Category: Portugal 2026

It’s assumed that the yearly summer migration of the northern tourist to anywhere south of Paris is purely based upon a desperate search for the sun. That’s only half true.

On any given camp site, if a study was conducted to establish the numbers of those lying in the sun compared to those sitting in the shade, then most likely the latter would come out on top. Why? It’s warmth that’s hankered for, coupled with long dry days and bearable evenings. Naturally, the sun is relied upon to supply both!

Day 44 – With temperatures constantly in the thirties and little air movement, we decide to do the moving instead. Head north to the cooler coast with the hope of sea breezes at Camping Entre Playas – Llanes (pronounced Yaneth).

En-route, Beastie takes us for a spectacular 40K ride through the Picos de Europa, which cuts through the Cantabrian Mountains. Here’s a nine minute flavour.

Day 45 – This is not what we had in mind. Perched on a stunted peninsular no bigger than Tom Thumb, the mountains and sea-mist contrive to envelope any visible signs of life in its ghostly spectre.

Llanes started life as a fishing village, still is to a certain extent. Situated in easy walking distance of a couple of stunning rocky coves, embellished with fine sand, its tourist revenue now adds to its fishing coffers.

We’ve heard there’s a coastal walk or two. So we venture out. Disregard the low overhead threat. Pretend it’s sunny. Shorts and t-shirts. Less to dry. Mr S checks all local tracks and trails on this jagged headland. Maps out a suitable loop.

It seems not all tracks still exist. Despite the dotted lines on MAPS. A couple of dead ends lead to a couple of frustrating backtracks. Moreso for Mrs S, who rightly remains dubious about any route Mr S plots. He constantly confirms her suspicions that he’s gradually losing the plot! So on cue, we make our own diversion. Take a roadside walk. Into the pretty village of Cue.

The return kerb-side crawl passes some yet to be bully-beef, enjoying the graze. They provide a picturesque gaze. Completely in tune with nature.

Mr S is still pondering over one of the dead-ends. Mrs S provides the perfect cue. She knows he hates to be thwarted. “Why don’t you go and see if you can find that supposed trail. I’ll meet you back at camp”.

He does just that.

The track seems to run out here . . .

Once through, the trail comes back into view . . .

It’s just as well us human’s get to explore, visit and see every nook and cranny of this amazing planet we call earth. It’s beauty would be otherwise wasted.

The earth is full of wonderful complementary double acts. Contrasts that combine and enhance the beauty of a view, a place, or thing. Put a mountain next to a lake for instance and its magnificence is magnified.

There cannot be many camping areas blessed with such a spectacular backdrop as Camping de Riaño. Situated within the Montana de Riañoy Regional Park. We arrive late afternoon and can’t wait to go up and explore.

The waters hold a secret. Hidden beneath are seven traditional villages. Submerged forever in 1987 when this Riaño Reservoir was created.

From day one, every human being instinctively knows the difference between good and evil. Right and wrong. They feel it when on the receiving end of injustice. Yet able to acknowledge it when they are found to be in the wrong.

No other animal has this inbuilt sense of fairness. However, personal sensibility is purely subjective. The result? An apparently unfair world.

Today we say goodbye to Portugal. Cross over back into Spain. A beautiful route takes us onto Camping el Lago, Vilela for a one-nighter.

Before our target is reached, a roadside memorial, draws Beastie to an immediate halt.

Within eight hundred metres of the campsite entrance Hoo-Ha Henry (SatNav) decides to take a short cut. Sows confusion and doubt on 2 Cheeses. Is this it? Or isn’t it? We can almost smell the site. Mr S goes walkabout to save going freak-about.

Destinations can be chosen. Routes planned and mapped. Attractions added. Collectively they evaporate in the mists of time. But it’s often the personal interactions that remain firmly embedded in the memory the longest.

Geert, being one of them. In addition to his on-site duties, he makes himself responsible for every incoming and outgoing visitor. So who comes in, must go out. Our turn next. Geert instructs us to wait. He drives ahead. Clearing our pathway. “Come, when I phone you. Don’t hesitate” We obey. We do just that.

There are few trips we’ve undertaken where a memorable human intervention, or two, has failed to materialise. Cepo Verde Camping provides another such occasion.

Day 40 – Family owned and situated in the high mountains of the Montesinho National Park, it’s going to be our home for two nights. With the temperature hovering around the low 30s, even at 5pm, there’s nothing better than to end the day poolside for a couple of hours. Let the zig-zag effect wear off. So that’s just what we do.

Day 41 – Scoot is not considered as being part of that black leather family normally associated with motor biking. So shorts and T-shirt the much preferred by fair-weather 2 Cheeses. To catch the summer breeze offers that necessary feel-good factor.

There’s a castle and mask museum in Bragança. An easy 13k feel-good jaunt. However, it’s Monday. Like Sunday, a day of rest. We arrive to find both are closed!

The upside – saved on entrance fees. So, we do what’s next best. Go walk the streets. Search out something of interest. This’ll do.

Our evening is spent on a different terrace. One that overlooks the site’s fabulous pool.

At the payment till, we exchange a few words of thanks with Telmo, the owner, for his lovely site and its facilities. “Would you like me to show you around?”

