Dancing with the waves
Moments for Eternity: The Atlantic never ceases to slosh ashore. And the cyclists on the cliffs in southwestern Portugal would like to watch the permanent waves for hours
Waves. They thunder on the cliffs. They crowd into the creeks. They roll over the sand. Wild dancing water, glad to finally arrive after years of sailing over the sea. I hold my bike and look down the cliff. When the waves come up to me, I feel very fine the spray on my face. When the waves roll, there is a noise left in my stomach.
"Have you ever looked at the sea and seen no waves?" José shakes his head. We stand on a ledge, 45 meters above the roar. Carefully we push the wheels to the end of the Cabo Sardão. A fishing boat bobbing on the Atlantic Ocean. A seagull flies over our heads, its shadow flits over the steep edge. On the endless coast a breeze blows and leaves a cool breath on our arms. "Where the land ends and the sea begins," wrote the poet Luís de Camões half a millennium ago, "there lies Portugal." Go to the sea. Drive by the sea. Two days ago we left to cycle through the southwest of the Iberian Peninsula. From Sines in the Alentejo to Lagos in the Algarve, always near the coast, always heading south, 280 kilometers in six days. "Is that possible, José, how many mountains are on the track?" Uncertain we look at the first morning on the well-trained legs of our tour operator and his yellow jersey. "We want to enjoy the trip and not organize a cycling race," says José Neves and smiles encouraging in the round. But Martha adjusts the padding of her cycling pants for safety's sake, Maria stops her heart rate monitor, David puts on his cycling shoes with special soles. "Where are the drugs?" Asks Gregory, the ChroniquesDuVasteMonde WOMAN photographer. Everybody is laughing. José distributes the trekking bikes: "This will be your home for the time being."
Photoshow: Portugal's southwest
Some say cycling is like living on an island. The pedals kicking you away from the rest of the world. The chain of thoughts stops rattling. The head is free, nothing is more important. We are islands, the more talkative the longer we move through the country. Did you see the big cork oak? A mule. And there, the old windmill. Is it because we have jobs that do not set us up for cycling or silence? Maria z. B. is Financial Advisor, David Lawyer and Martha Psychotherapist. Metropolitan, a total of three women and five men between 34 and 57 years old, who want to kick everyday life out of their bodies, gain new impetus. And are curious about Portugal - almost all are the first time in the country.
After a long tour, it's good to just sit outside in Lagos and have a drink
A deep valley opens up before us. In serpentines it goes down the slopes. "Brakes," calls José before each turn. I check my computer on the handlebar: 47 kilometers an hour. Wow, I've never been on the bike that fast. A river meanders through the canyon. The blue glittering band of the Ribeira de Aljezur, lined with sandbanks. "Hey, that's nice," Martha beams in the wind. It smells of rosemary and the resinous leaves of the rock roses that perfumers use for their precious essences. I discover lavender flowers among the bushes, stop and pick a stalk to stick to my handlebars.
On the other side of the valley rises a range of hills. One pine joins the other. On the horizon the silhouette of a fortress, the Castelo Aljezur. A driver enthusiastically beckons us through the open window. "Cycling is not very popular with us," says José as we wave back. Anyone who moves around the country on an aluminum frame and on his own strength enjoys the admiration of the people. Only once will we encounter another cyclist on our tour. An old man fishing with his fishing rod on his back and driving back to his village.
We pioneers work our way up the mountain to the Castelo. My face is glowing, my breath is racing. The thoughts turn in a circle. How high is the mountain? No idea. How many more meters? Endless many. Is not there just a bench in the shade? No matter. A woman crouches in the open window of her house and cleans the windows. "Bom dia," she greets. The blood is pounding so loud in my ears that I barely hear her voice. I stare at José's rear wheel as if it could pull me up the mountain. "That burns everything out of you," groans David pleasurably next to me. Yes. Up in front of the castle, I get off and wait for my legs to feel again.Mighty boulders, piled up to walls and towers, the fortress is a ruin from the time of the Arabs. I climb into the grassy courtyard and look out to the horizon, where sea and sky merge in a diffuse blue. Rough is the land off the coast, tanned by wind and sun. Macchia covers the earth.
