Monchique to Silves

Out at eight, into the rain again. Coffee and toastie and off to find a shop for provisions.

Rain eases and the path climbs steeply out of Monchique, becomes steeper and narrower, wind picks up and gets stronger as I climb higher . . . on rocks . . . cape thinks it's a kite, rucksack cover too . . . stash both and scramble to the peak and a viewpoint, with a tower to climb . . . pass on that, since there is no view today, but thanks anyway route planners . . . maybe better to mark such adventures as optional extras . . .

The next challenge comes a couple of hours on . . . a river, fuller than usual after yesterday's rain . . . a couple of fallen trees offer a tricky crossing and just feeling smug when the track wants to go back to the other side, this time with no trees, only submerged stepping stones, so it's shoes, socks and trousers off and in . . . water below the knees, but flowing fast . . . dressed again and very soon another crossing, this time there was a bridge, recently removed by the river in spate . . . wading again, over the knees . . . all of which slows the pace, along with ups and downs, but thankfully, sunshine . . . after the excitement it's just plodding on, watching for the signs . . . no towns or villages, no coffee, just hills, eucalyptus, cork and pine trees, a few houses dotted around . . . and finally, ten hours after leaving Monchique, it's Silves . . . another €15 room and a proper meal in an empty restaurant, which has just filled with a surprise birthday party . . . time to go!

Aljezur to Monchique . . .

The thing about low cloud and light rain on a 32km mountain walk is you are soon in the clouds and that's where they keep the rain.

Waterproofs on and an early start, since 5km an hour is not going to happen with the steep climbs.

Marmalete at 17.5 km, comes slowly . . . time for a coffee, then off again and a lovely encounter as I struggle to put the cape over the rucksack . . . a bloke does it for me, smiles and slaps me on the back, as if to say, "rather you than me mate" . . . head down, more climbing, wind blowing the rain about and finally into Monchique at 4.30, over eight hours after leaving Aljezur.

A room for €15, a small heater doing its best to dry my gear, ready for another 30+ day tomorrow and more rain forecast too.

Porto Covo to Aljezur . . .

Last night's thought to walk to Cercal early and maybe push north to Vale Seco soon changed . . . setting out at 8 it was clear that since south was the destination for February, south was where to go today . . .

Talking with Marta and Ze Nicolau yesterday, we touched on the way fear may stop us living fully . . . Marta, having had procedures for arrhythmia and two brushes with death, fears a third may be final . . . and stimulates reflection on one of the big questions whilst ambling inland on sandy tracks this morning: Is there life after death?

This is closely linked to another big question, on the existence of God or Gods. However, one question at a time is enough.

Perhaps there are three possible answers: yes, no, and maybe . . . and each of us will decide according to our experience, what we think at any particular time.

Let's look at "no" first, because it is easiest to eliminate, logically. How do you prove a negative? All you can say truly is, at this time my experience has shown me nothing to suggest life after death.

There are very good reasons to deny life after death, politically. After all, the rich and powerful throughout the world and throughout the ages have used, and still use, the concept of paradise to come as a panacea to pacify the poor. This does not prove the negative, however.

Moving to the "yes" option, there are many mystics who have spoken compellingly of eternity . . .  where to start? Edgar Cayce?

Personal experience leads me to yes (probably) . . . there is a story of a Zen master, when asked the same question, who replied, "I don't know". The questioner replied, " but you are a Zen master" . . . the response was, "Yes, but not a dead one".

Maybe the veil between lives is there so we live fully each life, as if it were the only one.

The walking was straightforward and a pleasant change to go inland, through woods of cork and eucalyptus . . . some climbing and a stream to cross, but four hours was enough and outside Cercal, met Ben, on his bike . . . 40, from Hebden Bridge, now living near Lagos and cycling the Vincentina Way . . . and a volunteer looking after the Cape St Vincent to Vila de Bispo stage . . . resonating with the conversation and continuing over a couple of coffees . . .  a good connection and lots of common interests . . . Ben headed towards Odemira and I had my picnic and thought about finding a bed, before walking south tomorrow . . . when a bus pulled in, with Odeceixe on the front . . . drawn to it . . . an old man urged me to get on and the options from last night were completely changed, as I picked up the connection to Aljezur, a reunion with friends from last week, an extra day to write and plenty of time to wander along the Algarve Way . . . so much for plans . . .

