MOTORHOME TRAVELLERS' DIARY FOR FEBRUARY 1999

PORTUGAL INTO SPAIN

Barry and Margaret Williamson 

What follows are extracts from a diary we kept during our travels in mainland Europe by motorhome, bicycle and sometimes motorbike in the years since we early-retired in 1995.

01 FEBRUARY 1999 P CAMPING VALE PARAISO, NAZARÉ

We cycled steeply downhill a couple of miles to Nazaré, a delightful warren of cobbled lanes and whitewashed fishermen's cottages, and still very much a working fishing village on a long wide sandy beach. Mackerel and sardines were laid on wooden racks on the sand to dry in the sun; the men in black woollen hats were mending elaborate nets along the shore and their women wore the workaday traditional dress - short full skirts worn one over another (up to 7 layers), a short apron, a knitted shawl, a kerchief round the hair, and flat heel-less slippers. For winter, they'd added thick leggings or knee-socks. Those widowed, most likely by the sea, had the same outfit in black, and the dolls and postcards for sale showed the 'Sunday best' version, with very colourful lace-trimmed blouse, embroidered apron and a black pom-pom hat over the kerchief. Even the small girls we saw were dressed in a miniature of this costume. A new harbour for the little painted fishing boats means they are no longer pushed into the waves from the beach and then hauled out by teams of oxen, but the other ingrained traditions look set to survive into the next millenium.

The place takes its name from a miraculous statue of the Virgin brought from Nazareth, which was hidden in a grotto here in the 8thC, to be found later by shepherds and worshipped. Because of pirate raids, the village was originally on a promontory 360 ft above the modern town, Monte Sitio. A funicular railway has linked this district with the shore for over 100 years and we were tempted to return that way, but instead we chose the exercise of climbing the Ladeira de Sitio (long flights of steps) with our bicycles.

From Sitio there were wonderful views up and down the Costa da Prata, a light-house in the 16thC fort of S ao Miguel on the headland, a bull-ring (the first we'd seen in Portugal), and the lovely 17thC pilgrimage church of Nossa Senhora do Nazaré containing the miraculous icon (said to be carved by St Joseph and painted by St Luke - a partnership we'd come across in Greek monasteries). The tiny Capela da Memoria on the cliff edge commemorates one of the miracles - built by a local mayor in thanks for his escape from death in 1182. His horse (lost in a sea mist while out hunting deer) reared up over the precipice until he prayed to Our Lady of Nazaré for help. Her appearance dazzled the horse and it stopped in time. The inscription on a pillar records Vasco da Gama's visit to give thanks for his safe return from India.

We returned to our quiet campsite, set among the pine trees high above the sea, for lunch. Barry wrote to Eve with a quartz crystal he'd bought at the caves near Fatima; we wrote letters to Turners and Abbey National about renewing the buildings insurance; finished and printed the January diary; and Margaret took a turn round the fitness circuit which followed the site perimeter. We'd both earned the complimentary glasses of port from the bar which was sweet, rich and red. (We have not yet opened the bottle of white port we bought at Lidl.)

Driving through Nazaré, we parked by the splendid beach and walked round to post our letters, photocopy the diary and shop at the Dia supermarket. The fishing fleet must have returned since yesterday, as the town was very busy with women old and young, skirted and shawled, all buying or selling fish on the streets. Santa Maria was often called upon in the haggling!

Then we headed south through Estremadura province to join the new toll-free Lisbon motorway A8, which bypasses the spa Caldas da Rainha ('Hot Baths of the Queen') and the medieval town of Obidos, whose walls, towers and battlements we could see on a passing hilltop. Mostly, the scenery was of vineyards, olive groves and the odd Don Quixote type windmill; weather fine; traffic light. Even the last (and only) service station before Lisbon was quiet. We stopped for diesel and lunch.

We turned south-west on the A9, and due west on the A5, gladly paying for the smooth-surfaced motorway which became noticeably busier as it skirted the capital.

From the end of the A5, near Portugal's grand prix circuit of Estoril, a country lane wound north-west to our goal, the most westerly point of mainland Europe. Another 'furthest' reached. (The furthest west in all of Europe is our old favourite, the end of the Dingle Peninsula in the Irish Republic.) Here at Cabo da Roca, a granite headland on the Costa do Sol, known to the Romans as Promontorium Magnum, there is a lighthouse, a cafe and information centre (selling certificates) and a rough car park with occasional tour buses arriving for a 15-minute photo opportunity. Checking that it was OK to stay the night, we walked to the cliff edge to look out over the calm Atlantic, 144 m/472 ft below. A young Englishman from a bus talked to us until he had to go: his party was from a conference in Lisbon looking at ways of combining Christian morality with capitalist business. We wished him luck!

The sunset was magnificent, extinguishing itself in a pink haze as we watched; the last bus left and the cafe closed; we had the whole place to ourself, illuminated by the regular rotating beam of the lighthouse. Brilliant.

