Week 11: Ahhh…Andulacia Route: Tarifa – Vejer – Arcos – Sevilla – Tavira, Portugal 443 kilometers Since returning to Europe from Morocco, the pace of our trip slowed down quite a bit. Instead of setting the alarm for the morning, we got up when the sun made our tent too hot for sleeping. Avoiding the
Week 11: Ahhh…Andulacia
Route: Tarifa – Vejer – Arcos – Sevilla – Tavira, Portugal
443 kilometers
Since returning to Europe from Morocco, the pace of our trip slowed down
quite a bit. Instead of setting the alarm for the morning, we got up when
the sun made our tent too hot for sleeping. Avoiding the larger roads
whenever possible, we cycled through fields of sunflowers and along lanes
lined with eucalyptus trees. The small, Andulacian towns were brilliantly
white in the sun, clinging to the sides of steep hills. From the distance,
the landscape looked like it could be Moroccan, but when we rode into a town
the streets were clean and quiet, and the buildings looked just as beautiful
up close as they did from far away.
We spent three days in Sevilla, a city filled with old, well-maintained
buildings, flowers, shaded pedestrian streets and green parks. One night as
we were walking to the bus, we came across a Tex-Mex bar serving Texas-sized
beers (large, frosty mugs instead of the normal small, narrow glasses of
beer) and showing American movies on a TV in the back room. We happily sat
in the back room by ourselves, drank beer, ate popcorn and made fun of the
terrible movie, just like at home.
Bob convinced me to go to a bullfight, insisting that we needed some
culture. All of the Spanish women fanned themselves in the late afternoon
sun, and all of the female tourists wished they had fans. Everything was
highly stylized, from the horns that signaled the next stage in the fight,
to the elaborate clothing the horses and matadors wore, and the way they
addressed the bulls and the crowd.
I didn’t know what to expect from the bullfight, but I wasn’t expecting them
to wound the bulls so much before the matador worked his magic with the
cape. The bull was stabbed by riders on armored horses, then stabbed by men
on the ground, and then the matador did the exhibition with the red cape
before killing the bull. It was amazing the way they could control the
animal, but it was a brutal death, as the bull was stabbed at the wound in
the shoulder again and again before it tottered on its feet and fell over.
One matador killed a bull with a single strike, and the crowd loved it. He
circled the ring in a triumphant walk, and his assistants, following behind,
tossed back the hats and fans the crowd threw into the arena.
The first few were interesting, but they kept bringing out more bulls. By
the time we got to the third one, I was more than ready to leave, but we
stuck it out and watched all six. It was an interesting insight into a part
of the Spanish culture, but it’s an experience I don’t think I’ll need to
repeat.
From Sevilla, we rode into Portugal and stayed a few days at the island
campground at Tavira. One day, we meant to spend only a few hours at the
beach, but the entire day passed by before we walked back to our tent to
cook dinner.
Week 12: More sun in Southern Portugal
Route: Tavira – Faro – Lagos – Sagres
315 kilometers
Bob and I both agreed that the sun and sandy beaches in southern Portugal
reminded us of California, except here the towns and beaches were filled
with German and British families on holiday. The highway we had to ride on
didn’t follow the coast, so we spent most of the day riding past ordinary
fields and houses. At night, though, we would take one of the smaller roads
to a campground near the sandy beach, where people would still be lying on
blankets near colorful umbrellas, baking in the sun.
At the surf shop in Lagos, we signed up for a couple of longboards, wetsuits
and a shuttle out to the west coast for a day of surfing. It had been a few
months since I’d been on a surfboard, so it took me a while to get the feel
of things again. But the waves were gentle, and I’d slowly get tossed and
spun around in the break without being afraid of getting hurt. We spent all
day catching wave after wave.
The next day we were both pretty sore, but we had a short ride out to
Sagres, the most western point in Europe. The wind was incredibly strong,
but we made it out (slowly) to the lighthouse. After a night near the beach,
we turned north and headed towards Lisbon.
Next up: Bumpy roads and equipment breakdowns on the way to Lisbon.
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