Milfontes to Porto Covo . . .

. . . a sunny saunter, sometimes on soft sand, to spare the joints and work the muscles . . . sometimes firmer ground . . . more stunning views . . . perfect picnic at Cafe Atlantic, delicious, chewy local bread, tomato and tasty sheep's cheese . . . rosemary honey on bread for dessert . . . simple fare and wonderful spot, alone on the beach . . .

. . . the last stage of the Fishermen's Trail, unless you're doing it the way the guide book writes it, from north to south . . .

. . . options now include: picking up the Historic Route and going north to Santiago de Cacem; picking it up and walking south; bus to Aljezur and joining the Algarve Way at Monchique . . . in any case I have promised to be in Tavira in ten days and I have no desire to put in 40km every day just to say I walked all the way . . .

At the Ahoy Hostel, very friendly hosts Ze Nicolau and Marta, with Ze working hard at this new business, Marta working too hard in her job at the Bank and looking forward to joining in at the hostel . . .

. . . and three very friendly even younger people, here for the surfing from Evora . . .Jose Guillerme, Jose Elias and Francisco . . . all five speaking fluent English, sharing insights into life here . . . and some delicious home-made plum liqueur . . .

. . . tomorrow, back on the road, maybe finish the Historical Route to Santiago de Cacem . . . let's see . . .

Eco Surf Camp . . .

Since it appears to be still winter here, the Eco Surf Camp is quiet . . . only me in the beautiful four bed chalet, Mari anna and Romain, Breton friends of Susana and Felipe sleeping in their camper outside . . .an invitation to supper . . . delicious food, good company and more insights into the Portuguese view of the world . . .

First the Bretons, who run the independent bookshop in Morlaix - "A la lettre the" (the e on the has an acute accent, which creates a pun perhaps?) Independent bookshops have been decimated in the neo-liberal economies, with discount sales of bestsellers in supermarkets and Amazon's bulk buying and tax avoidance schemes making essential intellectual and social soul centres unsustainable. In stubborn France, often derided for protectionism by the guardians of free enterprise like the Murdoch empire of brainwashing, discounting of books is limited by law to 5% . . . even so, it is a tough environment and if you love independent bookshops, dear readers, please buy books there . . . the paradox of consumerism is that many consumers bemoan the power of soulless capitalism, yet neglect their own power to choose to spend a little more, pretending it makes no difference . . . and of course only one may seem to be hopeless, multiplied by hundreds at local level it works . . . scaled up it's one way we change the world: "We be many and they be few", in the words of Arundhati Roy, "they need us more than we need them".

If my younger sister, living near Morlaix, is still reading, she may like to call in to say hello, buy a book and a cup of tea.

Felipe, as well as being a keen surfer and running a surf shop and school, is a permaculturist . . . and pioneer of the Fishermen's Trail part of the Rota Vicentina . . . responsible with Susana for marking and maintaining the stage between here and Porto Covo - tomorrow's walk. Also a mine of information on projects local and farther afield . . . to which he offers to connect me. Tamera, he says, is sometimes referred to as Tamerda . . . one of the indicators for him being where and how money plays a part . . . which resonates.

He also clarifies the turf growing - a big English company, selling to football clubs far and wide, including Real Madrid. Another example of an economy distorted by misuse of money perhaps?

And is clear on the disaster that is Albufeira and around, positive on international cooperation. His generation is showing the way with projects demonstrating it is possible to live lightly on the land, in harmony with Nature.

All part of the "New Earth" Eckhart Tolle foresees and Arundhati Roy's "another world is not only possible, she is on her way. On a quiet day, I can hear her breathing".

And as the Greeks challenge the manufactured crisis, in Portugal there appear to be many small projects developing, changing little by little from below, perhaps combining moderate investments from North Europeans with local land know-how and relevant skills from all over . . . cooperative ownership, crowdfunding, permaculture combining with compassion, simplicity and patience.

Almograve to Milfontes . . .

. . . or Vila Nova de Milfontes, to give it its Sunday name . . .

