From Porto, we took the motorway north past Braga and crossed the border into Galicia at Tui, left Vigo to our left and Pontevedra to our right and headed for a charming little campsite at the end of a promontory on the Ria de Pontevedra estuary, extremely busy with locals returning home after a weekend on the coast, but a lovely spot in a place called Sangenjo (Sanxenxo in Galician) run by a very friendly and jocular man called Evencio.

Camping Suavila (“your home”) is two thirds full of Spanish families in semi-permanent encampments of varying sizes and degrees of sophistication and it feels very homely and as if we’ve been allowed into an established little community as temporary guests.  “But don’t they have to go to work?” we ask Evencio.  “The fathers go to work Mon-Fridays then join their families on the coast at the weekend the whole summer”.  Hence the endless line of traffic going back into town as we were making our way there.  What a nice way to live – all you need is a nice beaches and a good climate.  Talking of which we went down to investigate the sea and it looks so appealing, with soft white sand and clear calm water (though chilly) we instantly decide to go in for a satisfying swim.

Evencio invites us to try out some white wine made by the family.  His niece who serves us says when I ask how his name is spelt that he’s the only Evencio she’s ever come across and his brother was called Belarmino, which again was a very rare name, as was that of their mother who named them.  Evencio has trouble talking audibly as he’s has some vocal chords cut in an operation (which must be a severe disadvantage in Spain where people tend to talk let’s say quite emphatically!).  But it doesn’t stop him communicating and joking – he’s full of joie de vivre.  And why wouldn’t he be?  It’s a nice little business, a lovely spot, and there doesn’t seem to be much economic hardship in this tranquil part of the country.

In characteristic style by now, we arrived in Santiago de Compostella at around midday. Our arrival  coincided with the arrival of a heat wave so in temperatures of 38 and rising we started the climb which would lead to the Cathedral of Santiago de Compostel and visit the final destination of Camino pilgrims.   Had we been earlier we could have joined the pilgrims on their way to the midday pilgrims mass. Pilgrims received the compostela,a certificate of accomplishment for having completed the Way (walking a minimum of 100 km or cycle at least 200 km) on arrival at Santiago de Compostele after producing their pilgrims passport with the required stamps.

The Compostela is an indulgence which reads, in Latin: ‘The CHAPTER of this holy apostolic and metropolitan Church of Compostela, guardian of the seal of the Altar of the blessed Apostle James, in order that it may provide authentic certificates of visitation to all the faithful and to pilgrims from all over the earth who come with devout affection or for the sake of a vow to the shrine of our Apostle St. James, the patron and protector of Spain, hereby makes known to each and all who shall inspect this present document that [Name] has visited this most sacred temple for the sake of pious devotion. As a faithful witness of these things I confer upon him [or her] the present document, authenticated by the seal of the same Holy Church.

The Cathedral has been adapted and added to over the centuries following the discovery of the tomb of St James in 814 and is now a magnificent ‘Romanesque structure visited by hundreds and thousands of pilgrims each year. Although we missed the pilgrims Mass we were able to climb via a narrow passage behind the altar to reach the statue of Saint James, rises above the main altar, to witness pilgrims kissing the saint’s mantle

In the crypt, below the main altar houses the relics of Saint James and two of his disciples, Saint Theodorus and Saint Athanasius. This is the final destination of the pilgrimage where pilgrims stand or kneel in silent prayer.

Outside the cathedral, the medieval quarter of the city is home to Santiago de Compostela University, housed in various beautiful buildings throughout the quarter, some of which you could visit. Behind the cathedral was the Paradors Hotel, built originally as a hospital for pilgrims by Queen Isabella and King Ferdinand of Spain, the architects of the Inquisition.   The surrounding streets were bustling with bars, cafes and shops selling Compostela regalia – staffs, shells and crosses in abundance. People were seen wearing tee-shirts proclaiming that they had ‘Done the Camino 2015’. The visible commercialisation did detract somewhat from the meaning and intention of the Camino de Santiago de Compostela.