100 miles. Free parking

No longer Continental Europe's westernmost people, we drove 15 miles inland to Sintra, the summer residence of the former kings of Portugal and capital of the Moorish rulers before them. Weaving through the narrow centre and out towards the main road for Lisbon, we found a large empty free car park for tour buses - ideal for leaving Rosie while we cycled back to explore. We rode in as far as the Santa Maria church, then took a lovely footpath leading up the green wooded hillside of a ravine, carrying the bicycles up steps and through revolving gates, to the ramparts of the ruined 8thC Moorish castle built on a rocky pinnacle at 429 m/1408 ft. It was taken by Portugal's first king, Alfonso, with the help of the Crusaders in 1147. We climbed the walls and towers to see wonderful views: the old town below with the coast beyond, and the mock-medieval Palacio de Pena perched on a rocky crag another 100 m/320 ft above us. (Built on the ruins of a monastery, for Queen Maria II and her Bavarian Prince husband in the 1840's by a Prussian architect in the style of King Ludwig's castles, it was used by the royal family until their exile in 1910.)

Sitting in warm sunshine with orange squash and chocolate, the spring flowers coming out, we had the world to ourselves. Then down a steep cobbled hair-pinning road for 2 miles to the old town centre. In the main square is the Palacio Nacional, Sintra's symbol, with twin white conical chimneys like a giant oast house. Originally 15thC, it's been rebuilt and enlarged over the centuries, the last royal living here in the 1880's being the grandmother of the country's last king, Manuel the Unfortunate! We resisted the opportunity to take a guided tour of the rooms but made our way back to Rosie's kitchen for lunch. We'd enjoyed a green and pleasant city, described by the young Byron as 'glorious Eden ... the most beautiful place in the world' - he travelled in Portugal in 1809 and began 'Childe Harold' here, but that was before he discovered Albania!

Back on the road, we succeeded in steering clear of Lisbon's centre, going in on the busy A9 and A5 and escaping over the '25th April Bridge' across the mouth of the Tejo (or Tagus), one of the longest suspension bridges in the world (1.4 miles). Luckily, vehicles crossing from the south bank pay a toll while those from the north (us) go free. Even more oddly, in case of breakdown you are asked to hang a white handkerchief out of the window and wait for a patrol car! There is a fine for running out of petrol. Beyond the bridge, the river forms a huge bird reserve lagoon with flamingos. Dominating the south bank is the 360 ft high concrete monument of Christ the King, arms outstretched, built in 1959 Rio-style. It contains a chapel and a lift up to a viewing platform below Christ's head.

We continued on the toll motorway A2, turning off to Setubal, the country's 3rd port. A small landing-craft type ferry runs 24 hours a day from here across the Sado, a 15-minute crossing for £5, avoiding a long detour inland. It landed us in Troia, a high rise resort built at the tip of a long sandy spit between the Sado estuary and the Atlantic, a place famous for dolphins which we didn't see. The ugly concrete tourist complex was deserted and guarded, one block of apartments still unfinished, and we were pleased to hear later that the tower blocks are subsiding ('he who builds his house on sand ...'). Setubal's seaside ruined for a quick profit, we hope it all collapses. We stayed on the empty car park for the night, joined later by a French Hymer.

77 miles. Free parking.

South along the 19-mile sand-spit, bordered by dunes and woodland. Just below Troia a sign pointed to the remains of Roman Cetobriga, destroyed by a tidal wave in 412 AD (probably after an earthquake). At the end of the peninsula, past the village of Comporta, we saw paddy fields (and a rice museum) on the marshy land between road and sea and stopped to watch the herons wading while we made coffee. One extra large heron proved to be a stork, watching from the bank, with 3 empty storks' nests on nearby old buildings. We thought all European storks migrated to Africa in winter but our bird book showed that the southern half of Portugal is the one place they might stay throughout the year. This is Alentejo province (meaning 'beyond the Tejo'), sparsely populated and beginning to feel very rural and Mediterranean in character, with flocks of sheep under the eye of itinerant shepherds.

The next town, Santiago do Cacem, was a delight, quite unspoilt despite its charms. We parked at the site of Mirobriga, a Celtic and Roman settlement still being excavated, lying on a hill a mile beyond Santiago in green fields. We walked round the extensive remains of houses, a bath complex, a bridge over a stream, a taverna, shops and a large forum with temple ruins, all linked by a paved road, occupied till the 5thC. It was a good place to have lunch and leave Rosie while we cycled back to the town centre, past a restored working windmill and a cork works. Portugal is the world's largest cork producer, and we see more cork oaks as we go south, their trunks marked with a single digit (most recently 8) to show the year they were stripped. The cork grows again, to be harvested every 10 years.

We climbed narrow cobbled streets to the castle of the Knights Templar, on a hill above the town, and walked round the outside walls to see the view across to the coast. The parish church was built onto it, originally 13thC, and the cemetery is within its walls. Then down to visit the Municipal Museum, housed in a 19thC jail in a small garden opposite the town hall. It was in use till 1968 and probably held Salazar's political prisoners. One spartan cell was preserved, others had been converted into a traditional turn-of-the-century Alentejo kitchen, bedroom (complete with a cradle made of cork), barber/dentist's shop and tailor's workshop. The rooms with the archaeological collection from Mirobriga were closed for cleaning, but the other displays were interesting and entrance was free.