. . . next stage shaping after invitation to Tavira for a few days dog walking with Jane at the intriguing interbeing sangha which I heard about when we met in Tavira a few weeks ago . . two weeks to get there and perfectly possible to finish the Rota Vicentina at Santiago de Cacem in four or five days, walk down the parts of the Historical Route missed by following the Fishermen's Path, link to the Algarve Way from Aljezur to Monchique then east . . . buses also available . . . and an invitation from Victoria at the Quinta Alvorada do Ouro near Tavira to follow up . . .

. . . a short Sunday saunter along dunes, past fields of sand apparently planted with grass for turf . . . golf courses, gardens? On a clifftop what looks like stupas and turns out to be single rocks, naturally formed or arranged long ago . . . the guide book talks of stone age remains hereabouts . . .

. . . the wind has dropped, the sky is clear and it is t-shirt walking weather again . . . and a picnic on the beach of Furnas, over the river from Milfontes . . .

. . . in town, Rute, at the tourist info is very helpful, friendly, fluent in English amonst other languages and contacts the folks at the Eco Surf Camp, having Sunday lunch out, who arrange to meet me at five or six at the tourist info to take me to tonight's accommodation outside town . . .

around Almograve . . .

. . . the Pousdada de Juventude is  interesting . . . never been in a prison, but this has an institutional ambience, albeit friendly . . . being the only guest left for breakfast adds to the surreal feel . . . free wifi. . . which, like all the Pousadas never seems to work properly . . . cold at night too, being designed for summer when the beach people arrive . . . and being institutional, have no qualms about leaving the heater on all night, though it struggles to compete with incoming fresh air . . .

. . . reflecting, on my roadside walk back to Cavaleiro, and strong internet with good ambience at the Rocamar . . . is the cheap deal, almost within budget, influencing decisions? Or the weather, still winter and heading north? Since all options are open, let's see what appears and since the dog sitting in Graca is now set for March (though still an open invitation to stay), maybe south down the inland Rota Vicentina and east along the Via Algarviana to Alcoutim . . .

. . . seems some promotion in the UK of these wonderful winter walks worthwhile, quiet trails, space in the hostels, good walking weather (the Portuguese folks I discuss it with mention the rain, though may not have spent much time in Britain . . . a few showers, the odd longer spell . . . but as the saying goes: no bad weather, only the wrong clothes) . . .

. . . back in Almograve, an hour watching the sun set, then supper and two French pilgrims, Monique and Gerard, from Bordeaux, walking to Santiago de Compostela . . . they think I understand French, since I speak a bit and nod and smile when they reply . . . as far as I can tell they retired from the health service and are staying healthy with lots of walking . . .

hostels

hostels, albergues, alberges . . . serving pilgrims, surfers, backpackers all over the world . . . common aims - cheap, convivial accommodation, and some interesting differences too.

The Pousadas de Juventude in Portugal have a government feel to them (and, like Youth Hostels in the UK are not restricted to the young any more). The Galician municipal albergues had the same feeling . . .systems run from the centre, apparently with EU capital funding (thus modern, spacious buildings) and local revenue funding (so the modern kitchen has an odd assortment of cooking utensils and no attempt to encourage shared cooking or to provide basics like oil, salt and so on).

The Portuguese Pousadas de Juventude have a consistent offer (on the evidence of Tavira, Faro, Portimao, Lagos and Almograve anyway): €10 a night in a dormitory, with 10% discount for pilgrims; breakfast included, served at 8.30 am and comprising 2 bread rolls, one portion of butter, one of jam, one slice of processed cheese, one of ham, a portion of cereal, pot of youghurt, a cold drink and a hot drink . . . which is plenty for breakfast and lunch too . . .

. . . great value for the money and some may say undercutting the local provider with public funds . . . I prefer not to comment, since my line manager, after one week in the clammy embrace of the council and being forthright with my opinions, took me into a dark room and advised me, "Don't bite the hand that feeds you". Since I am not a dog I kept on biting for two and a half years and they kept on feeding me . . . which was fun . . .

Municipal hostels along the Camino de Santiago varied in style, with some run by the village, some by bigger councils, in Galicia by the regional government . . . never more than €10, without breakfast.

The Parish or Church run ones were often donativo or by donation and around €5 was usual.

Then there were the independent ones, some run as businesses, some to serve the pilgrims.