 

Next stop was La Coruna (or A Coruna in Galician) lying on the north west corner of Spain.  We found a campsite in Santa Cruz on the other side of the wide bay on a hilltop overlooking a seemingly very popular beach.  Though large, it was teeming with people who looked like ants from the hilltop, both in and out of the water.  A swim seemed de rigueur but once in the water, it was more wading through a thick broth of seaweed and wasn’t pleasant in the least. So it was back at the campsite and a 2 km walk to Santa Cruz village for a taste of the local cuisine. There were several busy seafront bars and restaurants but we avoided these and found in a side street the Meson Pulpeira which was empty but where the chef/owner greeted us warmly and talked us convincingly through the menu and the Galician and Asturian specialities.  It was worth every penny.  We ordered some Mejillonada de Zamburinas as la Cavalcanti (Mussels and Coquille St Jacques in a very tasty sauce) and grilled Pulpo (octopus) with garlic for starters and a Rape a la Plancha (grilled local fish) and Cordero Asado (roast mutton) as a main.  All washed down with a local regional white made with the Godello grape which was very much like a good Sauvignon.

We asked why they didn’t put some tables outside to attract more people like other restaurants were doing.  Because their food needs to be served straight away and they couldn’t do this if they had tables outside as well as in without employing more staff, and that was too complicated.  They preferred to serve to fewer regular discerning customers than to a large number of visitors. In any case, it was only 8.30pm and still quite early for Spanish diners – the place would start filling up later.  Sure enough a large group of 12 regulars arrived shortly before we left.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

No sooner have we left Ponte das Tres Entraps than we find ourselves climbing very steeply up a never-ending incline.  It feels as if we’ve never been this high before and driving along hairpin bends here is not for the faint-hearted.  At Seia we have to stop and take a photo as we seem to be above other mountain peaks.

We continue travelling cross-country on ‘B’ roads until we reach the main national route just south of Viseu from which we cross the Serra do Caramulo to just north of Aveiro before turning into the coastal road to Porto.

Our campsite turns out to be in a seaside resort in Vila Nova de Gaia just south of Porto. As we arrive in the late afternoon the temperature has dropped sharply from 37 degrees on the route there to 22 degrees, and a strong wind is blowing.  The sea off the seemingly endless sand and rocky beach looks rough and angry and a black flag is fluttering violently. For once, I’m not really tempted – it really is blowy and the sea looks positively suicidal.  As it’s a weekend, crowds of people are making their way back home clutching rolled-up mats, umbrellas and other beach equipment.  They have that determined look people have on a Bank Holiday weekend in Brighton or Littlehampton when the weather’s been a total disappointment but they’re not going to allow that to deny them their seaside fun. But as the manager of the campsite says (his name’s Nunu, another Nunu), this isn’t the Algarve, here in the north you have to be made of hardier stuff. “Is it always like this?” I ask him.  “Half and half” he says, elliptically, “there’s a reason foreigners prefer the south.  The beaches look good but as soon as they dip their toe in the water – ouch!” And that’s on a good day.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The campsite is very basic and not terribly inviting either, but it’s just for the night, ready to visit Porto the next day.

A brief background note:

Porto is Portugal’s second city, with a population of c 1.5 mil. It’s located along the Douro River estuary and it’s an important city in the heavily industrialized north of the country with many large companies headquartered there. In 2014, it was elected the ‘best European destination’ by the Best European Destinations Agency. Its historical core has been designated a UNESCO World Heritage Site.

It was an outpost of the Roman Empire.  Portugal’s name is derived from the Latin-Celtic name “Portus-Cale”. It came under Moorish control in 711 but was recaptured by the ruler of Galicia, Leon and the Asturias in 868.

In 1387 it was the site of the marriage between John 1 of Portugal and Philippa of Lancaster, daughter of John of Gaunt, initiating the Treaty of Windsor military alliance which NATO is based on.

In the 14th and 15th centuries, Porto was an important contributor to the ship-building effort that was vital to the success of the naval expeditions. Henry the Navigator sailed from Porto to embark on the conquest of Ceuta in Morocco which paved the way for the exploration of West Africa and initiated the Age of Discovery.

People from Porto are still referred to as ‘tripeiros’ (tripe-eaters) because at that time, higher quality cuts of meat were shipped off with the sailors leaving off-cuts for the citizens.  Tripe is still a culturally important dish.

In the 18th century, via the treaty with England, the English came to dominate port wine production for a while.

In the 19th century, the 1st Duke of Wellington’s Anglo-Portuguese army pushed back Napoleon’s troops in a surprise ‘coup de main’ by crossing the river on wine barges.

The first revolt by the Republicans against the Monarchy was in Porto in 1891. This led eventually to the formation of the Republic in 1910.

By morning, the weather has improved significantly and by 10 am the whole of the promenade is a hive of sporty activity, with dozens of people jogging and cycling on their designated paths while the beach is already filling up with colorful umbrellas.  People in both Portugal and Spain are generally really quite sporty.  With such a rich variety of tasty food, you probably need to be.  Enjoying eating is probably a great motivator to exercise, and surely that’s as good a reason as any to exercise?