We cycled back to Rosie for a pot of tea and the last leg of today's journey, returning to the coast at Sines (one place not to stop, with a large oil terminal) and south to Porto Covo, a little fishing village well off the main road with a large campsite. Here we saw our first English campers in Portugal - a sign that we're approaching the Algarve - though only one couple in a van plus Dave, a lone walker with tent and surfboard heading south.

72 miles. £3.88 inc elec.

We wrote mum a letter to send with the January diary, and did some routine maintenance (resealing roof joints, etc).

After lunch we cycled up the road to the village to post mum's package and see the Costa Azul. Porto Covo has indeed a small cove harbour, a little lighthouse, a couple of other sandy coves with steep steps down to them, and a few bar-restaurants. There was plenty of parking space and a couple of German outfits free-camping above the cliffs. The agricultural ironmonger's shed had a fascinating collection, if we ever need a new bridle for Rosie!

Back for another evening of local TV, 4 channels, and very like Greece with dubbed American series: 'Superman' (or Super Homem), 'Baywatch', 'ER', and occasionally some British comedy such as 'Allo, Allo' (what the Portuguese make of that we can't imagine!) But our nightly favourite is the little cartoon of a duckling in a sailor suit, singing to an audience while 3 girl ducklings do a ballet dance and a punk duck plays the xylophone! 2 minutes of fun every night at about 9 pm, perhaps indicating that it's time the children went to bed?

We cycled inland to cross the stream on whose estuary Porto Covo is perched, then detoured back to the coast, past a small Bronze/Iron Age burial site, the road ending at the Fort of Pessegueiro (built in 1588 against the English corsairs). Opposite, just offshore, lies the tiny Pessegueiro Island, crowned by some anonymous ruins, with rowing boat trips from Porto Covo in summer. We'd hoped for a path running south along the coast to V N de Milfontes, but there was only a sandy track for walkers so we returned to the minor road and rode through sleepy villages, past another campsite, Sitava, in a huge pine forest, roomier and even less expensive than Porto Covo, though not near a beach or village.

V N de Milfontes is a fishing village/resort on the Costa Dourado at the mouth of the Rio Mira, though empty of fishermen or tourists today. It has a small 17thC castle and a memorial to 3 airmen who had flown to the Portuguese colony of Macau, 40 miles south of Hong Kong and once visited by a youthful Corporal Technician Williamson. We bought coffee and excellent cheese & ham croissants in a cafe and returned home. The weather was still warm enough to wash and dry our dhobi before dark.

Rosie followed yesterday's cycle route to V N de Milfontes, continuing past Odemira and over the Alentejo/Algarve border, turning off about 3 miles before Aljezur to an Orbitur campsite set in a eucalyptus wood, its neatly trimmed hedges of rosemary scenting the entrance. An English couple, Jeff & Pat, had been there for a month along with one or two German and Dutch refugees, and the warden offered us a 50% reduction if we stayed a month, settling on 20% if we made it 'a few days'.

After lunch we cycled out along tracks to the estuary shore and sand dunes of Armoreira beach, returning via Aljezur, a small market town below a 10thC Moorish castle. We climbed the narrow cobbled streets up to it, walked round the crumbling walls, then returned to the campismo uphill into a cold wind for 5 invigorating km.

50 miles. £6.67 inc elec.

Better weather encouraged us to pack for a ride into the Serra de Monchique, the range of hills behind the western Algarve coast. The road from Aljezur to Monchique was an unfinished dirt road as far as Marmelete when we first cycled it at Easter 1988, in a 2-week tour from Faro, but now it has been widened and asphalted, though the first few miles, the steepest part, were still rough. We climbed through beautiful forests of cork for stripping, pine and eucalyptus for felling, mimosa already in blossom, terraced orange and lemon groves, with occasional views of the Algarve coast, first to the west then to the south, breathing in the pervading scent of eucalyptus and the shrubs of the maquis.

A heady mixture, almost forgotten since Corsica, rediscovered. We stopped for toast and coffee in the sleepy village of Marmelete, then crossed the rolling hills on wonderfully quiet wooded roads until we met the main road from Portim ao by a granite quarry, a couple of miles below Monchique. We reached the little hill town (458 m/1503 ft) after 25 miles and 3 hours' ride, a first outing for B's new shorts.

We chose the best of the 3 Pens aos in the centre, the Miradouro da Serra, with a good room for 6000 escudos (including bathroom, heating, TV and breakfast which the cheaper ones lacked). Very peaceful, it was over a gift shop (closed) where the bicycles spent the night among the basketwork, pottery and local arbutus brandy and honey liqueurs. Tourists on coach trips from the Algarve coast wandered in the centre but soon left and by 5 pm we had the town to ourselves. The 15thC parish church, up a steep cobbled street behind the main square, was rebuilt after the great earthquake of 1755 which destroyed much of Lisbon. The shell of the 17thC Franciscan monastery, destroyed in the same quake, stands on a slope overlooking the town. We had a delicious meal of 'Chicken Piri Piri', salad and chips in the Cafe Nora and retired, glad of the heater after sundown.

£21 B&B for 2.

