she spoke louder, and that got the message through) that I should take a sandwich with me.
There was much shaking of hands, cheek kissing and waving on the street as I left. It seemed half the village was out at their doors to see me off in the morning, all bemused by my hurling. Who would have thought it, everyone wanted to see my banana.
Wednesday, January 28, 2009
A begining: Alcoutim - Balurcos
They say that all good stories need a beginning, a middle and an end.
Well, after 23km today, this story has at least a beginning.
It started rather tenuously, the woman in the tourist office didn't know if this much talked about "Via Algarvia" was ready for action. She made a few calls, and told me that it was supposed to be finished last summer, but wasn't, that they had at least started putting the signposts up. Unfortunately their starting point for the signposts wasn't anywhere along my route. That said, a map and the GPS on my phone was more than enough to stay on track.
And there were many tracks, a choice, all pretty much going through the villages, so no problem if you detoured round and interesting hill or gully.
The hardest part of the day was, funnily enough, the start. It would have been very easy to just leave the hurley in the bag and not bother with the hurling element of my ambition. The big hair and sailing pants was already getting me plenty of funny looks, I didn't especially want to pull a large stick out of my bag and start leathering a ball down the road. But I did. I got some funny looks (not sure how popular hurling is round these parts), but I kept going. After ten or so people passed me by, I had almost forgotten what they were looking at.
And boy was I glad I did, the 10kg pack on my back makes it interesting, but there really isn't anything I'd rather be doing, than hitting a ball down dirt tracks, over rivers, up hills, falling into the odd ditch. Because every now and then the sun will break out, you'll find yourself breathless, chasing a small ball down a red rocky road, almost laughing and not even considering why.
Hopefully that's how most of the middle will be filled, along with the odd flash of different to keep it interesting.
As for the end, I already have it fixed clearly in my head, it ends with me striking a ball off the Fortaleze de San Vicente, the most south westerly point in Europe. I can already see how it will be, I am just interested to see how the middle will make it feel.
Well, after 23km today, this story has at least a beginning.
It started rather tenuously, the woman in the tourist office didn't know if this much talked about "Via Algarvia" was ready for action. She made a few calls, and told me that it was supposed to be finished last summer, but wasn't, that they had at least started putting the signposts up. Unfortunately their starting point for the signposts wasn't anywhere along my route. That said, a map and the GPS on my phone was more than enough to stay on track.
And there were many tracks, a choice, all pretty much going through the villages, so no problem if you detoured round and interesting hill or gully.
The hardest part of the day was, funnily enough, the start. It would have been very easy to just leave the hurley in the bag and not bother with the hurling element of my ambition. The big hair and sailing pants was already getting me plenty of funny looks, I didn't especially want to pull a large stick out of my bag and start leathering a ball down the road. But I did. I got some funny looks (not sure how popular hurling is round these parts), but I kept going. After ten or so people passed me by, I had almost forgotten what they were looking at.
And boy was I glad I did, the 10kg pack on my back makes it interesting, but there really isn't anything I'd rather be doing, than hitting a ball down dirt tracks, over rivers, up hills, falling into the odd ditch. Because every now and then the sun will break out, you'll find yourself breathless, chasing a small ball down a red rocky road, almost laughing and not even considering why.
Hopefully that's how most of the middle will be filled, along with the odd flash of different to keep it interesting.
As for the end, I already have it fixed clearly in my head, it ends with me striking a ball off the Fortaleze de San Vicente, the most south westerly point in Europe. I can already see how it will be, I am just interested to see how the middle will make it feel.
Turning up
So, I made it to Alcoutim. One flight, two buses and a train, a 6am start got me here at 7pm.
Woody Allen says ninety percent of life is turning up. Only ten percent to go then.
Looking out the bus window as it crawled up here, it seemed hard to believe that 20km of scrub covered hills in the distance was only the smallest part of what was ahead of me. I suppose that's a reflection on small window through which we can conceive of what we plan to do. All we foresee is a postage stamp size image of what the future might hold. When it becomes the present, it's full on high definition with full surround sound. Daunting. But all is possible when you have a solid plan and you take it one step at a time.
At least the weather here is an improvement on Dublin, a good ten degrees warmer and no sign of rain.