And the one in Santiago, without beds, a day hostel, run by the evangelist Americans, with very low key missionary techniques, just there "in case any incoming pilgrims wanted spiritual guidance". Nice, naive folks, playing at the camino for weekend walks, with all the answers straight from the book (or The Book), somehow missing the point that a month and more, day after day, usually in silence, pushing personal physical and mental limits, often opens doors previously closed by the books and clergy with their certainty . . .

The surfer hostels in Portugal bring another dimension, but the same basic offer of dormitory rooms (as well as doubles), shared kitchen and lounge . . . and wifi, of course.

And my motivation for all the reflection on hostels? When not walking, I love to be in them, especially when the design is right and the spirit bright . . . donativo sets the tone, shared soul food . . . and with the Portuguese routes developing, to Santiago de Cacem or Compostela, pagan routes along the edge of the continent, there is plenty of scope for pilgrim hostels . . .

Zambujeira do Mar to Almograve . . .

The lovely German students, Sophie and Halina, head back to Lisbon on the early bus and I head for Almograve, glad to be back on the road after the reunion with the waves at Zambujeira do Mar and warm human contact with Joao, Marisa, Sophie, Halina and Birte. The hostel was a luxury, with a six bed, en-suite dormitory to myself and a well equipped kitchen to share.

All along the route, intensive horticulture again . . . some big companies here, from UK, USA and others . . . next time you buy strawberries in winter at the supermarket, they may just be from here. As Joao pointed out, the work is welcome and it comes with invisible pollution through pesticides and perhaps excessive use of water too. The run off from the fields is straight into the Atlantic and I ponder this passing the fishing port . . . where the proper fishermen live in simple houses and appear to have blocked the "Fishermen's Trail" as it climbs the cliff . . .

. . . anyway, I fancy putting in some head down walking, which is conducive to progress on the road and inner work too . . . the afternoon is better for wandering along the cliffs . . .

. . . and so to Cavaleiro for a late cafe com leite and pastel de nata, the very sweet and ubiquitous cake, at the restaurant where workers from the local farms are arriving for lunch . . . Wanda tells me the dish of the day is pork (passed the pig farm earlier and had a chat with two very friendly pigs in a garden) . . . her alternative is a local speciality, fried garlic bread with salad . . . and, since I have all the ingredients in my rucksack, thank her and tell her I will cook it later at the Pousada de Juventude . . . which turns out very well, with some chips (while the oil is hot) and soft goats cheese . . . . . . spectacular lunch spot looking at Cabo Saldao and wonderful wander along to Almograve, an Italian bloke for the last two kms, trying to converse in a mixture of French, Portuguese and English, and a local couple walking their friendly retriever, who show me the way to the Youth Hostel, a 94 bed modern building, with Carmen waiting for customers and wishing she was home, two Portuguese in a double room and me in a 4 bed dormitory, alone . . . another €9 a night including breakfast bargain and wondering why more people are not onto it, like Silva in Tavira . . . resolve to spend the weekend here, write and learn some Portuguese . . .

another day in Zambujeira do Mar

After yesterday's longer than expected ramble inland, a quiet day, beaches, reading, writing, cooking and resting ready for tomorrow's 22km . . . the sea still wild, the wind deterring a swim . . . Birte back to Lisbon on the morning bus, for an exam this afternoon . . . which is cutting it fine, but she was relaxed about it . . .

Musing about running a pilgrim hostel, a recurring thought since the Camino and Portugal seems a good place to try, with the old Portuguese Way starting at Fatima maybe next for a walk . . . the new route in the East starting in Tavira also wants exploring . . . and the Algarve Way, an inland route . . . Helpx opportunities too . . .

Sao Teotonio and back . . .

Having joined Birte and Sophie's meal last night, I offered to cook for them tonight, plus Halina, studying psychology, taking a break from Lisbon . . .

Sao Teotonio is on the main Vicentina route, and only 7 km, so decide to combine a short walk with some shopping . . . arriving in town, there is a small group of men having a political meeting . . . the Alentejo is traditionally on the left, the land tends to be in large holdings, with landless peasants finding work when they can . . . a recipe for radicalism . . . Joao tells me there are tensions with the Bulgarian community, here for fruit picking . . . an interesting perceptual contrast, with Portuguese promoting communism, Bulgarians having experienced something calling itself by that name and seen their freedom disappear . . . maybe it's not so much the ideologies causing problems, but the people who assume power over time . . .