A good breakfast of fresh rolls, jam, honey and pots of coffee, then the forecast rain began just as we emerged for the 5 mile ride up to Foia, the highest peak in the Monchique at 902 m/2959 ft. At first the road climbed past one or two restaurants and hotels, through woodland with clearings giving views of the Algarve coast to the south. Then it became wilder and windier, and once past a viewpoint with a spring where a car had come to fill water bottles it was deserted. At the top the radio masts disappeared eerily into the mist and the wind whistled round the one concrete hotel/bar. (We could have come up here for the night, but had been warned there was no food.) Unable to see Cape St Vincent (nor much else) we wrapped up for the descent to Monchique and after coffee and cakes in the square the rain had stopped. A lovely ride back, fresh pungent smells after the rain, quiet roads, hills and forests, green valleys and fertile orchards, villagers waving, another coffee and toast stop in Marmelete, a last stiff climb from Aljezur to the campsite, home before 3 pm - 35 miles in 3 hrs 50 mins riding time.

After dinner Jeff & Pat joined us and by the end of the evening had decided on Greece next winter! In their mid-50's, they've been 'full-timing' for 2 years, with Hymer and scooter, since they quit the rat-race (he as an electronics engineer, she from a building society office), though they've returned to the UK more often to visit son, daughter and grandchild. It was stimulating to talk to like-minded travellers, our first for months! Sadly they leave tomorrow to meet some relatives who are coming to the Algarve on holiday.

Warm, dry and sunny again, but windy, we decided to move on to Europe's south-west corner. Once we'd squeezed through Aljezur, busy on market day, the main road to Vila do Bispo (Bishop's Town) was smooth, narrow and quiet. Here we turned off for 2 miles towards the coast, to sit above the Algarve's highest cliffs (about 500 ft) and make lunch, Rosie rocking in the wind! Another 10 miles down the road, between Sagres and Cape St Vincent, we found a beautifully spacious and empty campsite, tucked away in a pine forest, with a nicely hedged pitch. They offered a 40% discount for 3 days or more and even had a 'Potti' (according to the sign) for Rosie. We settled in to cleaning, reading, writing and cooking.

37 miles. £4.60 inc elec.

From the campsite, we cycled 3 miles west until the wind-swept road ended at Cabo de S ao Vicente, Europe's south-west corner, a rocky headland 60 m/200 ft above the sea marked by a lighthouse. An atmospheric site, surrounded by the ocean, well remembered from our cycle tour 11 years ago. This last known point of ancient and medieval worlds became a Christian shrine when the relics of St Vincent, martyred in 304, were landed here in the 8thC. The saint was guarded by crows which, on his removal to Lisbon in 1173, followed the boat. Prince Henry the Navigator founded a town here but the few buildings left after Drake's raids were finally destroyed in the 1755 earthquake. We returned past the campsite to Sagres, the road skirting the edge of tremendous cliffs, pausing half-way at the little fortress of Beliche, an old sea fort now a restaurant (closed), with giddy views and steep steps to a beach.

Just before the village, on a narrow promontory (the Promontorium Sacrum of the Romans), are the ruins of the Fortaleza, the remote and secure fort where Prince Henry founded his School of Navigation in 1421 and spent the rest of his life (till 1460) with the best cartographers, astronomers, explorers and ship-builders of the age. Magellan and Vasco da Gama studied here! The original buildings were again destroyed by the combination of Francis Drake and the 1755 earthquake, but the fortifications were rebuilt in the 18thC. The huge parade ground includes the 'windrose' (a stone circle compass, diameter 141 ft) and a little bare chapel surviving from Henry's time. We walked the circuit of the immense walls, giving a sweeping view beyond Sagres and across the bay to Cape St Vincent, and admired the nerve of the many local fishermen perched on the windy cliff-face with rod and line. But we didn't admire the new buildings housing the soul-less cafeteria and an unused multi-media complex. And where have the old information office and youth hostel gone, which claimed to be on the site of Henry's house? A decade ago we wandered in freely and it felt like the end of the world; today we had to pay and leave the bicycles at the ticket office where a guard watched visitors on CCTV. Such is progress.

Back to Rosie for lunch, then out again into Sagres village, just a single street, a little square and a small fishing harbour. We found the post office (to collect the camping carnet we'd left at Porto Covo) and a small supermarket, then took a short cut back to the campsite on an unmade track.

An expedition to the highest cliff on the Algarve coast (156 m/512 ft), north of Sagres and 2 miles west of Vila do Bispo, marked by a white concrete tower visible from miles around. Rather than cycling 8 miles into the wind on the main road to VdBispo then climbing another couple of miles, Barry pioneered a route cross-country, riding on cart tracks and walking through the blasted heath. Passing the odd abandoned cottage, we finally reached the Torre after carrying our bicycles through thick maquis for the last half mile. Sitting in the shelter of the tower the sun was warm, sea and sky both clear blue, views of Cape St Vincent on the corner of south and west coasts, yes it was worth the effort! We followed a path to the cliff edge and could see the hills of the Monchique away in the north and the rolling surf below us. We returned the easier way, down tracks to Vila do Bispo and then the main road, with back wind, to Sagres.

After lunch we had time to read, write the diary, and start planning for Morocco. To Rosie's relief, we started by thinking of leaving her in Spain (Tarifa?) and hiring a car in Tangier for a week or two. She didn't like the sound of being stoned.

