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.
Tuesday, February 10, 2009
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?
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