The walk in was along the roads, the return, via my very own cross country route. Walking friends will guess how that turned out. Interesting, different, fences to climb, private property to be trespassed upon . . .

Odeceixe to Zambujeira do Mar . . .

Yesterday the options were open: the inland route to Sao Teotonio, maybe on to Odemira; the coast path to Zambujeira do Mar . . . woken before 7 by heavy rain, seeing a weather window after 8, Zambujeira do Mar it is and off we go, waterproofed, with 18 km ahead, west wind strong, keeping me safe, since the path is perilously close to the edge in places.

Unpronouncable Odeceixe ( maybe oh-djuh-saysh?) is the last town in the Algarve (unless you are going south), first in the arid Alentejo. Not so arid today.

Spectacular along the cliffs, solo wandering again and sinking into the silence albeit surrounded by sounds of surf smashing on rocks . . . musing on the return to the place of the most profound experience of my life,so far . . .

At Zambujeira do Mar, almost four years ago, the Sea stole me for a while, showed me the edge of Life, Serenity . . . whispered one word, Surrender, sailed me round, relaxed, laying back, surfing in perfect Equanimity, threw me ashore, casually, to continue this round once more . . . for what is still not sure . . .

Before, Alzenha do Mar, an hour and a half from Odeceixe, perfect for cafe com leite, shelter to write awhile, friendly barman . . . and in the coffee economy, very fair at €0.80 for a large cup. This morning's bica in Odeceixe was €0.50, yet another, rather pretentious and opportunist place, yesterday charged Britta and me a surprising €8+ for two cafes com leite, a cake and a creme caramel. The dignified response is to pay with equanimity, let the owner deal with their own karma . . . it's only money after all . . . and a blog topic in preparation, since it has such potential to pollute relations between people.

On along the sandy tracks and an accidental diversion into large scale horticulture, sand as the growing medium, irrigation systems and nutrients mixed with the water . . . back on the road to Brejao (before, only an optional diversion for refreshments), a social project with EU funding . . . and a restaurant with bacalhau as the dish of the day . . . €6 and ready for it after bread and cheese for supper yesterday and the same in the pack for lunch . . . plus a cake from the early bica place, miraculously still waiting.

Sharing some thoughts with a young local man, who tells me a little about the horticulture, nods to my observations about the Brits and the south coast, says they are friendlier here in the Alentejo . . . though of course the changes have been noticable gradually, not just at the border after Odeceixe . . .

The bacalhau is wonderful, salt cod, hard boiled egg, boiled potatoes, chick peas, cabbage, carrots . . . eaten slowly, since the fish has bones . . .

Back at the coast, a brief chat with Maurice, a Breton from Lorient, 67, retired from 30 years in the oil industry in Africa and the Middle East . . .

Then, Zambujeira . . . a sign announcing a naturist beach, radical in Portugal, though common in Spain . . . then to the Hostel Hakuna Matata and Joao, who started the business with his partner Marisa when she was made redundant . . . he was in sales all over Iberia and packed it in to follow his dream . . . not so much to run a hostel as spend more time surfing. Now Marisa works for an Englishman who grows strawberries year round near Brejao . . . where I was lost this morning . . .

The other two guests are medical students from Germany, on Erasmus programmes in Lisbon . . . Birte and Sophie, who speak excellent English (as does Joao) and are cooking tonight's meal, a little late since their friend Halina is arriving on the Lisbon bus.

I booked for two days, loving the place and the people immediately . . . wondering about swimming tomorrow . . . now I know where the currents are . . .

Aljezur to Odeceixe . . .

. . . well, it's taken a while, but back on the road, with a companion borrowed from the Amazigh Hostel for the day - Britta, starting her shift at 6, wandering 6 hours via the coast, around 23 km, feeling less, due to good company and varied terrain . . . heath, woods, cliffs, dunes, sea, estuary and beautiful little town of Odeceixe . . . another spectacular picnic spot along the way . . .

At Rogil, the old blokes invite us to sit down (probably it was Britta they invited first, but I was made welcome on the bench by Americo, tried some Portuguese and motivated to learn more).