Sunny and bright again with a fresh west wind behind us into Sagres. The market was underway in the Mercado Municipal next to the post office and we bought fruit and huge tomatoes for stuffing, though the meat and fish was not for the squeamish! Then we went in search of Roman remains at Martinhal, a couple of miles east on the other side of the estuary, picking our way across scrubland grazed by goats. The Baedeker guidebook mentions an excavated Roman settlement with houses and drainage system but we found no sign of it and the Tourist Office in Sagres had denied all knowledge! We did find a fine beach facing a bay sheltered by a small offshore island and backed by what hoped one day to become a new development of holiday apartments. Perhaps the Roman village was uncovered when building began and was now covered in? Like the development near our campsite, the network of roads, pavements and street lights was extensive but only a few houses had been built. Probably the money, or planning permission, fell through, or the tourists just don't come to stay in this remote windy corner, beautiful as it is.

Returning to Sagres by road, we rang mum to get some phone numbers for the international car hire companies and check on Easter dates. We learnt that Alan and Pauline fly to eastern Spain today for a week. Both Budget and Hertz in Blackpool gave us the number of their Central Reservations office, both of which had recorded messages and long queues. Not for the international caller.

Back for lunch, and a chat with the French-speaking Swiss family in a smaller RV who have lived on the site for 2 months with their 5 cats and 2 kids - the first time we've seen a cat flap in a motorhome door! Then B did some bicycle and vehicle servicing while M made a cake for Valentine's Day (any excuse!) - 'Death by Black Forest Gâteau'.

A relaxing day's pottering - cleaning, reading, writing, mending, listening to the World Service (Bill Clinton has been acquitted in the absurd impeachment proceedings) and preparing to move on. A foursome from the Isle of Man left a pile of assorted magazines including a copy of 'The Weekly News' (Portugal's English-language paper, very like the 'Hellenic Times' complete with crossword and recipe page), and several issues of the weekly 'Algarve Resident', which told us all we need to know about the ex-patriate community here!

A good supper of Chilli Stuffed Tomatoes with rice and Black Forest Gâteau.

We took the main (and only) road 125, north back to Vila do Bispo then eastwards to Lagos, where the Rocky Algarve of Tourism starts. A 2-mile sidetrip to Ponta da Piedade, a rugged promontory with a palm-bedecked lighthouse and views of the cliffs weathered into caves and arches and across the wide bay to Lagos - a splendid place to drink coffee in the sunshine. On through the ancient town and modern resort of Lagos, a port for the Romans and the Moors (who built the town walls), a ship-building centre for Henry the Navigator, first slave trading market in Europe (1441), and capital of the Algarve for 2 centuries until much of it was destroyed in that earthquake of 1755. Continuing carefully on the N125 (the busy inadequate road, awaiting the extension of the Via do Infante motorway from Albufeira, and proclaiming 'Zero Tolerance' by the police with threats of huge fines) we bypassed Portim ao and the high-rise resort of Praia da Rocha and turned off inland to Silves. No campsite here, but a dozen or more motorhomes of various nationalities were gathered on a large area of waste ground right by the entrance to the walled town, ideally placed between the weekly gipsy market and the Lidl.

We settled in to lunch, talked to a retired couple in an Autohomes Executive who knew Portugal well. Amongst much else, we were advised on where to get LPG along the Algarve coast and a campsite to avoid at Monte Gordo where they got stuck in the sand!

We browsed round the market (mainly clothes, shoes and knicknackery), went to Lidl for good ham, bacon and cheese, and then climbed up the winding cobbled streets of the old town. We had eaten and slept in Silves on our cycle tour but again much had changed in a decade with the advent of the coach tourist. Silves was the Moorish capital of the Algarve (or Al Gharb meaning 'the West'). We inspected the Gothic cathedral, built on the site of the mosque in 13thC and containing the tombs of some of the Crusaders who helped the king take the town.

Then a few more futile phone calls to enquire about car rental in Morocco - Hertz and Budget's central reservations numbers in the UK were permanently on hold (with soothing music while waiting to be connected), Thomas Cook's was equally unobtainable, and the only agency in Tangier we actually reached gave an inflated quotation. We went home to watch a couple of gipsies trying to catch a mule.

60 miles. Free parking.

An early morning walk up to the fortress and round the rebuilt red sandstone walls and battlements with views across to the coast. Inside were huge vaulted water cisterns and granaries, but it was first taken from the Moors in 1189 when the water ran out after a 3-month siege. The fortress changed hands several times but the Christians finally held the city in 1266. The saddest sight as we rambled back was a lone stork on a disused chimney, looking at the remains of last year's nest which had fallen onto a crumbling roof below. As we drove on, back to road N125, we saw our first stork pair of the season, again nesting on a chimney, and the almond trees are in blossom - spring! Bypassing Albufeira, we called for LPG at Boliqueime, drove through Loulé without waiting to watch the afternoon Carnival Parade (nowhere to park) and onto the free motorway, stopping in a layby above Faro for lunch. Then along the coastal dual carriageway to Olh ao, where we inspected our first seriously overcrowded overwintering campsite, between the main road and the railway - and moved quickly on!

We found a quieter pleasanter site a few miles past Tavira, inland from the village of Cacela. The residents are mainly Dutch, but we talked to an Anglo-Swiss couple in a Hymer (a former racing cyclist grounded by an accident, with English wife) before settling down to making and eating pancakes.

