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to travel
Portugal
Portugal
How enchanted
The rocky coast of the Algarve, the pulsating metropolis of Lisbon, the harsh hinterland in the south of Portugal – an atmospheric dream for motorcyclists, who here at the westernmost tip of Europe, the sun shines strongly on their necks already in spring.
Josef Seitz
07/11/1996
I don’t know how it came about, but an old man has been standing next to me for a few minutes, pondering about the new era. About the fact that nobody wants to buy a piece of land to work it anymore. About the fact that the young men no longer want to go fishing, that they prefer to move to the cities in the vague hope of finding work. Portugal’s agriculture is in ruins, and nobody here really knows what to do next. At some point he just stops talking, looks at my motorcycle, wishes me a safe trip and walks on with a thoughtful expression on his face. A little baffled, I sit down in a simple restaurant on Nazare’s beach promenade. The landlord takes care of me immediately as if he were my grandmother. Soon there will be fried fish, fresh mussels and a glass of wine on the table, and my holiday mood rises with every bite. The steady rustling of the Atlantic has the effect of meditative music, and my eyes slowly wander over the wide beach. A little further back I can see a couple of fishing boats lying on dry land. A few scraps of lacquer still adorn the wooden hulls, which, like relics from another time, remind us that this place was once a fishing nest. Only a handful of men are getting their traps in order late this morning and then hanging them up to dry on thin slatted frames. But the few fishermen seem more like foreign bodies between the many bars and restaurants along the coastal road. Tourism has the place firmly under control, the simple fishing village, when the Nazare was advertised in many travel brochures, has not been for a long time. Only the bill scares me out of my thoughts again. Unfortunately, it is not as cheap as it was with grandmothers: the water of the Costa de Prata is much too cold for a bath in spring. Never mind, I swing myself on the seat of the aged Kawasaki and decide to take a trip back in time. The ancient town of Obidos on the edge of the Portuguese Estremadura is one of the country’s historical gems. There is only one gate for a vehicle to get behind the city walls, which are up to 13 meters high. Modernism never seems to have found this passage. Time has stood still between the whitewashed houses with the wavy tile roofs. And now in March, the place, which is heavily visited in summer, is still deserted. After a few steps you are in front of the former royal palace, where you can spend the night in style today. The porter proudly tells me that this hotel is one of the most beautiful accommodations in Portugal. I don’t doubt that by any means, but I don’t really care, because the hefty room rates in the magnificent building make a hard tent floor appear above every soft bed. And the night doesn’t get that uncomfortable after all. In the sand of the undulating dunes that have piled up on the Peniche peninsula, you will sleep as softly as in a water bed. Peniche is actually an island, because the road connection to the mainland runs on an artificially raised dam. Only then could Peniche develop into one of the most important fishing ports in Portugal. Much more spectacular than the port, however, is the rocky and steep Cape Carvoeiro. Some anglers have been standing on the mighty, razor-sharp cliffs since the early hours of the morning and throw their hooks into the foaming sea spray many meters below. In the distance I can see the remains of former fortifications along the coast. Old towers with round domes, from which guards were once supposed to warn the rural population of the numerous raids by pirates. The old windmills of Atalaia can be seen from afar. The wings jut out into the blue midday sky like wooden arms. In the past, these mills were used to grind corn. Some have now been very well restored, and because today is a public holiday, the residents of Atalaia have gathered to get one of their mills back into operation. Hardly a breeze can be felt, but nevertheless the wind turbines with the white, triangular cloths turn slowly and deliberately. Along the coast I rush further south. The wind comes from the west and smells of salt. I just let the old Kawa run until the asphalt disappears under a soft layer of sand in a small bay. Suddenly the Enduro begins to lurch as if both tires had a flat tire at the same time. But a strong twist on the throttle sets the trend. Some teenagers having their barbecue party on the beach seem a little disappointed. They must have been waiting for my departure. However, a few young Portuguese fared worse. They tried their hand at the meter-high sand dunes between the road and the sea with their moped as a cross-pilot and are just about to straighten the front fork with wooden poles. At the southernmost tip of the Estremadura between the capital Lisbon and Cabo da Roca, the westernmost mainland point of Europe, there is the stone evidence of the wealth of the former Portuguese rulers. In Mafra the monastery palace, which dominates the townscape as a huge baroque block. King Joao V had the building built out of sheer gratitude because his wife had given him a male heir to the throne. The German architect Johann Friedrich Ludwig, who was given the name Joao Frederico Ludovici at the time of incorporation, had