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

We find a convenient open-air car park not far from the centre and take our bikes into town.

We chained up our bikes near the closest Tourist Information Office and and walked round the old centre in no particular order after getting a few basic recommendations.

First we saw the baroque style Igreja da Trinidade in Santo Ildefonso where a mass was being held to a surprisingly small congregation. We then walked down the Avenida dos Aliados to the Praca de Liberdade at the centre of which was a statue of Pedro IV on horseback.  Across the road is the Igreja dos Congregates, built at the end of the 17th century on the site of an older chapel dedicated to St Anthony.  The blue tiles however were added later in the 20th century.Turning right into the Rua dos Clerigos and at the intersection with Rua das Carmelitas, we found the famous baroque Torre dos Clerigos, built by an Italian architect in the mid-18th century and which has become Porto’s main visual icon.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

We went down further to the Sao Bento Train Station area with its typical Porto facades and narrow buildings then turned left into a poorer and more shabby quarter through the Rua do Souto before reaching the imposing 12th century Romanesque Se do Porto Cathedral located at the top of a hill. In front of the cathedral and in a heroic pose on horseback was a statue of Vimara Perez, a Spanish nobleman from the Asturias and first ruler of the ‘County of Portugal’ in the 9th century.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

We walked down the hill along the Rua de San Joao to the busy and touristy Sao Nicolau district on the bank of the estuary.  Attractive boats carried tourists up and down the estuary and under the Ponte Luis I (Porto is known for its many bridges).  We had been advised to look for a good place to eat on either the Rua das Flores or the Rua de Mouzinho da Silveira nearer the main square but we didn’t want a full lunch and picked a place that served smaller snacks.  I was intrigued by an item on the menu called Pastel de Chavez as Chavez was the place Flavio Miguel had said down in the Algarve that ‘all the Flavios came from’.  Having researched it, a more accurate explanation was that the town of Chavez had an older Roman name of the Flavian town after one of the Flavius Emperors who founded it and consequently, to this day, people who come from Chavez are nicknamed ‘Flaviensen’.  As we weren’t going to have time to make a detour to visit the town, if this Pastel de Chavez actually was a Chavez speciality, the next best thing to going there I reckoned was to eat one of their pastries.  When the friendly waiter Felipe confirmed that was the case, we ordered two as well as two Bolinhos de Bacalhau (cod fish cakes) and two Rissois de Leito (pork rissoles).  I’m delighted to say the Pastels de Chavez (tasty mince in flaky pastry pasties) were the tastiest of the three and it left me feeling irrationally vindicated.  A couple of tourists (from Florida and Toronto) even stopped to ask what the pasties were as they looked so good, which gave me an opportunity to tell them the whole story and make me feel even better!  It led to a very interesting conversation with them (they were just coming to the end of a tour of Europe by train the whole way) and this wouldn’t have happened without the Chavez / Flaviensen connection!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

We start to make our way back via the Praca do Infante D Enrique where a statue has been erected to commemorate the 5th centenary of the birth of the legendary Prince Henry the Navigator.  It shows him in battle dress next to a globe and symbolically pointing overseas.  As I take a photo a pigeon decides to show his devotion by resting on his head (it would be unkind to put any other interpretation on this).

We then walk up the historically important Rua das Flores which in the 16th century became one of the most elegant streets in Porto, favoured by nobility and the bourgeoisie, who built grand houses along it. At the end of the street is the ornate Igreja da Misericordia built in the 16th century and distinctive for its Rococo style frontispiece added on in the 18th century. Then we continue up the Rua Ferraz and the Rua Caldeireiros.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Finally, we find something quite strange – a church that looks like it’s been built in two different styles, one Classic/Baroque, the other Rococo – but which in fact turns out to be two separate churches built 150 years apart, confusingly right next the each other.  The first is the Igreja dos Carmelitas, built in the first half of the 17th century in a blend of Classic and Baroque styles and the second is the Igreja do Carmo, built in the second half of the 18th century in Rococo style by Silvestro Silvestri.  A afternoon Sunday mass was being held in the first and this time, the church was completely full.  Clearly, Classic Baroque has it against Rococo.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

And so we cycle back to the car park, not without getting slightly lost first and set off for our final drive through Portugal (‘siempre infrent’ north, as we learnt was the Portuguese way of saying ‘straight on’) and to a place in Galicia on the sea called Sanxenco south of Santiago de Compostella.

