I am in Tarifa, a town on the southern tip of Spain, where you can see Morocco across the sea. I thought I would feel more satisfied by this point, or at least excited, but upon seeing the African continent, I felt neither, which worried me. When I arrive in hostels, I usually wander the streets to clear my head, but here, I ended up on a park bench in the dark, wondering if I should make the €65 ferry crossing at all. It's expensive for a 30km ride. I thought about the $1000+ I would spend on visas for all the countries on my route, and wondered if it was all worth it.

The idea in my head was to return to Seville. I had a good feeling about the place, even as I arrived. There was cool graffiti:

A building shaped like a lipstick tube:

And I received a wonderful welcome from some friends of friends who live there. I was taken for beers ("If you drink beer in Seville, you drink Cruzcampo," Paloma had said), wines and local food:

The narrow streets of the old town reminded me of Venice, but with a warmer, more lively feel. They criss-cross chaotically, and are dotted with cosy restaurants and wine bars. When people go out in the evening, the focus is on socialising (or perhaps gossip) instead of getting drunk, which contrasts with the 'drink to get drunk' culture that I try to avoid in England. I felt that I would fit in in Seville, and I liked the thought of constant sunshine and warm summer nights.

As I sat on the park bench, I figured I could take a bus there, learn Spanish intensively for a month (while possibly working in a hostel) and then teach one-to-one English lessons, using a website and flyers to spread the word. At the time, both this, and the thought of crossing to Africa seemed scary. I returned to the hostel and went to bed.

At midnight, I was woken up by roommates chatting (they couldn't see me in the top bunk), so now I'm writing this. My mind is clearer now and I think I will make the crossing. I can go to Seville anytime, but I might not get another opportunity to cycle solo across Africa. Now that my head is (slightly) rested, I also feel a glimmer of excitement, which is the real green light for me. I'll get over the visa costs.

Recap

My first attempt to leave Lisbon failed. I was saying goodbye to Nicki's two dogs, got emotional and locked myself out of her apartment with only half my gear. It was a face-palm moment and I took it as a sign that it was the wrong day to leave. The next day, I left with all my gear, and the dogs didn't take me seriously.

Compared to the pre-Lisbon leg of my trip, this part has been easy. The west coast of Portugal was beautiful:

I was not rained on once and the wind was never against me. It was also easy to wild camp, due to the sparse distribution of towns.

On the third day, I saw and touched an ostrich (both new experiences). I was cycling passed an animal park, and the ostriches were by the fence, so I reached in (with a gloved hand) and poked one. It stopped eating grass and raised its head slightly, looking at me, as if to say, 'you better not do that again', then went back to eating grass. I didn't even know they eat grass. They are like two-legged cows.

It took five days to reach Sagres, which was the highlight. I splurged on two nights in a guest house (€20 per night), which felt like staying with friends. I cooked pizza in the oven and sampled the local (and famous) beer:

Edit: I've realised that Sagres beer is not local.

The next day, I went for a coastal walk with Laura, a German multi-linguist (among other things). The day was cloudy, but at the last minute, the sun broke through to give us a beautiful sunset over one of the bays:

The next morning, Laura and I were both going to Lagos, 25km along the coast. She was taking a bus, and had a one hour wait there for her connection to Lisbon, so we decided that if I could race the bus and get there in time, we would meet for lunch. I pedalled like I was being chased by that ostrich I poked (they run at 70km per hour!) and, surprisingly, arrived just fifteen minutes after she did (the bus took some detours). We had Bifana (thin, pork cutlets in soft bread rolls) and milkshakes: hers thoroughly undeserved.

The Algarve

The south coast of Portugal was touristy. I cycled through paradise-like retirement villages (merged with golf resorts) that had road signs saying things like 'this way to your dream home', with an arrow showing the exit. Everything about these places was pristine and manicured. I felt out of place. For those of you that know the TV series, Black Mirror: It felt like an episode of that. As if, beneath the surface, there was some sinister operation going on, like the retirees being harvested for their organs after arriving in their 'dream home'.

Near one of these villages, I had my first puncture, and performed the worlds worst repair:

(I should have used more glue, but it has held.)

Aside from this, the journey to Seville (and then Tarifa) was smooth. Here is the route:

More media

Here is a cap I've started wearing (I can't wear sunglasses over my regular glasses), which makes me feel American and self-conscious:

This is because I've never been a hat wearer and because someone honked at me as I took this selfy.

I camped on a dry river bed:

Before this trip, I researched wild camping, and one of the 'rules' is to avoid river beds, in case you get washed away in the night. I took the risk because it was not forecast to rain, and because, strangely, there was a road running across it. There was a bridge too, which looked newer, but the cars were using the road. I couldn't decipher the situation, but I did not get washed away.

All over Spain I've seen these huge bull silhouettes on top of hills, which look great against the sky:

The first one I saw gave me a shock, as it looks like the bull has just heard you and is looking over.

Lastly, me hitting a rock with a bamboo stick (with Laura encouraging):

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