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.
Wednesday, February 4, 2009
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.
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