Judith and I agree that overall Porto didn’t have the immediate appeal and excitement that we felt in Lisbon but it’s probably more a city to be savoured over a longer period to fully appreciate what it has to offer.  We didn’t have time to visit the Port-selling district on the opposite bank of the estuary, but in any case, we wouldn’t have been able to buy anything to take back with us owing both to lack of space and hot temperatures we expect to experience as we enter into Juillet in France and Agosto in Italy. Peccato.

We really enjoyed Portugal and would like to say ‘Obrigadi’ for a really delightful 9 days. We will definitely be back.

From our base in Costa Caparica, we readied ourselves for a day’s visit to Lisbon.  Costa Caparica is on the other side of the vast inland sea that is the mouth of the Rio Tejo (Tagus), the longest river in the Iberian Peninsula.  Including the bus ride to the ferry and a quick and efficient ferry crossing the whole journey took an hour or so.

What’s immediately obvious is why Lisbon is one of the world’s longest-founded cities and became so important. Its massive sheltered natural harbour made it an important seaport for trade between the Mediterranean Sea and northern Europe.  Its proximity to southern and extreme western Europe as well as Africa and access to the Americas made it ideally placed for exploration and commerce.  The waterfront is lined with miles of docks, wharfs and drydock facilities that can accommodate the largest oil tankers.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

But what intrigued us was how a small country of c 90,000 square kms (roughly the size of Ireland if you include Northern Ireland), with a population of no more than 2 mil at the height of its power, could become such a great imperial power to rival Spain, England and France.  It’s as if Ireland had become a great colonial power in the 15th and 16th centuries. It’s true Holland is smaller but it didn’t have anything like the reach and global spread throughout all continents that Portugal had.

Since early times, fishing and overseas trade have been Portugal’s main economic activity. But for centuries it was under the thumb of succeeding occupiers and was often ruled from neighbouring Leon or Galicia or Cordoba in Spain. It became an independent country under Alfonso I in 1128 but it was still not a powerful nation.  But by the 15th and 16th centuries it became a leading European power which while not dominant in European affairs, had an extensive colonial trading empire.

The answer seems to lie with the genius of legendary figures like Prince Henry the Navigator, Nunu Alvares Pereira (hence our waiter’s name in Evora!), Vasco de Gama, Alfonso de Albuquerque and other visionary naval explorers.  That coupled with Portugal’s strategic location and great advances in geographic, mathematical, scientific knowledge and above all, naval technology.  All that combined therefore made Portugal a powerful ‘thalassocracy’ (from ‘thalassa’ meaning sea and ‘keratin’ meaning to rule) which enabled it to build up a vast empire in South America, Africa, Asia and Oceania.  

It was the first to capture a foothold in Africa and bring back African gold from the Gold Coast bypassing Arab caravans in the Sahara. In 1499 Vasco de Gama discovered a route to India. In the next decade China, Japan, Madagascar, Goa, Ceylon and Mauritius were reached. In 1515, Portugal seized Hormuz and established relations with Persia.  Did you know that in 1521 Portugal even captured and occupied Bahrain for 80 years?!

Portugal’s golden age of discovery lasted 2 centuries.  But gradually, it lost wealth and status as the English, French and Dutch surrounded and conquered its widely scattered trading posts and territories.

It declined further after its defeat at Alcacer Quibir in Morocco in 1578 and was then was devastated by a terrible earthquake, fire and tsunami that destroyed a large part of Lisbon and killed a third of its inhabitants. It was weakened further during the Napoleonic wars and with the loss of its largest colony, Brazil, in 1822.

In 1910 a revolution deposed the monarchy. A military coup in 1926 installed a dictatorship that lasted until 1974, when it was ousted by a new government that brought in sweeping democratic reforms and granted independence to most remaining colonies in 1975.

But the fact remains that Portugal’s moment in history was in the 15th century and early 16th century. At a time when England was engaged in a bitter division between the houses of Lancaster and York and the persecution of heretics; when France was also drawn into the Hundred Years War and civil unrest between the Armagnacs and the Burgundians; and Spain had just started the Inquisition ordered by Ferdinand and Isabella, Portugal was developing ocean-going skills and starting a new age of discovery.

But like the Phoenicians before them who opened up the Mediterranean for the Romans after them, they were bound to eventually lose control of their colonies to more powerful and militarily ruthless powers. Clearly, that’s not to condone their or other colonialists’ plundering of the places and peoples they colonized of course!

