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November 25 Friday Bicycle touring Portugal from Setubal Portugal to Medina Portugal In the morning, I clock the distance from our campsite to the restaurant where we ate last night. It works out to four and a half km, and that's not including our foray past the cement factory and back. I have shin splints from all the walking we've done lately. Isn't this supposed to be a bike tour? In Setubal, Sharon and Susan shop at a market for veggies and fruit. Groceries from the Pongo Ping. Great name for a grocery chain, eh? While inside, Sharon and Susan are repeatedly asked for money from gypsies who work the markets wearing rags. We ride our touring bikes down to the river and catch a ferry across the Sado River from Setubal to Trois. On the way across, I sit beside a short, wiry, crusty fisherman with his pail. As we disembark, grease magically transfers from a winch to my bike's front pannier cover, and then to both of my pant legs, right up to the knees. Amazing stuff. The road we are bicycle touring is a major potholed and patched affair, but it is flat as it runs along a peninsula. At times we have views of the Atlantic on one side of us and an estuary on the other, which is a rice paddy. Women are out in the mud working the paddy as we pedal by on our fully loaded touring bicycles. We pull our cycles to a stop for a washroom break. Two huge stork nests sit atop a tavern. Each nest is about four feet in diameter. One lanky stork is sitting in the nest. Hate to have one of those things poop on me. Another use for a bicycle helmet? We cycle toward a campground by the beach. It is supposed to be four kilometres away. But after a kilometre the road turns to sand. Not good for bicycle touring. And in another kilometre, the sandy road is too loose to ride. We turn our fully loaded touring bicycles around and cycle towards a campground that is located six kilometres past Medina. The campground, a huge 1000-site place, is surrounded by orange groves. We arrive as darkness is setting in. We are greeted by two guards who don't speak English. They want us to hand over all of our passports. I say, "This must be a joke." The guards both answer, "No joke." So much for not understanding English. All of us surrender our passports. They tell us to put our little bicycle touring tent anywhere. "Hot water?" I ask, a little late. No comprehende. Quiente? Huh? Nao frio? "Oh, lots of frio," they say. Apparently I'm not getting through, am I? |