So much material to process from the past few days at the hostel, so many stories, good connections . . . information for projects waiting to be born . . . meanwhile I am writing this in a bar on the hill, past the windmill, with Portuguese language around me, wondering how I am ever going to understand it . . . but determined to try . . .

. . . even more Aljezur

. . . an early start, porridge with Vince, whok is getting on the 9.05 bus to Lisbon, over to the cafe for a bica, and Paul is there, looking a little cold . . . having arrived on the bus from Lisbon last night at ten, set up his hammock by the river, found the rain uncomfortable, took shelter in the supermarket car park, slept hardly at all . . .

Paul is 27, born in Dinan, near St Malo, living in Lille, trained as a sound engineer, currently unemployed, taking a holiday from being unemployed in a cold climate, loving Portugal and easily persuaded to stay in the amazing Amizagh hostel, which is feeling rather like home for now . . . and having established a heart connection, I am easily persuaded to stay another day too . . .

. . . back at the hostel, Sina and Ed, from Holland, now based near Tavira, walking south on the Vicentina Way, are having breakfast before moving on . . . they seem to spend most of their time walking somewhere or other, which is nice . . .

Brita from Germany, teacher taking a break, is planning to take the bus to Odeceixe and walk back tomorrow . . . and is easily persuaded to walk with me and take the bus back for her 6pm shift at the hostel.

After mostly enjoying the solitude of solo walking, I have been reflecting on the need for relationship too, and Aljezur is bringing it . . .

After lunch Paul and I walk to the beach, doing philosophy along the way, then back for another shared meal, this time minus the Americans and the Scot, in Lisbon by now, and Mark, skyping home; and plus Dana from Italy (volunteering here, web designer from Turin, soul revolting against that life) and fellow Brit, Carl, made redundant after 33 years in the RAF, now living in northern Portugal . . . and Paul, who makes the pasta and sauce and maybe scores a lift to Portimao with Edwin and Indre . . . and my sweet tooth rewarded with a delicious dessert from Brita - ice cream with hot chocolate sauce.

Aljezur again . . .

Since my rest and write day yesterdayturned into a walk and talk day, I am taking it easy - a look at the castle, some shopping for curry night and some time to write.

This morning, an interview with Edwin and Indre, the lovely young Lithuanian couple, who welcomed me to the hostel when I arrived two days ago. The place is run by volunteers, who get a free bed in exchange for three or four hours work a day, five days a week. The owner calls in once a week or so . . . light touch management, which seems to work . . . and free labour is a bonus . . . Edwin and Indre met at university in Vilnius, studying political science, and both went to work in advertising, very successfully . . . though they felt unfulfilled, took off for Portugal, surfing and still keeping some work going in this world of interactive internet. Plus the free accomodation, with surfing close by.

This morning, Sacha, from Germany, left on the bus to Lisbon and Mark took on his job at the hostel. Right place, right time and still no sign of the very laid back owner . . .  probably a surfer.

Nastasia set off northwards on the Vicentina Way, her supper made and in her rucksack . . . ready for another night of wild camping.

And nine of us sat down to curry plus octopus . . . a Dutchman, German woman, Lithuanian couple, Scotsman, Chinese American and American working in Barcelona . . . and a wandering Englishman, set to wander north in the morning . . .

Around Aljezur . . .

. . . since it feels good here, I took another day, to wander, write, rest . . .

. . . and use the hostel desk top to clear some of the emails and unsubscribe from others, since they eat my data allowance and I am not reading them anyway . . .

. . . and sitting at the computer, spot Chris, walking down the hill, arrange to meet him for coffee later . . . with his wife of forty years, Jenny . . . lovely couple, renting a house in the centre of town from a local woman . . . trying to learn the language and finding the locals hospitable . . . the expats from the nearby "urbanisation", they say, don't integrate . . . at the charity shop later I meet two English women from the urbanisation, who say the Portuguese are rather stand-offish . . . you get back what you give out . . .