We got off the ferry at Belem, a few kilometers south of the historic centre.  The name is derived from Bethlehem and it’s historically very significant in itself as it was from here that Vasco de Gama set sail to discover the sea route to India and other naval expeditions left from.  It therefore symbolizes the golden age of the Voyages of Discovery.  It has for instance, the Mosteiro dos Jeronimo, the construction of which was ordered in honour of Vasco de Gama in 1501 and was completed a century later.  Also the Padrao dos Descombrimento which commemorates the 500th anniversary of the death of Henry the Navigator.  And the Belem Tower, a military outpost built to protect the Tagus estuary.

We stopped at the Pateis de Belem patisserie to try their famous pateis de Belem – very similar to the pateis de nata we’d had the day before but more creamy!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

From Belem we took a modern tram into the centre of town and arrive in the main square where we’re advised by some French visitors to avoid the touristic restaurants and look instead in the side streets. This is exactly what we do and order what everyone else in the restaurant seems to be eating – a kind of mixed ‘pot-au-feu’ of lots of slightly overcooked different things, or a Portuguese stew.  We were OK with the lean bits of meat and potato and cabbage but couldn’t quite handle everything on the plate.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The Tourist Information kiosk in Belem had advised us to take the No 28 old tram that did a complete tour of the old centre.  The queue for this was so long however that we decided to go for an alternative though more expensive tourist tram doing a similar tour.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

It’s hard to believe how these tramcars have survived labouring up and down the hilly narrow roads in fierce competition with every other road user.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

We reach a high point on our tramcar tour where we can’t resist getting off.  It’s Sao Miguel square from which you can stand on a terrace giving a magnificent view of the old city, with the colourful and popular Alfama quarter below and the cathedral and pantheon in the distance.  On the square is a statue of the benevolent figure of St Vincent, the patron saint of Lisbon.  We pay a seller from Monte Verde to take some photos of us.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

We find a beautiful old house that’s now a hotel – the Palacete Chafariz d’el Rei – so go in to take a look.  We’re greeted by a charming young man, Ivan, who tells us the house was built by a gentleman who made his riches in Brazil.  It’s called The Fountain of Kings because it’s actually built on top of a fountain that no longer works.  Ivan is very keen that we stay there the next time we come, but at prices ranging between 230 and 400 Euros a night we think it’s unlikely but we don’t rule it out completely so as not to disappoint him.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

After climbing a gentle hill above the Alentejo plain, we arrive at the town of Evora, where we were staying for the night, at the very comfortable Orbitur Campismo (one of a chain and very well-run).

Evora was a Celtic settlement before becoming an important centre of Roman Iberia.  It declined under the Visigoths (them again!) but flourished as a centre of trade under the Moors – at which time it was called Yabura.  It enjoyed a golden age in the 14th-16th centuries, became an archbishopric and  and got its own Jesuit university.  It was plundered by French forces in 1808 and suffered another decline which ironically protected its fine old medieval centre from development.  Its population today is smaller than it was then.

It’s now one of Portugal’s most beautifully-preserved medieval towns.  The 14th century walls surround narrow lanes, an elaborate medieval cathedral and cloister, columns of the Templo Romano and a pretty town square – the Praca do Giraldo, which witnessed some gruesome scenes during the Inquisition.

It’s now a lively university town again and the restaurants serve Alentajan specialities.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The town is not too far from the campsite so we cycle into town for a ‘shufti’.  A Fair is being held in honor of St Juan, the patron saint of this area so we cycle through but see nothing of particular interest so carry on climbing up the hill.  We happen upon the old cathedral and convent which are closed.  On the steps are gathered a group of young women full of youthful exuberance and laughter.  No doubt students. We arrive at the large square (Praca do Giraldo) and have an aperitif.  Our waiter is very sweet and doesn’t mind being quizzed.  His name is Nunu Rafael Barbosa-…. (didn’t catch the second part of his double-barrelled name but he said it was traditional for everyone to have two Christian names and two surnames, from each side of the family).  He was from Figuera, a large seaside town further north but had moved down to support his separated mother and 8 brothers and sisters (he was the eldest).  The situation in Portugal had improved but was dire 2-3 years ago.  There was no work, cafes and restaurants were closing and people were being thrown out into the street.  He went to France to find work but 6 months later his friends said things had picked up.  He didn’t complete his studies because he needed to work to support his mother and brothers and sisters.  On his left forearm were two tatoos – on one side was Barbosa, his mother’s maiden name and the other, Claudia, his mother’s name.  How sweet – what would be the chances of seeing such demonstrable devotion elsewhere?