put the magnificent building into the landscape together with some Italian architects, 45,000 craftsmen and 7,000 soldiers within thirteen years. Because that still seemed too little of gratitude, a monumental carillon was needed. When King Joao heard the astronomical price for the bell system, he is said to have said something like: “Well, if it’s so cheap, I’ll take two.” Since then, the largest with 110 bells and a weight of 217 tons has been hanging in Mafra heaviest carillon in the world. At the beginning of the 18th century there were no financial worries or economic crises in Portugal, the king lived well on the gold from his colonies in Brazil. The next magnificent boxes are in Sintra. The National Palace in the middle of the town with its two huge, conical chimneys that protrude like pointed hats into the steel-blue sky cannot be overlooked. Inside, you can see some of the most valuable azulejos in Portugal. These are tiles into which various motifs are burned. The whole collection is like a huge picture book that tells the history of Portugal. A few minutes later I am in the palace kitchen, the size of which is beyond imagination. The number of guests to be entertained must have been so large that it was worth the effort to simply run a small stream through the middle of this room to wash dishes. But together with the students from five primary school classes who have everything else on their minds than visiting any building, such a palace walk is quite exhausting. Just get out and back on the motorcycle. A narrow, winding road leads through a thick and pleasantly cool forest up to the Pena Palace. Once at the top, I suddenly stand in front of a true fairytale castle, surrounded by ancient gnarled trees. Numerous playful bay windows and different sized towers and turrets shine in a kitish yellow or even pink. However, I am denied access to the interior because it is closed to visitors today. But actually I’m really happy about it, because the day is made for motorcycling. The March sun is already spreading summer temperatures, and the winding path out to Cabo da Roca through the Serra de Sintra is pure pleasure. On the 140 meter high cliff at the cape, a stone column marks the westernmost point of Europe – nine degrees and thirty minutes west longitude. A few clever minds earn their living here by issuing certificates that prove that they really stood at the end of Europe. I continue to stroll along the built-up and busy Costa do Estoril – until I’m stuck in a traffic jam in the suburbs of Lisbon. In the artificial spotlight, the Torre de Belem at the entrance to the harbor grows unreal into the twilight evening sky. I am looking for a campsite and suddenly I am standing on the Ponte 25 de Abril, which is over two kilometers long and 190 meters high, the only connection between southern Portugal and the capital. The view of the endless sea of lights in Lisbon is intoxicating. I slowly rummage through the streets and alleys of the fascinating metropolis, which many Portuguese often refer to as the soul of the country. Later in the evening, the melancholy singing of Fado lures me to A Severa, a cozy pub. Fado means so much fate, and to the sound of a passionately played guitar, the lyrics are almost always about the sad end of a love. The haunting nature of the lecture puts me in a strange, almost sad mood, which continues the next day as I stroll through the light-flooded alleys of Alfama, the oldest part of the city. Lisbon spreads out over a sweeping hilly landscape, and a rustic, cable-operated tram has been going up and down the steep little streets for around a hundred years. For the same reason, the Santa Justa elevator was placed between the rows of houses in the lower town. This one-of-a-kind, cast-iron one-of-a-kind has been doing its job since 1902 and lifts me out of the narrow shady shopping arcade over the roofs of Lisbon for a tip. The cafe on the top platform is fully occupied. No wonder, really, because nowhere is there a better view of the city. A few days later I cross the Rio Sado on a car ferry. Shortly afterwards, after a narrow headland, the Alentejo, Portugal’s granary, begins. But in addition to grain, the bark of the cork oak is the capital of this region. The Portuguese population of these trees is considered to be the largest in the world. Everywhere next to the street there are gray-brown stacks with pieces of bark that are two to three centimeters thick, which at some point will be made into cork floors, insulating material or, quite simply, corks for wine bottles. It takes nine years for the bark to grow back on the trees after it has been peeled off. Only then can it be harvested again. Cabo de Sao Vicente is the end of Al-Gharb, which means “the West”. This is what the Moors, who ruled the south of the Iberian Peninsula for a long time, called this part of Portugal. At some point the word Algarve developed from the name Al-Gharb, and over the last few decades it has become one of the most popular holiday destinations in Europe. At the lighthouse on Cabo de Sao Vicente, however, there is not much of this to be felt in the early morning. It is only in Sagres, between the ruins of a fort, where the Portuguese efforts to discover the world began, that an ever-increasing number of tourists appear. The organizational talent of Heinrich the Navigator, who gathered the most daring seafarers here around 500 years ago and started his voyages of discovery, led so far that Portugal and Spain had divided up the