Sometimes we pass fields where a few pumpkins and potatoes grow. A green iridescent dragonfly flies in our direction, for a while I sneeze beside her. I am amazed how quiet it is around us. Maybe it is the silence that makes our trip special. Nothing crashes, roars, noises, we are far away from the monotony of sounds. A natural park stretches from Sines to just before Lagos - an oasis in the tourist south. Quietly, we whirr on the bicycles. And make a loop around a dried-up serpent lying on the sand path, rattled up. Dust. Dust on the feet, which are stuck in sandals. Dust on the hands. Dust on water bottles and sunglasses. So we stand every evening in front of another hotel.
At Ponta da Piedade boats rock between rocks in the ink-blue waters
Today Georgina Jacinta Silva greets us in front of her country house. On the roof of the "Casa Monte João Roupeiro" tapered chimneys towering in the sky, reminiscent of church towers. Crickets chirp in the balmy air, and it smells like food. Georgina shows us the rooms. David clatters the metal plates under his cycling shoes over the terracotta floors like Fred Astaire.
I sit down for a moment on my wrought-iron bed. Spread your hands over the thick walls that shut out the heat. Georgina cooked a five-course meal with her Aunt Rosa. The aunt gets the fish from the grill, roach, José's favorite fish. Georgina brings the soup, the filet of black pig, the homemade Chouriço, with lots of paprika spiced sausage. "This is nothing special," says our landlady modestly, as she sees our delighted faces. "That's how I cook for my family." It takes us two hours to cope with the mountains of food.
Only Max, our computer specialist, gets up and disappears for a while. A customer has problems with the software, Max hangs on the phone. Briefly, my stomach contracts as I think of the pile of unfinished work on my desk. There come Aunt Rosa and Georgina with the tarte da natas, cream cake, and a carafe of port wine. We eat and talk so loud that Georgina's cat feeds the tail and flees to the garden.
Hardly anyone tells about home on our tour. As if it were an unwritten law. Even so, the head is free again. Free for scenes that pass the bike. A flock of storks in the sky. A shepherd between his goats. The meter high agave blossoms. Sleepy villages where at most an old woman in a flowered apron shuffles around the corner or stands in her front yard.
The area gets more and more hilly, the farther we come to the south. Never mind, our legs have gained stronger muscles in the short time. We work routinely up the slopes, in the "Granny-Gang", as José calls the smallest gear. Most of the time we cycle on asphalt roads, only along the coast do we bump on narrow paths over pebbles or surf through powdered sugar sand.
"Where else do you go biking?", Maria asks me. She is astonished when I tell her that I'm just going to the bike for shopping or visiting friends - and yet the mountains come up. Maria is the athlete in our group, she rides mountain bikes, jogs and walks a lot. To lie on the beach? How boring. I agree. I'm not a jealous when I see a couple in one of the many coves by the sea, the lazy doze under the umbrella. I think of the days ahead. To the Algarve, where the rocks on the coast strike bizarre arches and form caves. Where a lot of dolphins live in the sea, at Sagres we want to visit them. José raises his hand, everyone stops. Our tour operator takes the tool out of his pocket - David has a plate.
After Vila do Bispo, the country suddenly becomes flat, as if it lost all desire to make itself pretty. Cracked earth, dried grass - no man's land, bald and dreary. The road is so stony that my knees hurt and the wheel vibrates. Finally, Cabo de São Vicente, the southwestern tip of Europe.
The red dome of a lighthouse shines in the sun. The ocean shimmers in the evening light. The waves crash against the coast. We stand silently on the edge of the cliff, on the other side of the Atlantic Ocean America. Something like infinity is in the air. Where is the end of the world and where is the beginning?
Travel Info: Bike Tour in Portugal
Bike Tour in Portugal: The trip was booked at Olimar Reisen (Tel. 02 21/20 59 04 90, Fax 20 59 04 99, www.olimar.com/pedalritter). Eight days, including five days on the bike, cost from 1280 euros. Flights, accommodation, meals, luggage transport are included in the price, bicycles are available from 100 euros extra. Departure every Saturday, provided at least four participants register.
Book tip: "Portugal" from the series Dumont True travel, with lots of information about the country and people and beautiful photos (22,95 Euro).
On the next page: photo show Portugal southwest
