Wish you were here to see how dull and overcast it is. A dirty mantel of cloud hangs low from the sky this morning. Though it doesn't look as much like rain as yesterday before I camped.

I ride the final metres of grass track out to the road and once riding upon the tarmac, there's a squishy squeak and a hard rumble in the front wheel. The front tyre is flat. The thick tread touring tyre though remains firmly in place like a thick rubber belt round the wheel, preventing a harsh bump of rim on hard road. Supposedly the cause is a gorse thorn from the track where I'd camped.

I can't stop there being a rough long grass verge to the side and steady rush hour traffic, but fifty metres ahead there's a sidewalk by houses which I make for to change the innertube. The dog in the yard opposite annoyingly begins yapping at me as I set about removing the front wheel. Then it starts raining.

In drizzle I replace the innertube and pump it up hard and then riding is all downhill as the rain gets heavier. My hands firmly on the brake-hoods braking lightly, hoping not to ride into hidden holes as a shallow stream flows down the road.

My rain-jacket which I put on before starting after fixing the puncher is no longer much use. The rain is running in at the elbows and round the shoulders and my clothes underneath are getting wet.

In the grey murk I pass through the roundabout where I should've turned right yesterday and shortly come to a big roundabout exit for the motorway. The motorway onward signposted Leiria Centro, thankfully has no no-cycling sign; additionally, there's a raised cycle lane alongside, so it must be legal. It's cold and miserable. I come to another big roundabout. It seems the drivers looking out behind rain beaded glass and winding windscreen wipers are taking pity on me out in such conditions as all slow when entering the roundabout as I hesitantly make my way round. I'm unsure of the exit for the city centre until I see a small sign Centro. The street leads up a steep hill and where it levels out briefly at the top before going down again, I pass a café at a street corner. I plan on stopping but this place is full of curious locals looking out at me passing and seems I'd have lots of people asking lots of question I've been asked too many times to remember.

A little way down the street there's a large pastelaria in a commercial block's shop-level with pillar colonel coming out to the curbside. The outside tables in the colonel lay vacant except for one seating a man in a warm jacket smoking a cigarette as I lift the bike up and in undercover. Leaning the bike against a pillar, I dry my face and hair with my packtowel and enter. A long saloon with glass display counter along one side. I'm looking to see what I'll have with glasses off drying them in tissue paper when the woman behind the counter approaches. "Café con leche" I blurt. "Café com leite" she returns in singing Portuguese. I order a puff-pastry which looks good, but find only cheap sliced cheese and ham filling.

After a while the place clears out of young cliental while there remains a group of pension age men sat round two tables by the window with espressos and hand jesters over lively conversation and occasionally one will leaf through a tabloid. A woman enters and once all have risen in turn doing the hug and peck greeting, she puts an umbrella aside and calls out toward the counter and takes a seat. People passing in the street lean forward under umbrellas. But once I've drank a second then third coffee while reading my book, more and more pass walking straighter without umbrellas and it looks brighter out. The rain has stopped.

For a while it looks as though it might be stopped for the day, but leaving town it slowly starts drizzling. I was hoping there might be a supermarket as I don't have any food, but don't pass any. I continue on the outskirts and come to a board for a restaurant: Menus Do Dia E6.99. I pull in. It is very smart inside. White walls give an impression of space. Pine tables and chairs and a fish tank in a lobby area. Over half the tables are taken with conversational groups picking over salads and sipping from wine glasses and a waitress comes out with oval platters. I order the stockfish, it come with homemade bread and a side salad and order a jug of red wine. The food is good and when I've finished the waitress insists I have a sweet, a caramel sponge as it is included in the price.

The rain progressively gets heavier on the road ahead. If only I had food and water, another thing I haven't got, I could easily duck into the pine forest to the side and set up camp.

I wear my yellow hi-vi vest and have the rear light flashing as dull murk intensifies and oncoming vehicles approach out of beaming headlights. The shoulder is a narrow strip which is rough and broken in places with a slope into a storm drain alongside making the downhill parts of the straight undulating road feel especially hairy and I'm passed by lots of trucks. One sends a shower of water up round me. I'm wary of close passing trucks on my left and crashing into the drain on the right. I consider camping anyway as it is just too dangerous continuing when I pass a board for a restaurant three-hundred metres, which will be at the top of the next hill. I hope there's accommodation there too. Reaching the top of the rise I ride off on to the paved forecourt. The four-story block over the restaurant has Residencia in eliminated letters at roof level. I'm in luck. When I inquire inside, the woman says "o mais ecomomico.." then browses the computer and says twenty euros, but no breakfast. Well can't have everything. She then comments on the weather in Spanish and says tomorrow is for rain too.

Before showing me to my room she suggests I use a clotheshorse downstairs by a log fire to hang my wet clothes to dry.

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