Day 3 - Viana do Costello to A Guarda

I took a slow morning ride around Viana. Likely added 8 KM and an hour to my day, but it was nice to explore the shore and the town a little bit before things got active. I stopped to have a cappuccino and pastel de nata, and then took off in earnest.

This leg had a lot of beauty and a decent amount of climbing. It had the most mountain-bikey section of the route, and it also had the highest number of mountain bikes on the trail.

The rain the night before had made the trail nice and packed in some spots, and soft and muddy in others.

Physically I was feeling better, stronger, and mentally I felt right in the groove. It was a brilliant morning and after one climb but before another, the ruta passed a bucolic scene of a white stone house with a river below it leading to an old mill that was no longer used.

The sun was out and even though I wasn’t feeling too knackered, I decided that I’d take a break. So I sat and ate an orange that I had saved and generally had a the hills are alive! moment.

As often happens when I ride, I don’t feel like eating when I’m in the thick of it and then, when I finally do, the cafes are closed down for the afternoon, re-opening at 8 PM for dinner.

So I kept riding and hit the big set of climbs about 15 KM in. It was about a kilometer of 9% grade, which may not sound like much, but your legs may say differently.

At the top was a chapel and milling about it were about 20 mountain bikers, taking a break and laughing and chatting. I stopped for a moment to check it out and get a stamp, and then hit the trail again. It was only a short bit to the top, and then the descent, which was steep (steeper than the climb), rutted, snaking around trees, and littered with large rocks and exposed roots.

I had no choice but to slow down and take it easy, only to be overtaken by groups of the mountain bikers racing down the hill. I had to pull off multiple times to let different groups by.

They were going so quickly, full of testosterone and youthful exuberance, but I hoped that there were no unlucky pelegrinos in their path.

I remembered thinking earlier in the ride in another portion where the ruta went into the forest and down to a river and then back up that this was more like what I was prepared for. And it was. But this was that on steroids… the kind that would normally disqualify. I had to walk much of it because the small wheels would simply stop whenever they encountered anything that was significant in size or pitch.

But eventually, all things even out and so it was some lovely riding into Caminho. I rode around the old town some and lost the ruta, but eventually I ended up at a boathouse with the path markers indicating that the path was here.

I ordered some water to cool down and the proprietor asked me if I wanted to buy a ticket for the boat ride. I declined. I had seen flyers along the way touting a boat ride to shorten the walk and I didn’t want to do that.

At this point, if you’ve been following along, you’re probably thinking that it was a mistake to decline the boat ride. And you are right, as it is the official ferry that takes one across the river that separates Portugal and Spain.

I, however, am not as wise as you, and so I started riding from there, thinking that I’ll see the markers. And I did see some here and there (the hand painted arrows kind). I rode about 10 KM out before I thought about checking the route again. My Wahoo had died earlier, so I had to look on my phone to retrace the route. Yep. I should have taken the boat trip.

So I headed back and bought a ticket. I lost about 3 hours, though, and so it was around 5PM when I finally arrived in Spain. (And honestly, it took me another day to realize that I was actually in Spain…when I finally noticed the change from Bom Dia to Buenos Dias.)

I started riding. I knew I could make it to the first big town, A Guarda. Of course it was up into the hills, but had I been more aware or had the guidebook I left in Porto, there was also a littoral route that went along the shoreline. I did divert eventually to that route, a nice wide concrete or wooden walkway along a beautiful shoreline. The sun was going down and the lovely old seaside town came into view and I started looking for a place.

As luck would have it, it was still the big national holiday AND there was a big event in this area, so when I looked for hotels, everything was sold out. Everything.

My only option was, gulp, to book a bunk in a municipal albergue.

Albergues are the traditional pilgrim experience, and municipal albergues are especially spartan. I know that I sound like a privileged little first-worlder when I say this, but I really, really, really wanted to spend my nights in a solitary, private little room. I still hadn’t been sleeping through the night, and I find that if I play an ambient sleep playlist, that I’m kinda lulled back into sleep. Sometimes I have to stand up and stretch, even walk around some to get out of my head and back into sleep mode. None of which is easy in an albergue where there might be 15 bunk beds to a room. And there was.

But the next town was a serious climb away with equally scant accommodations, so I simply said, Yes, thank you!

I chatted for a while with other pilgrims who were charging their devices at the front desk. I stayed up till midnight writing and then went to bed hoping to sleep.

If you remember, I had dropped off all of my warm clothes in Porto, including my towel, and I was never able to locate my sleep sheet, so I air-dried after a shower and spent the night on top of a sheeted mattress with no covers and in the middle of the room. It was, as you can imagine, crowded with people noises and smells of the road.

I wore my earbuds with the playlist on, but they hurt after a while and so I ended up just awake and supine. Tossing. Turning.

I remember thinking : I wish I was the person snoring happily all night instead of the one listening to him.

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