then known world without much modesty. Around noon, the many visitors annoy me, just away from the coast. In Vila do Bispo I discover a small, neat restaurant off the main street. I’m even the only lunchtime guest, and the odd landlord serves me one of the most delicious specialties in the Algarve: tuna steaks with onions. Two hours later I am back in the KLR saddle and slowly drive towards Lagos. South of the city, the sea has formed one of the most beautiful stretches of the Algarve. Deep grottos with huge rock bridges, then bizarre rock cones that protrude sharply like lance tips from the deep blue water of the Atlantic. Steep paths lead down to secluded beaches that are now unvisited as of March. I enjoy the view from the high cliffs, enjoy the mild wind, and I like the loud, rhythmic sound of the surf when the waves hit the rocks. But I also like the routes that run through the hinterland of the Algarve. As if made for motorcyclists, because the narrow strip of asphalt is winding its way through the bitter Serra de Monchique. Up to the summit of Foja, at 902 meters the highest point in the south of the country. From up here the coastline shines like a silver lining on the horizon, and in the backlight of the early evening sun I only see the shadowy outlines of the gently rolling hills I drove through a few minutes ago. A few meters further a narrow gravel road begins, a little later the Kawa dances over ever coarser stones. After a while, I stand in front of a hut that is glazed all around and serves as an observation base for the military. You could even endure the life of a soldier here, because the view over the mountain ranges is fantastic. Unfortunately there is a thick padlock on the door, otherwise it would be the ideal place to roll out the sleeping bag for the night. So back to the coast. I try to avoid the monotony of the boring main street on small secondary roads. Up to Faro. The sun is slowly disappearing, but not my desire to just drive on. The mild climate, the mild evening wind and the peace and harmony that emanates from this landscape give me a peculiar, almost melancholy mood. Only in Olhao do I pitch my little tent on an almost empty campsite. Never mind, I wouldn’t feel like talking to anyone now anyway. With a bottle of wine in your backpack, disappear on a wide, secluded sandy beach very close by. And feel like I’m enchanted.
Info
Unfortunately, the magical landscapes and beaches of Portugal are some of the most distant destinations in Europe for us. Therefore, a trip is only worthwhile if there is enough time. But if you accept the long journey, you will come to a fascinating and varied country.
Arrival: If you come from northern Germany, you have to take the motorway via Paris and Bordeaux to the northern Spanish border and continue via Salamanca to the starting point of the tour described. There are around 2100 kilometers to Nazare. When starting in southern Germany, the classic Mediterranean route via Lyon / Montpellier / Barcelona is cheaper, although this variant is a little longer. You should plan at least three days for the one-way route. The highways in France and Spain are toll roads. As far as Narbonne in the south of France, you can travel by train overnight and in a way that is easy on the seat. Depending on the day and station of departure, this costs between 450 and 600 marks for one person including motorcycle. A main stand must be available for attachment to the transport wagon. More detailed information about prices and travel times are available at the train stations. Travel time: The Algarve already has an excellent two-wheeler climate from March. The water temperatures are then only suitable for the hardened, but there is still a relaxing low season, and even in the tourist capital Albufeira it is as quiet as in a lonely fishing village. The Atlantic Ocean in the eastern Algarve sees itself as a bathtub from May, around Lisbon from the beginning of July. After the very hot months of July, August and September, October is again a pleasant month to travel. Spend the night: There is an inexpensive guesthouse or recidencial in almost every place. Those who like to spend the night in old monasteries and castles must head for one of the state pousadas. These require you to dig deeper into your wallet, but offer a historical ambience. A list of addresses and further information can be sent from the Portuguese Tourist Office, phone 0 69/23 40 94. In the Algarve, there can be bottlenecks during the main season despite the enormous number of beds available. Among the campsites, that of the Orbitur chain is well equipped. Sights: The castle and old town of Obidos. The Mafra Monastery Palace. The National Palace and the Pena Palace in Sintra. Lisbon (Carriage Museum). The rock grottos at Ponta da Piedade near Lagos. The palace of Estoi. The bone chapel in the Carmo Church in Faro. The Olhao fish market is busiest on Friday and Saturday mornings. Literature: In addition to four informative travel reports about Spain, the MOTORRAD travel guide of the same name from the edition Unterwegs by Josef Seitz also contains two detailed chapters about Portugal. The 173-page book can be ordered for 29.80 marks from the MOTORRAD reader service, phone 07 11/1 82-12 25. For a tour across the Iberian Peninsula to Portugal, the Spain / Portugal maps, sheets 9 and 10 from RV-Verlag on a scale of 1: 300,000. Distance driven: around 1,100 kilometers. Time required: ten days
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