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.
Saturday, January 31, 2009
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.
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