75 miles. £5.00 inc elec.

An A4 poster advertised 'country silhouettes' for sale from a British caravan parked opposite to us, and so we met Eddie and wife from the Cotswolds, who are having a house built in the nearby village of Faz Fato and moving out permanently. A retired engineer, Eddie has made metal templates for cutting out Fablon shapes and proudly showed us his range: we already have an elk for Norway but bought a cock and bull (Portugal and Spain), and he gave us a present of a British bulldog. (We passed on the Eifel Tower, Dutch windmill and German imperial eagle!) Barry stuck them on Rosie's front and M did a washer-load of dhobi, dry in no time.

After lunch we cycled in search of 'the real Portugal' and found it, riding inland, over the motorway and north into the hills. Beyond Faz Fato, the new villas with swimming pools gave way to humbler dwellings, and we waved to straw-hatted women minding the sheep or washing their linen in the streams. At Cintado, a tiny shop in a tiny place, we were served coffee (short, strong and black) by a woman (equally short, strong and dark) who came in from the fields, washed her hands in an enamel bowl and wiped them on her overalls.

She was amazed to see foreigners on bicycles, yet we were only 10 miles from the campsite - those Dutch shopping bikes are exactly that. We continued on minor roads which didn't appear on our map, through rolling hills, pretty bare after a dry winter except sometimes for rows of almond trees in blossom, like pale pink powder puffs from a distance. The sun shone, we had views across to the sea, there was hardly a car on the road (sometimes hardly a road)! The last few miles were through the Lazer Forest reserve, bringing us home just as the sun was setting, the red ball dipping into the Gulf of Cadiz. Later the finest new crescent moon appeared with 2 bright planets directly in line above it - Venus and Jupiter - an unusual sight.

Mike and Ivy are wintering on the site in an elderly (Y reg) 27ft Canadian RV, in which they've lived for 3 years since giving up a pub in Herefordshire. Of course, mutual inspections took place and we cycled into Cacela with Mike to shop, as he recommended the fruit & veg market, the baker's rolls and the home-made sausages at the Alisuper. He was quite right (especially the delicious sausages, in a continuous link tied at intervals with string, and our first local strawberries.) We had a coffee in his local before riding back for lunch. Shades of Mick in Gastouni. The afternoon was spent exchanging books and life stories, and planning to move on to Spain.

Our last few miles along the Zero Tolerance coast road N125 to Monte Gordo (where we'd been warned against getting stuck in soft ground at the campsite). We stopped on the huge car park hidden behind Lidl, near the Repsol LPG station (look for the blue elephant), to spend our last Escudos and make coffee, then turned north at Vila Real de Sto Antonio, the frontier town on the estuary of the Guadiana River (which we'd crossed with ferry and bicycles on that early tour from Faro). Grey heron, egrets and storks were on the wing and on the water of the nature reserve we passed before joining the E1 and over the new bridge into Spain.

Though the motorway for Seville is not finished at this western end, the road was good and the country immediately looked more prosperous, with large-scale agriculture (orange groves, almonds, olives, vineyards). We joined the motorway north of Huelva (the port from which Christopher Columbus set sail in 1492) for the last 50 miles of our journey - newly built and free, but without any services or parking places. We finally turned off and parked in the street at Benacazon to make lunch, before taking the Seville ring road and the E5 to Dos Hermanas, a suburb 5 miles south of the city, where the Dutch-run campsite is in a leafy orange grove, a haven of green between roads N-IV and E5!

We rang our Vodafone mailbox to keep it open for another 28 days, and also rang mum to arrange for poste restante at Tarifa.

112 miles. £7.67 inc elec & 3-day disc.

We walked into nearby Dos Hermanas (2 Sisters?), now a dormitory suburb of Seville, and shopped at the huge Continente. (Best buy a hot roast chicken for 500 ptas/£2.10). After lunch we picked enough genuine Seville oranges and lemons on the campsite for a pan of marmalade, which reached setting point in a record 10 minutes (sweet Greek oranges used to take half an hour).

Barry fixed the water accumulator, which was leaking, M made a cherry cake, and we met our neighbours, Denis and Rhona Glover, a retired couple from Bath living in a Hymer named Rambling Rose.

After reading the campsite information on buses into the city, we cycled the 10 miles in without problem on the hard shoulder of the N-IV which was very quiet this morning. Entering the city on a broad avenue lined with palm trees we stopped for coffee near the museums in the Maria Luisa Park. Then we continued into the old city, obviously much restored, with lots of greenery in the little squares, orange trees along the wider roads, horse-drawn carriages circulating the tourist route. Their hooves had hollowed a channel in the streets which we followed! We rode round the outside of the Muslim Alcazar (fortress) which fell to the Christians in 1248 to be extended over the centuries and used as a royal palace (Ferdinand and Isabella lived here while planning the conquest of Granada; more recently it housed the wedding reception when King Juan Carlos' daughter married in Seville cathedral). With long queues and a hefty entrance fee, we left its treasures undiscovered and explored the warren of winding alleys in the Juderia (medieval Jewish quarter) behind it, where characters in historic costumes hung about like extras in the 'Barber of Seville'. We also saw the 18thC tobacco factory building, where Bizet set 'Carmen', now part of the university. (The modern factory across the river looked less operatic but equally death-dealing).