After climbing higher up still to see the old Roman columns where the old baths once were, we wander around the old winding cobbled lanes and find a restaurant offering Alentejan cuisine.  The Ebora Megalithica is charmingly hidden away and opens up onto a wonderful little inner courtyard.  It’s staffed entirely by students who are now on their summer vacation.  They’re extremely sweet and helpful.  They’re both from the region. One is studying Landscape Engineering and the other Tourism and Hospitality.  The special Alentejan roasted chicken is off as it was so popular so we go for the ‘Bacalhau a Gomes de Sa’, which is basically a fisherman’s pie but with lots of things added to it to make it much more tasty.  As a starter we have antipasti that include ‘farinheira’, a dip that tastes a bit like hummus but is made with flour and ground sausage.  We go for a red wine (a Syrah) from Alentejo called Monte Velho which is excellent.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Next morning, the weather has turned a little overcast and quite cool, almost chilly. It’s not unwelcome though it’s cooler than I expected for my swim in the campsite’s impressive pool, which of course, I can’t resist.

We set off for our next destination in the Costa de Caparico on the outskirts of Lisbon, ready to spend a good day in Lisbon the next day.  Brenda has only had one wash since we left almost exactly a month ago now and as we turn into a Brico-Marche for a gas-jar refill (they seem to last about 3 weeks) we take advantage of the jet-wash to give Brenda a good spray. A little apprehensively as the last time we did this in Bayonne it rained for a whole week practically non-stop.

The road to Lisbon again features the northern Alentejan plain, cork tree forests, the odd line of stork nests, some vineyards and olive groves. We pass through Montemor-o-Novo, Vendas Nova, Palmela, Corrojos and Almada (another name of obviously Arabic origin) until we arrive at the Campismo Orbitur on the other side of the mighty Rio Tejo that from here looks like the ocean.

When we arrive, it’s time for tea for two with the ubiquitous ‘pastel de nada’, very tasty Portuguese custard tarts made with flaky rather than shortcrust pastry.

It’s lunchtime by the time we leave Seville and we take a straight road to the border which takes us through San Juan de Aznalfarache, Cartaya, Lepe and Villablanca until we reach the bridge over Rio Cuadiana at Avamonte at just after 3pm.

Over the bridge at Castro Marim and a banner over the road wishes us “Bem-vindo Algarve”.   It feels exhilarating – this is a place neither of us has been to before and we’re also reaching the furthermost western point in our journey. It feels at once like we’ve broken a psychological barrier and that the real adventure has begun.

We drive past the small towns of Tavira and Luz before arriving at Olhao where we were to camp for the next two nights. Though basic, it’s a friendly site, close to a fishing village and a popular beach on a lagoon.

Miguel welcomes us and is quite chatty. He’s amused to find out my name as his full name is actually Flavio Miguel. There is a town near Porto in the north where all the Flavios (or ‘Flaviencen’) as he says, come from. Naturally, we decide we must try and visit it.  He also talks about what a tough time Portugal has had economically, but the Algarve has done better, deriving half its revenue from tourism and the other half from fishing.  The campsite has done well recently and the latest big influx has come not from the Dutch but from the French – and they come with very smart and expensive campervans – are they selling their houses and just travelling around?  I’d do that if I could says Flavio Miguel.

Once set up and hooked up, we head for the lagoon for a refreshing dip. Though nearly 6pm the beach is teeming with people in a sea of multi-coloured umbrellas. The water is a little colder than we’d expected but it revives us. Then it’s time for a wander through the fishing village where we have an excellent simple grilled fish meal from a selection of fresh fish we’re asked to choose from.   ‘Batata frita o cusida?” (chips or boiled potatoes?) asks our jovial waiter whose name is actually ‘Joka’. (Interesting that they say ‘batata’ (as in Arabic) rather than ‘patata’. When we ask for the bill he thinks for a while then says 20. Not bad at all.

The next day is spent ‘chilling’ and generally recharging our batteries. Longer swim in the morning followed by some catching up with the blog. The tide is low so I swim to the other side of the lagoon where men are squatting digging up cockles from just below the wet black sand. The low point of the day is when Judith is stung on the arm by a wasp and has a hyper-reaction. The ‘Allergex’ cream we’d brought from Egypt helps as do the anti-histamine tablets but it takes a full 3 days for the redness and swelling to subside. Poor thing!