I hadn't booked anywhere to stay, it was dark when I got here and the only Hotel in the town was closed for the winter, but there was a couple of people around, so I managed to find a guest house. I don't think they quite knew what to make of me, I have no Portuguese, far more hair and stubble than is necessary and as I am travelling light, brought my only pair of waterproof long trousers (aquamarine, from a fancy dress costume) and an electric blue rainjacket that I picked up. Imagine Grizzly Adams in a Tron costume.
Scouted out the town, there is a tourist office round the corner and free wifi in the library, so should be able to get myself well sorted out for tomorrow.
The longest step of the journey happens tomorrow. It will be interesting to see how good these tracks are, how the body reacts to the mileage, and what surprises are ahead of me. I was disturbed to see a number of stray dogs wandering around the town, as I have a problem with dogs (or rather, they always seem to have a problem with me). At least if I meet them on the road tomorrow, I will have my hurley in hand and we all know how Chu Chulainn got his name. So if anyone knows the Irish for "man cowering being the wall until the dog stops barking" is, you can tell me when I get back.
Woody Allen says ninety percent of life is turning up. Only ten percent to go then.
Looking out the bus window as it crawled up here, it seemed hard to believe that 20km of scrub covered hills in the distance was only the smallest part of what was ahead of me. I suppose that's a reflection on small window through which we can conceive of what we plan to do. All we foresee is a postage stamp size image of what the future might hold. When it becomes the present, it's full on high definition with full surround sound. Daunting. But all is possible when you have a solid plan and you take it one step at a time.
At least the weather here is an improvement on Dublin, a good ten degrees warmer and no sign of rain.
I hadn't booked anywhere to stay, it was dark when I got here and the only Hotel in the town was closed for the winter, but there was a couple of people around, so I managed to find a guest house. I don't think they quite knew what to make of me, I have no Portuguese, far more hair and stubble than is necessary and as I am travelling light, brought my only pair of waterproof long trousers (aquamarine, from a fancy dress costume) and an electric blue rainjacket that I picked up. Imagine Grizzly Adams in a Tron costume.
Scouted out the town, there is a tourist office round the corner and free wifi in the library, so should be able to get myself well sorted out for tomorrow.
The longest step of the journey happens tomorrow. It will be interesting to see how good these tracks are, how the body reacts to the mileage, and what surprises are ahead of me. I was disturbed to see a number of stray dogs wandering around the town, as I have a problem with dogs (or rather, they always seem to have a problem with me). At least if I meet them on the road tomorrow, I will have my hurley in hand and we all know how Chu Chulainn got his name. So if anyone knows the Irish for "man cowering being the wall until the dog stops barking" is, you can tell me when I get back.
Map, moving from right to left
Each of the black dots on the map is a stopping point. For more info, visit this link:
What I'm up to......
Well, I was thinking over the Christmas that a bit of an adventure might be in order, to shake off the winter cobwebs and work off all the Christmas dinners (I am now approximately 8% turkey).
A long walk, go off on one, a bit of a wander.
Then I thought, I could always bring the hurleys with me, turn it into a poc fada.
Inevivitably, I then thought. Nah. Too much hassle. A step too far, bound to trip itself up.
Knowing that's not how life should be lived, I made the decision, the only way to find out if it was worthwhile, was to do it.
I found there was a nice little walkway ( a bit like the Portuguese version of the Wicklow way) through the Algarve called the "Via Algarviana", its approx 240km, broken down into 14 sections, all landmarked and ready for walking.
At least at the end of all that, I'd know if doing what think you can do is all it is cracked up to be.
With a bit of luck the weather will be with me, I'm expecting about 13 degrees, which is a fine walking temperature.
And who knows, after 6 hours of hitting a ball down a road for 3 weeks, I might even work out how to hit it straight.
A long walk, go off on one, a bit of a wander.
Then I thought, I could always bring the hurleys with me, turn it into a poc fada.
Inevivitably, I then thought. Nah. Too much hassle. A step too far, bound to trip itself up.
Knowing that's not how life should be lived, I made the decision, the only way to find out if it was worthwhile, was to do it.
I found there was a nice little walkway ( a bit like the Portuguese version of the Wicklow way) through the Algarve called the "Via Algarviana", its approx 240km, broken down into 14 sections, all landmarked and ready for walking.
At least at the end of all that, I'd know if doing what think you can do is all it is cracked up to be.
With a bit of luck the weather will be with me, I'm expecting about 13 degrees, which is a fine walking temperature.
And who knows, after 6 hours of hitting a ball down a road for 3 weeks, I might even work out how to hit it straight.
Subscribe to:
Comments (Atom)