After lunch at the hostel, I go for a stroll to the beach, along the wrong side of the river . . . wondering whether it may be crossed at the sea . . . Mark and Brita come past on bikes . . . Mark says he was told it's possible, the water is just below the knees . . . arriving at a likely spot, where the river outflow hits the waves coming in, assess available info . . . and my children's request not to drown myself . . . Chris and Jenny told me of several cases of huge waves sweeping even local fishermen out to their deaths . . . the waves are quite big today . . . opposite a likely spot, some steps carved into the rock . . . removing shoes, socks and trousers I give it a go, only five metres or so of fast flow . . . over the knees, but below the boxers, mostly . . .and up the other side . . . elated . . . feel the fear and do it anyway . . . maybe it wasn't so dangerous, just overthought . . .

. . . back along the other side, through the aforementioned urbanisation, soulless . . . and eventually to town . . . nearly 15 km on a rest day . . .

At the hostel it gets convivial . . . Mark and I cook, Brita joins us . . . then Nastasia, French student of European Studies in Holland . . . walking the Vicentina Way, camping wild . . . Vince from Scotland, wandering . . .

. . . late to bed, unblogged, wondering about a real rest day tomorrow . . . which is now today . . .

What would you be doing now . . .

. . . if money was no object?

Fear is what blocks the free life and fear of lack of money pervades all levels of society.

It's what keeps benefits claimants on ever tightening budgets, since alternatives are not very attractive and getting back into the system is harder than staying there in the first place.

It's what keeps millions of people doing jobs they hate, maybe spending spare time on the things they love.

Yet if we come into this human incarnation with a unique gift, our soul will not be satisfied until it is given . . . and received . . . in the beautiful dance of mutuality which life may be when we give and receive with open hearts.

Alan Watts advised his students to work out what they loved doing and do that . . . let the money take care of itself.

Asking myself the question a few years ago, the response was "walking", which I did in Weardale most days . . . even offering guided walks (without success, which is just as well, since my map reading skills are poor and my idea of a good walk is to get lost and find new places).

Since November I have been walking just about every day, seeing new places, meeting new people . . . and, for now, money is no object . . . there is enough . . .

Carrapateira to Aljezur . . .

Out early, without coffee . . . an hour to Bordeira, the first and last refreshment stop . . . and the cafe is closed when I arrive . . . Terrie turns up at 9 and gets the coffee on while I take the chairs off the tables . . . she is from South Africa, sailed to Portimao with her husband, loved Portugal, sailed again to the Cayman Islands (delivering boats both times) . . . settled there for a couple of years, living in fear of crime, as in South Africa . . . yearned for Portugal, divorced her Cayman Island loving husband, moved to Bordeira, took on the bar, which the owner had closed a year or two before in another marital disagreement . . . she is loving it and really getting to know the locals.
She helps with my understanding of the dynamics here . . . agrees the south coast is a disaster . . . says Padralva was restored by Portuguese lawyers from Lisbon, who have not paid all the owners . . . that the Portuguese soul is beautiful and distressed at losing the link with the land, albeit having been seduced by the money.

Back on the track, a lovely local dog joins me, trotting along with no fuss, seeming to say: We're not all like that nasty one yesterday . . . she turns back after a couple of kilometres, without saying goodbye . . . maybe she just likes having a human to take walking sometimes . . .

The route is beautiful again, the sound of the sea and the smell of honey . . . occasional stream to cross and a few showers of rain, the first I've seen in Portugal.

At lunch time the sea appears spectacularly, a great spot, if a little windy, for my bread and cheese.

Back inland and into Aljezur, meeting Chris, from Swanage, Dorset, who served in the RAF, then dealt antiques, before moving first to Spain, then here. He walked the Camino Frances a year ago, so we swap tales, then he points me to the Amazigh Hostel . . . the pousada de juventude being closed for a month . . . another surf place, good feel, thinking about an extra day, then Mark arrives from Raposeira . . . big waves forecast for tomorrow . . .

Riposeira to Carrapateira

Possibly one of the most beautiful stages of any walk, including wonderful Weardale . . . the second day on the Rota Vicentina and after an early start, a standing bica or expresso in Vila do Bispo, the first rest stop, at the cafe in Pedralva.

Breakfast was porridge with banana and honey . . . brief farewells with Jonny from Germany, Davey from Britain and Marc from Holland . . . beautiful surfer souls, sharing maps, coffee and timely information . . .