On Monday 22^nd, we set off straight due north for Evora, which is roughly half way to Lisbon. In doing so we’re sadly missing out the south west corner of the Algarve as it would take too long, and we decide it would only be beaches and holiday destinations anyway. (Later, we meet some Austrians at the campsite in Evora who tell us they’ve come from there and it is spectacularly beautiful. Ah well.)

The Tomtom frustratingly takes us almost all the way back to the Spanish border before turning us north again. We travel through the northern Algarve and then the plains of Alentejo on fairly empty roads and past forests and forests of cork trees (or Quercus suber to use their proper botanical name) – in fact, apart from some eucalyptus, the odd vineyard and olive grove, there was nothing but cork trees the entire way, clearly cultivated, some young, others quite old. They look like small oak trees (they are in fact a type of oak) and some looked naked with their bark stripped off from the ground to three quarters of the way up. It was clear to see why Portugal produces 50% of the world’s cork.

Other interesting facts about cork trees:

• They’re also found in Spain, Algeria, Morocco, France, Italy and Tunisia.
• They have a thick insulating bark that is waterproof and also resistant to fire so protects the tree from forest fires.
• When the bark is extracted, a new one grows making it a renewable resource.
• Harvesting does not harm the tree, provided it’s not stripped too deep.
• It can be harvested every 9-12 years and a tree can be harvested about 12 times in its lifetime.
• Harvesting is done entirely by hand, using a small axe.
• Cork trees live to about 150-250 years.
• It’s illegal to cut down cork trees in Portugal without permission from the Ministry of Agriculture.
• The European cork industry produces 300,000 tonnes a year at a value of Euros 1.5bn and employing 300,000 people.

The route takes us through the beautiful and historical little town of Mertola situated in an area of outstanding beauty. It has a fort which was originally built by the Romans, reinforced by the Arabs and finally the crusaders as well as a church which still has essential features (like the mihrab) of the mosque it once was.

We stopped for an ice cream (‘gelado’) which we’re starting to do more and more frequently we’ve noticed.

Apart from cork trees, the other interesting feature of this region, at this time of year at least, are the storks nesting on top of telegraph poles. The sight of them perched on top of a whole line of telegraph posts is quite astonishing.

The road continues, empty and peaceful, to the celestial sound of Mozart’s Agnus Dei. We drive past Beja, Vidigueira, Portel (where we see a large estate probably belonging to a ‘cork baron’) until we reach our campsite at Evora.

We must confess straight away to the title here being a little misleading, because shamefully, we didn’t give Seville enough time. We were still feeling shattered from our exertions in Granada and our bad night in Olvera the night before and my back was playing up again – all I could think of was of finding somewhere comfortable and cool to lie down and rest my back. And, it was getting very hot.

On the way, we stopped briefly in the little town of Olvera to buy some bread.  In the bakery, we’re tempted by some doughnut-like sugar-dusted pastries which we’re told are called ’empanadillas’ (little ’empanadas’).  We buy four and have them later with a cup of tea – they’re quite tasty, if no doubt cholesterol-heavy.  Olvera seems livelier than any other small town we’ve driven through so far and there’s an old fort at the top of the hill.

Beyond Olvera, the road to Seville is fairly flat though around El Coronil we appear to be going through Teletubby land as Judith says as well as sunflower fields where the sunflowers oddly seem to be facing away from the sun and drooping downwards.

There seemed to be no decent campsites in or around Seville. Judith found a good offer at the Andalusia Palace Hotel in a district of Seville called ‘Heliopolis’ – we clearly gravitate naturally towards Heliopolises – and by 5pm we had parked (abandoned?) Brenda round the corner and checked into the quite large, very busy and non-descript modern hotel.

Seville’s history follows a by now familiar pattern. It was an important river port for the Romans lying on the Rio Guadalquivir which was navigable to the Atlantic 80 kms away.   In Muslim Spain, it was called ‘Ishbiliyyah’ and became the most important of the small Muslim kingdoms (‘taifas’) following the collapse of the Cordoba caliphate. For a time, the poet-king Al-Mutamid presided over a tolerant and hedonistic court in the Alcazar Palace. The strict Almohads took over in the 12^th century and made Seville their capital. The city then fell to Fernando III of Castille in 1248. It thrived when it was granted the monopoly of all commerce with the Americas and in the 16^th century became a rich and cosmopolitan city. Tragically, a plague hit the city in 1649 and killed half the inhabitants.   The river also became silted up and Seville lost the trade with the Americas to Cadiz after which it fell into decline. In the 1980s it became the capital of the new autonomous region of Andalusia and the Expo 92 exhibition brought it millions of visitors. It’s now Spain’s 4^th biggest city and has a varied economy based on tourism, commerce, technology and industry.

