March 30, 2012
Monsanto via Castelo Branco
There's a commotion in the kitchen and voices are raised, certainly one is the no-nonsense café owner, who'd nodded affirmatively at my request for a milky coffee and some toast. I get the coffee, but the woman brings me some cake to eat. Apparently toast is off the menu this morning.
Wearing my arm-warmers to keep off the slight morning chill, I'm ready to hit the road, which is right outside the door of the café, heading northeast to Castelo Branco, around 30 km away. It climbs slightly, and keeps on going up. After 11 km it seems like it's the top, but it's a false one. At the 15 km mark I stopped at a junction café for a cold drink and a thick, crusty ham sandwich, thinking that the climb has been conquered, but once on the main road veering east, it continues sloping up and it's only when my computer's odometer reads 18 km that the crest is reached.
The road reaches an insignificant piece of landscape that rolls like all the rest around it and makes me wonder where all the hard work has got me; if my day had started in Laruns, I'd have been over the spectacular Col d'Aubisque by now.
The countryside - the seemingly never-ending Alentejo, at which I'm now at its northern border - is sapping my enegry. Climbing is fine, in fact I like it, but there has to be a reward of sorts. Not here.
The road itself is a utilitarian route than runs beside the tolled highway, and attracts a fair amount of heavy traffic. There's a wide shoulder to keep me safe, yet the noise of whizzing cars and trucks isn't conducive to an enjoyable ride and I want to get the miles over with, so press on to Castelo Branco, getting to its centre at 12:30.
There seems little to keep me, so I make my way through the streets, using my compass to head in a northeasterly direction while keeping my eyes open for signs for route N 233. Eventually one appears and a café at the roundabout seems a good a place to pause as anywhere so I sit down with an ice cream before riding along in the direction of Penamacor.
There's no shoulder along this artery. A car scarp yard has me stopping as along its perimeter fence, next to the road, is an array of rusting relics, including VWs and Peugeots. I take few snaps and also at the first village, Escalos de Cima, where I stop to take a breather. Shortly afterwards a petrol station with an adjacent café offers some respite and the woman soon knocks me up a cheese sandwich, which gets washed down with a can of iced tea.
My odometer had 63 km on it when I reach San Miguel de Acha, where some cobbled side streets promise a place to sleep. I'd call it a day, but there aren't any beds here.
Some orange trees in a field are loosing their fruit and it seems a waste, so after leaning my bike against what's left of a drystone wall, I quickly trek across the soil and pick a couple and get back on my bike. Just along the road is a rock and I stop and sit on it and enjoy some of the sweetest, juiciest oranges ever. It's the highlight of the day.
Not long after is the turning off the N 233 to Monsanto; maybe there'll be accommodation around Proenca-a-Velha or the village after, Medelim. Nope. Soon after leaving the latter, Monsanto is visible, perched up on a mountain. It looks to be another five or more kilometers away, but there'll be a bed there, no doubt.
The young dude in the tourism office says there's a house I've just gone by where I can sleep. They have rooms, but like the rest of Monsanto, they aren't cheap. He estimates 50 euros a night, which makes me cough. No way will I pay that in a village and in the end I fork out 40, as the steep climb, the last part of which I'd had to push up, has exhausted my willpower to hunt around, and besides, it seems the tourism guy was right.
Today's ride: 88 km (55 miles)
Total: 1,127 km (700 miles)
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