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27 Not One 7Eleven In the morning we again went through Carro de Sapo, past the igloo ovens, and into the countryside. We were getting nowhere fast. Instead of retracing our route to Sesimbra, we turned south to Santana. Crossing the mountains to the Arribida coast, we were compensated with a view of the Atlantic. Susan lagged far behind, but we rewarded her with chocolate when she caught up to our shady waiting spot. We plunged down a narrow hairpin road into Portino. Folks stared and clapped as we pedalled along the dirt road. Sharon and Susan doffed shoes and checked the water temperature. Susan was ready to call it a day and would have liked to stay on the beach. She informed us her butt was killing her. I couldn't fathom how anything that tiny could kill anything. A hellacious uphill took us into Setubal. The view was sparkling of turquoise water and white sandy beaches along the rock cliff road. We thought the day was warm, but the locals assured us it was freezing. There was no way I would be able to stand Portugal's summer temperatures. We came to an oceanside campground. We had no food, but the campground attendant assured us the camp store opened at six or seven. He also told us they had hot showers. He lied. Susan and I walked a half kilometer to the camp store, and waited in growing darkness with growling stomachs. Finally, after seven, I went into the camp office to enquire. The English speaking attendant had disappeared and was replaced by a dodgy nonEnglish speaking curmudgeon. He asked why we didn't speak French as he had seen our Swiss flag. Susan informed him, clearly, that was a Canadian flag. He spoke to us in French anyway. The camp store was fermé. He told us there was a café one and a half kilometers away. Take a left, then a right. We went back to get Sharon and, not helping matters, woke her. She wasn't impressed when she learned we had no food and instead wanted her to walk to a café. She was more tired than hungry and would have just as soon waited until morning to eat. But Susan had no reserve body fat. Sharon was outvoted for a stroll to find food. From the camp gate we stumbled two black kilometers, tripping over giant palm fronds. Cement trucks rumbled past. After coming to a sign pointing to Lisbon and back to Sapo's clay igloos, we returned to the campground gates. We walked towards Setubal. At 8:20 p.m. we came to a sign with a fork and knife. Three kilometers farther we went down a lane, past a chain link military fence where a vociferous barking dog followed us for half a kilometer. The ocean view café listed entrees starting at $40. Holding our empty stomachs we walked back up the road. I chose three throwing rocks. When the dog came snarling at us, I unleashed my selected antidog repellent weapons. As the rock clanged against the metal fence a guard called out to the dog. Go ahead. Shoot me. Another fork and knife sign indicated two kilometers. We struggled on; it had become a quest, up, down, around, over cobblestones and through potholes. We entered Setubal, population 400,000, and not a 7Eleven in sight. At 10:00 p.m. we found a restaurant and wearily seated ourselves. We had the set menu: bread, olives, soup, pork chop, fries, a glob of rice, wine, and mousse for dessert. The one ounce shooter coffee needed a major quantity of sugar. At eleven the restaurant closed and we stumbled onto the cobblestones for the return hike. All the walking lately had given me shin splints. Sharon turned her ankle when she dropped off the pavement edge as a truck approached. After midnight we reached the locked campground gates. It kept getting better and better. Rattling the gate, I wondered if we would have to break into our campground. A guard came along. Thankfully, Susan had brought our receipt and the guard ushered us through the metal installation. |
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