Pedralva, an abandoned village, restored by expats living more lightly on the land, maybe more sympathetically with the few locals left . . . perhaps a piece for the APtB jigsaw . . . perhaps local prices too - cafe com leite is €1.80 which is high on the coffee economy scale. And so far not over friendly, as my first three attempts to find out more about how it all works are unsuccessful. Anyway, the Rota has been routed right past the cafe, which already has a reputation for good food in the area, so they are onto a winner . . . not Portuguese owned though . . . this story is from Davey, surfer, builder and owner of second home here, which he is doing up with help from local builders . . . and having problems with the bureaucracy, despite paying a local solicitor €500 to do all the checks and paperwork . . .

Marc tells me to ask at the surf shop in Carrapateira, maybe find local accommodation . . . let's see . . .

. . . the contrast with the south coast really hits here as I experience a perfect walker moment, an hour into the walk, the sun warm in the south-east, sound of the sea breaking onto the cliffs, all the way from the Americas, birdsong and occasional traffic on the road to Aljezur, close enough to reassure me I am on the route (though the markers are good too) . . . (attentive readers may note the paradox of my wish to move beyond the known, whilst following a human made trail, aware of the desire for a bed in which to sleep each night. . .) . . . the scent of pine, eucalyptus, honey . . . and the trail itself, sand firm yet yielding . . .

. . . and dropping into Pedralva, musing about the absence of barking dogs and whether they may be friendlier around here . . . a cowherd with five working dogs ignore me . . . at the first house a snarling dog on a chain, then, as I consider that they only protect their territory, an unfriendly one loose and with an expanded sense of territory attacks . . . which is rather alarming . . . it approaches at speed, ready for action, teeth bared, barking angrily . . . to show fear now is to encourage it, to run pointless . . . I face it, extend the hand of friendship, say hello . . . it stops a metre away, still full of fury, maybe knowing the distance humans can kick, though that thought doesn't occur at the time . . . I'm going for the peace and love approach . . . its human arrives in a car, calls it to get in . . . but it is enjoying itself too much and goes back and forth for a while, until finally it gets tired and wanders off . . . so much for theories . . . a dog blog is brewing and since family and friends are dog people, they may like to offer insights . . . my next assignment is dog sitting in Graca next month, so it is timely . . .

. . . at the Pedralva cafe (or restaurant as they call it), John arrives, joins me and tells me his story. Irish, he was golfing near Portimao, liked it, decided to buy a place to do bed and breakfast, did that 10 years ago, now has a manager, while he walks . . . including the Camino Portugues from Porto to Santiago de Compostela.

We get into the Portuguese mentality, I am trying to understand it. The older people can be vindictive, he says; the younger ones arrogant, thinking they are better than the British. I say the latter is reaction to their treatment, enslavement, at the hands of rich expats. Maybe the former is revenge for their dispossession.

All good information and a tip for Irish reading too - Frank Delaney, Ireland.
You can find John at:www.rioarade.com

Back on the road, 10km to go, and an alternative route in wet weather. If you want to keep your feet dry in any weather, take it. I take the main route and end up shoes off wading the river, which is cooling for the feet and a perfect spot for a picnic.

On along lanes, past lifestyle expat settlements, up a steep hill ( from the top of which I see the direct alternative in the valley . . . ) and the first sight of the sea so far today, though it was never far away.

Trying to slow the pace, write along the way and the second writing stop, after the river crossing lunch stop, is high above Carrapateira . . . now it's the bar in the village, which sits on the side of the hill, with three German men drinking beer and a rather miserable Portuguese bar owner serving my glass of red wine . . . wondering if my perception is changing with incoming information . . . the young woman in the shop was also miserable, though she smiled in the end (don't give up easily) . . .

. . . as for the surf shop, it's shut, but Selma at the museum tells me where the rooms are and at the Pensao das Dunas Ana offers me an ensuite room for €27 . . . outside of any theoretical budget, but beautiful and at Aljezur tomorrow maybe a €9 pousada . . . with breakfast . . .

. . . down to the dunes, big waves breaking beyond, and a Scot, David, currently wandering in camper van, previously in yacht, taking time off from very well paid work managing projects in the Middle East . . . some interesting observations on the expat life in Saudi Arabia and Bahrain . . .

. . . the Germans aren't engaging and I am not really trying . . . the vibe is there or not, accept it . . . time for a shower and a picnic in my very comfortable pensao . . .