We ate our sandwiches in the square behind the cathedral, open for prayer-only on Sunday mornings, then continued into the modern shopping area. The Museo de Bellas Artes (art gallery) in a lovely old convent was free for EU citizens and we appreciated the building (and the toilets) if not the works of art. We returned to visit the world's largest cathedral when it opened for 'cultural visits' at 2 pm. Built from 1401-1519 on the site of the old mosque, it contains the tomb of Christopher Columbus. La Giralda, the intricate brick-built belfry tower which can be climbed, is a late 12thC minaret with upper level and bells added in the 16thC.

The immense Gothic exterior is all we saw, though, as we could not get our bicycles past the heavy security at the entrance, who would not allow us to leave them anywhere in the cathedral precincts (let alone keep an eye on them for us!) Unwilling to leave them outside in a street crowded with gipsy flower sellers and beggars, we left, imagining how Christ might have fared if he had turned up carrying his cross: 'You can't leave that here, what do you think this is?' The great Christian and cultural monuments of Europe will soon be indistinguishable from the theme parks - indeed, we'd probably have been more welcome at the Isla Magica, the site of Expo 92 with its gardens, funfairs and pavilions on an island in the Rio Guadalquivir. We did ride along the river, past the Torre del Oro, only surviving tower from the Moorish city walls which were demolished to allow expansion. We watched the cruise boats, rowing eights and pedalos on the water, lovers and tramps enjoying the sunshine on the banks, before cycling back to Dos Hermanas by mid-afternoon.

We talked to Denis and Rhona, in their first year of 'full-timing', and converted them to wintering in Greece next year. They had recently lost their 2-pin hook-up adaptor/connector so Barry made them one from his box of electrical spares, and gained 2 new friends for life!

Feeling a bit unique in having cycled into, around and out of Seville and spending only 300 ptas (£1.25), we celebrated by making a Continente chicken curry and watching the first part of the film 'Thelma and Louise' on video. (Unlike Portugal, there are no English sound track programmes here to watch.)

South down the toll motorway, turning off at Las Cabezas to drive across reclaimed marshland to the mouth of the Guadalquivir at Sanlucar de Barrameda on the south bank, looking across to the Donana National Park wetlands. The town is the tip of the 'sherry triangle' (Jerez de la Frontera and El Puerto de Santa Maria, both about 20 miles away, form the base) and we did see sherry Bodegas. Columbus (1498) and Magellan (1519 - round Cape Horn to his death in the Philippines) both sailed from here and we did see fishing boats. But the river-front was unpleasant and the mix of tourism and agriculture must be threatening the water table. At the end of the known road, we parked in a scruffy pinewood to make coffee, then continued a few miles to the port of Chipiona. A thick mist shrouded the seafront and the debris from carnival celebrations still littered the streets, so we drove down to the next port at Rota. Here the sun shone and we had lunch overlooking a sandy beach before continuing, past an enormous US/Spanish/NATO naval base and through well-tended vineyards to El Puerto de Santa Maria, across the bay from Cadiz. (Columbus lived here for a time and met the owner of the Santa Maria who became his pilot.) The port, built on trade with the Americas and sherry, was busy, badly signposted, its new bypass not on our map. We never found the 2 campsites in our guide and carried on a few more miles to Puerto Real. Here we did find the campsite in the Caravan Club book, but only stayed there because it was almost dark and misty again and we'd seen nowhere else suitable to park. We didn't like the look of the resident gipsies (or their dogs) and decided against leaving Rosie to visit Cadiz tomorrow. Most days work out - this one didn't!

142 miles. £7.06 inc elec.

We drove from Puerto Real to Cadiz, crossing the bay on a busy bridge. (There's also a passenger ferry from El Puerto de Sta Maria.) Still very misty, the water shimmered eerily below as we crossed from desolate coastal marshes to industrial sprawl, approaching the port which is marooned at the end of a long peninsula. It may be one of Europe's oldest cities - founded by Phoenecians, Roman naval base, its port used by Columbus and attacked by Drake, blockaded by the British in the Napoleonic wars, all that - but it looked in decline and was devoid of parking places, so we left it unexplored and returned to the main road N340 south via San Fernando and Chiclana. We soon turned off to the coast at Conil de la Frontera, which has several campsites north of the small town. Cala del Aceite (Oily Bay?), the only one open, was the last we came to but we hesitated on seeing 'FKK' on the signpost.

Barry remembered from reading a German campsite guide that this meant 'naturist' and we spent some time working out the meaning of the letters - Federation of Kegless Krauts, perhaps. Margaret bravely volunteered to go and see (but not look!) and found a very nice site, being used by a few over-wintering Germans, all fully clothed, and at our best Spanish price yet. We settled in, had lunch and looked around, carefully. There was a gate to a well-screened area labelled Zona Naturista for sunbathing and the swimming pool (not open yet) was for Textils in the morning and Naturistas afternoons, but that was the only sign. No doubt the picture (and the prices) would be different in the summer! Right now it's perfect, lots of lawn and trees, fresh bread on sale, good showers and washing machines, if we stay a month the price goes down ... no, we're Morocco-bound!