After a restorative 3-hour rest (and in Judith’s case, a refreshing dip in the pool), we summon our energies and take the bus into the centre of town to take a quick look around and for a bite to eat. It’s 9.30 by the time we arrive in the old and most touristic quarter of Santa Cruz and all we have time for is a short stroll to soak in the atmosphere. The entire area is sensibly pedestrianized with the exception of trams and splendid-looking horse and carriages with large bright yellow wheels, that look like something out of ‘Gone with the Wind’.

We eventually move a little away from Santa Cruz and into a grid of narrow passages in neighbouring Arenal where we’d been told we’d find authentic Sevillian food. The place we plump for turns out to be a tapas restaurant which is fine as it’s already 10.30. The selection of cold and hot tapas is OK but not especially memorable, the mackerel and tomatoes and potato and aioli probably being the tastiest but the white verdejo at least is from the Seville area and very refreshing.

As we make our way back at 11.30 it looks like the evening is just getting started. The restaurants are full, the noise levels are rising and the eating and drinking is in full flow. Here and there, someone’s playing a guitar. We wait at the bus stop for our bus back to the hotel and realize just across the road is the Arena del Toro, the Royal Bullring, which seems slightly surreal – so they really do exist!

Seville is certainly a lively, vibrant city and a larger metropolis than we’d expected it to be. It is touristic, but it’s also a place full of joie de vivre, as we imagine all Spanish cities are at night.

As we left the next morning after an excellent café and croissant, which in Seville they put a light sugar glaze on top of, we drove past the port and it also brought home to us what a busy commercial hub Seville is as well, which again, is something we hadn’t expected.

Time to move on. We’ve still got a long way to go and tempting as it was to stay on and linger at Camping Los Madriles a few more days (which would have still been nothing compared to the months other aficionados spend there), we can’t afford that kind of luxury.

Besides, moving on provides its own incentive – the addiction and thrill of having sampled something interesting, but energized by the prospect of something new and different. Like the ‘Lone Ranger’ whose mystique only lasts as long as he keeps riding off into the sunset. It could be there’s something of the nomad in all of us, that our default, elemental state is to keep moving in life.

In the Epic of Gilgamesh, King of Uruk in Mesopotamia c 2650BC we’re told: “Life is a bridge, cross it but build no house upon it”. And Issa (Jesus) son of Mary is said to have echoed the same words: ”The world is a bridge, pass over it, but build no house upon it. He who hopes for a day, may hope for eternity, but the world endures but for an hour; spend it in prayer, for the rest is unseen”. I love that – “the world endures but for an hour, spend it in prayer, for the rest is unseen”. Would Enrique have been satisfied with that as that answer as opposed to the one I gave him? Is this close enough to what ‘spiritual’ means as opposed to institutional faith?

We’re headed for Granada and it’s a fair drive. We pass Mazaron, Saladillo, Totana, Lorca, Cullar and the landscape continues to be stark, arid and rocky.

By the time we reach Guadix and Purullena the humbling heights of Sierra Nevada come into view.

“All these things we’ll one day swallow whole and fade out again and fade out again” wails Thom York of Radiohead. Olive groves line the road again.

At 5pm we arrive at the Beas de Granada campsite, small and cosy, perched high up and with a stunning view of the Sierra Nevada mountain range. It’s fairly busy and we meet other friendly Brits there including an ex-head-teacher travelling on his own who we hit it off with, as we tend to with anyone who’s worked in education, and who gives us good advice. The site is perfect to use as a base from which to visit Granada and come back to and most people just catch the bus which stops conveniently just outside the entrance to the site. Our plan however is to drive into Granada the next day, visit Alhambra and the old city and drive to Seville – and this is what we set off to do despite advice that this is a touch too exhausting, which turns out to be quite true as we were to discover.

In the meantime however, we settle in for the night on a good pitch with a great view of Sierra Nevada and Judith makes a very tasty poached Baccalau fish (cod) with new potatoes and asparagus and hollandaise sauce (the high cholesterol content of the latter compensated for by the healthiness of the former or so we hope). All washed down with the rest of the 2013 El Coto Rioja we’d got from a motorway Carrefour. We were never that keen on Rioja, but in Spain at least, it really does taste rather good.

Photo of Beas de Granada at sunset