After taking this photo, I followed the edge of the Tagus River until I neared the heart of the city, where I wheeled my bike up the cobblestone hills and into the trendy Graça neighbourhood. I found Travessa da Pereira, where I would be staying with a friend of my mums for eight nights (until Christmas Eve), and parked myself, with my bike, on a bench in the nearby square. The worst Christmas music was drifting over from a touristy market opposite me, but it made me feel emotional. This bench was the end of the first leg of my tour. Sixty-seven days earlier, I had left my home in Bristol, UK, wobbling on my bike as I struggled to handle its weight. More than two-thousand kilometres later, I felt like a different person. Waves of relief and satisfaction were washing over me.
I had three hours to kill until Nicki finished work and took me to her apartment, and I wasn't getting back on my bike, so I absorbed the festive music and watched tourists jumping on and off the picturesque trams.
The last few days
The wind has been playing games with my mind. No matter which direction I cycle in, it changes to oppose me, shutting down any momentum I build with huge gusts. Sometimes, I felt like an ant being toyed with by a huge, god-like finger, that would come down from the sky and brush me back if I tried to make progress: Did you think you could pedal in that gear? I don't think so little ant *blast of wind*. I have shouted profanities at no one, while cycling along empty roads, desperately trying to vent my frustration. Eventually, I had to take it out on this crayfish:
When the wind is doing this to you for weeks, and you are not talking to anyone, it is easy to view the weather as a tormentor. There is apparently no specific reason that the wind has constantly blown from the south-west, I have just been unlucky!
Another unique moment of bad luck occurred as I entered Lisbon. My chain slipped off the front, inside cog (next to the pedals), which made me look down while moving, as I tried to shift it back on with the gears. At the same time, my front wheel dropped into a drainage slot. My bike stopped dead, and its momentum caused it to up-end ninety degrees (impressive, given the weight on the back), before collapsing on its side. My right thigh was wedged against the handlebars (with my foot on the pedal), which kept me from flying off. Strangely, my immediate reaction was to take a photo:
Here you can see the damage to the spokes, after I pulled the wheel out:
It's still spinning straight, and I couldn't feel any difference when I rode on it, so I'm hoping this can be quietly ignored. I'll buy some spare spokes though.
Since my last post
...I have had the bright idea to build a campfire for warmth. Here is my first, humble attempt:
But without thick, dry logs, I've struggled to keep one going for long, and usually end up retreating into my tent, which freezes most nights:
One morning, I got up to find a theatre audience of cows watching my tent:
And shortly after, I was questioned by police while eating my porridge!
I was camping in plain view of both the cow field and the road that ran alongside it. The night before, a car had actually stopped, put on its hazard lights and reversed back to take a closer look. It got me worried, because I couldn't see inside (it was dark), and after a few seconds, they drove off without a word. I had wondered: Was it them who called the police? If so, why? Or had I just been spotted by chance?
Either way, the police were very friendly! I was greeted with a cheerful "buenos días" (good morning) and they found it funny that I was English. One of them took my passport to their car, and I asked the other (via Google Translate) if it was illegal to camp there. He replied through my phone, 'you cannot, but nothing happens', which was reassuring. After a few minutes, my passport was returned, and the man simply said, "Ok! Goodbye!" I was expecting a warning, or at least to be asked to leave.
Off the plateau
After riding on it for two weeks, I finally realised that a huge, elevated plain occupies the centre of the Iberian Peninsular (Spain and Portugal), which explains the cold. When I got to the edge, I rolled for seventeen kilometres to the bottom, which was fantastic.
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Seven-hundred meters down, the temperature was noticeably warmer, which I was extremely grateful for.
That day, I reached the Portuguese border:
I want to thank this street artist for tagging the sign in the shape of a phallus:
I can't work out if it was intentional, but I've noticed a running theme in Portugal:
(I did not do the second one myself)
Into a rhythm
Except for the wind, Portugal has been straightforward. I even crossed the whole country without showering (nine days in total), as I was so focused on getting to Lisbon.
I've passed through countless idyllic, hilltop villages, filled with orange and lemon trees, and in one of them, I was invited into the home of one of the residents. He found me trying to get water out of a dead fountain, and after filling up my bottles from his tap, he gave me two cups of home-brewed jeropiga, which was delicious and made me drunk. He also gave me this large bag of walnuts:
I thanked him for everything, and left, but unfortunately had to throw away most of the walnuts, as they were so heavy.
In Spain, I had fallen ill after drinking the service station water, which was meant for cars, and I suspected that my immune system had suffered from eating so much sugar, so I began eating healthily. I've continued to do so in Portugal, by sticking to tuna, vegetables, fruit and cereal bars.
Here is one of my colourful dinners (boiled courgette, leek and sweet potato with soy sauce):
Three weeks of luxury
Now I'm in Lisbon and I feel strange. I'm lying in a normal bed, in a home, and I'm not sure if I should relax, sightsee or work on something while I have the chance. I will try to juggle all three.
Have a lovely Christmas everybody!
I'll leave you with this short, instructional video on how to climb a cork oak tree:
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