35 miles. £5.65 inc elec.

A bright sunny morning, mist dispersed by a fresh breeze. We cycled into Conil, a historic little white town with a sandy beach, busy turning itself into a resort. On through open agricultural country with odd fields of cattle and horses to the turning for Cabo de Trafalgar, a mile up a sandy lane to a lighthouse on a low headland with a famous name. It was just off here that Nelson wiped out the Spanish fleet in 1805 but it looks calm enough today. We rode on to the nearby small resort of Los Caños de Meca, which was mostly deserted except for a multi-national band of New Age Travellers in ancient vans by the shore. We got coffee and cheese on toast at the only bar open, then turned into the wind for a harder ride home.

Deviating to the beach at El Palmar, we walked a couple of miles along the soft sand, past a 16thC look-out tower, rejoining the road near Conil. Wild crocus and narcissus are appearing along the paths, baby lambs among the wandering flocks, the farmers complain that the autum and winter have been too dry for the spring crops - while the TV news is covering an avalanche in an Austrian ski resort and floods and terrible weather elsewhere in northern Europe.

After rain in the night, it was sunny and breezy, perfect for dhobi and kite-flying. Barry washed Rosie (still attracting many compliments despite her age!), M filled 3 lines with dhobi, and the accounts and diary were brought up to date.

After lunch a walk through the pine woods to the campsite beach, bordered by rocky cliffs and very sheltered. No-one else was out and we beach-combed (found a foot-long cuttlefish bone) and scrambled over the rocks and flew our kite and at last it felt a bit like Greece - but without Zakinthos floating off-shore, and the neighbours at Aginara, and the shells, and we've missed kite-flying Monday, and we're tempted to drive there even now!

Steady rain through the night and day (needed here after a dry winter), a good opportunity for sorting and planning. Margaret wrote to the Pensions Agency about her voluntary contributions and we worked on transferring the database to the StarWriter, not trusting the new organiser. Finally, we watched the rest of 'Thelma & Louise', a feminist revenge on the road movie genre, beautifully done.

Bright and dry again, we rode north past a tiny fishing harbour and a lighthouse, then on between seashore and umbrella pines for a few quiet miles before the new soul-less holiday village at Roche, full of cement mixers and drempels. We found a good fruteria with local produce (more strawberries!) and then continued north on an unsurfaced track until the much larger resort of La Barrosa. Here were lush golf courses, hotels, apartments and restaurants aplenty, and we took Kaffee mit Kuchen on the prom before turning for home.

Back at the campsite we met Graham & Lesley Jones from Sussex, on an extended tour in their Swift Royale. They were pitched in the Zona Naturista but assured us that it was OK to visit them for a drink as everyone was dressed(¡!¿?) He is an early-retired policeman (originally from Norbreck, with memories of Jubilee Gardens being built!) and she was a handwriting expert (working with the police). They were planning to change their van for something big enough for full-timing and wanted us to 'help with their enquiries' or 'answer a few questions'. To our astonishment, on their table lay a photocopy of our first draft of the 'A to Z of Full-timing'. "A couple we met gave us a copy of this" said Lesley "it's been our bible. Have you come across it?" She was of course amazed when we said "Yes, we wrote it"!

We'd only given copies of this early version to 4 people for comment, so soon discovered the couple who gave it to them had received a copy from the Swatmans - a small (and elite) world we live in! Our meeting was then interrupted by the arrival of some ex-pat friends living in Malaga, come to join them for a couple of days, so we beat a hasty retreat.

Returning through Conil to the main road 340, we drove through rolling hills, small vineyards and fields of torros being bred for the bullring. Giant hoardings with bull silhouettes (or even a Tio Pepe man with guitar and sombrero) sometimes crowned a hilltop. Bypassing Vejer, we eventually turned off to climb 5 miles round a shoulder to the splendid sheltered cove of Bolonia, site of Baelo Claudia, founded in 2ndC BC and declared a municipium under Claudius. Open till 2 pm, entry free to EU citizens, we walked round in the sunshine with a clear view across the Straits to the mountains of Morocco. The walled town backed by hills and built against the shore was preserved under the drifting sand dunes, its forum, aqueducts, small theatre, foundations of baths, temples, houses and shops all laid out in a familiar pattern. But we've not seen Roman fish brining factories before, complete with the troughs scooped out of stone. Here tuna fish were caught (as they still are, returning from the Atlantic to breed in the Mediterranean), dried and salted, their intestines made into a paste called garum. We made lunch, watched the Spaniards enjoying the beach (it's a holiday weekend, tomorrow being Andalucia Day), and returned to the main road for Tarifa. Half a dozen campsites line the route for 5 miles between Punta Palomas and Tarifa and we had a look at them all, meeting a retired Geordie couple on Camping Tarifa, a German convoy Morocco-bound on Camping Rio Jara, and a lot of noisy young windsurfers on Camping Torre de la Pena, but we finally chose Camping Paloma, the furthest from Tarifa (8 miles), as the quietest, nicely gardened, well off the main road, and least expensive (with no minimum stay for winter rate).

Our neighbours here are Valerie and Peter, who we shall get to know tomorrow.

55 miles. £6.96 inc elec.