Telmo, an ex HR lawyer, inherited this three hectare site from his father, just under twenty years ago. Since then he has steadily developed the terraced land. Each year’s profits used for improvements.

We are made to feel special. Quizzical faces look on as the Royal Couple are taken on safari.

Planet earth’s self-governing ecosystem has managed to sustain life in all of its forms for millions and millions of years. It regulates all of the components, in just the right amounts, to ensure that life continues and will continue.

A continuous and fragile balancing act that is in constant motion during every second of every day. An invisible and essential life giving force that never sleeps.

The human body has its own ecosystem too. A finely balanced conglomeration of miniscule cells. All working together, yet all vying for essential nourishment. A mass of complex chemical equations undergo perpetual autonomous analysis; a unique formula just to maintain equilibrium.

In both scenarios the human ‘element’ finds it difficult not to interfere. Body and planet fight against will and lack of will.

Food, exercise and rest the a + b + c that equals x are on 2 Cheeses’ menu today. Mr S gets the day rolling with an earlyish morning portion of b, while Mrs S indulges in 2c.

A 40k touch n turn along the fabulously smooth Ecopista do Tâmega – an old and now converted railway route that used to connect and serve the local hillside villages between Arco de Baúlhe & Amarante.

Each station en-route, an historic monument to a bygone era. Traditional tile designs, now protected under Portuguese law, add a certain sparkle.

One of the local villages gets today’s Saint Anthony’s festivities off to a musical start.

Interspersed between lunch and pool, 2 Cheeses add b to b with a hike along the Ecopista. The old line crosses a motorway. It’s easy to see why Portugal’s roads make for easy driving.

Geert runs this site single handed. 1.5 hectares of scrub land he bought seventeen years ago. A vision brought to life through a mammoth amount of hard work.

As an ex-chef, he also provides a daily evening meal of either fish, or meat stew, Portuguese style, for any peckish on-site guests. We join eighteen others for a + a. He cooks, serves, dish and bottle washes. A grafter. He calls it fun.

Sometimes when touring, it’s not the journey that provides the most interest, but the destination itself. Today proved no exception.

Priorities have to take precedent. Food and fuel being two. A necessary fill up of both is due. Then it’s onwards and upwards onto Campismo Arco de Baulhe. A short 40k further east.

The instructions for finding the site are clear. DO NOT ATTEMPT. Instead make your way to the BP garage and phone Geert, the Belgian owner. Then play follow the leader.

We’ve all done it. Missed an appointment of one sort or another by being late. Sometimes of our own volition. Other times by circumstances not in our control.

2 Cheeses have even on occasion missed a show, by being too early. Like the time we booked tickets to see a film at the Regent Centre in Christchurch. Even made a note of the day and time on the calendar. We show up. Lots of time to spare. Show the seat numbers to the usher. She ushers us in. Seats taken. Not many in. Then a couple appear at our sides. We’re in their seats. How is that possible? Computer ticketing error obviously!

Seems like we did have lots of time to spare. As in one week!

Rita, the very helpful site receptionist, informs 2 Cheeses there’s a four day Medieval Festival in progress in downtown Guimarães. There’ll be street performers, traditional food stalls and lots to see and do.

When she says downtown, she literally means downtown. There’s only one sensible way down. By cable car.

The town of Guimarães preceded the founding of Portugal and is considered the ‘cradle of the Portuguese nationality’. A good reason to hold a party.

Apart from a few stalls that are open and trading today, the surrounding streets are all in busy preparation. Appears the festival starts tomorrow!

So we do what we usually do. Go visit a church. This one a little unusual. Built around the end of the 15thC, supported the cult of the Brotherhood of the Shoemakers. Work that one out. Perhaps they were peacekeepers. Called upon to quietly put the boot in should anyone be causing trouble.

The old town may be medieval, but it can still suffer from this modern day disease.

This mini-mount on which the sanctuary and Penha Campismo sit, is strewn with ginormous granite boulders. Often used as shelters during the Copper and Bronze ages.

When running a business, it pays to associate and be seen with those who are more successful at what they do, than you. Getting up close can often result in a little of their special star dust rubbing off and adding some missing sparkle to your own enterprise.

The Atlantic seaport of Aviero markets itself as Portugal’s Little Venice. As a result, it attracts visitors (that’s why we’re here), by the boat load. All eager to sample a taste of something that resembles the real thing, even though it clearly isn’t. How could it compete, with only three canals to its name. Yet the ploy works wonders.

Boat after boat emptied and refilled. Contents taken for a spin. Literally. No romantic and graceful forcula motion. No time for that. A diesel outboard motor propels the paying visitors along the opening straight at a rate of knots that would give Usain Bolt a run for his money.

Despite its lack of canals shortcomings, the town does hold a certain charm.

A street artist, all togged up and perpendicularly posed, hopes to earn a little cash for his golden enterprise. His lifeless eyes, as expressive as a bronze corpse, defy life. A young couple go to pass by, then change their minds. A photo opportunity too good to miss. She’s wearing a silky slinky navy number. One side, split from ankle to upper thigh. He readies his camera as she throws her long black hair to one side. It’s going to make a great photo. Neither have noticed the begging boat in front that’s been accumulating significant contributions.

She stands a metre away from the ‘statue’. Thinks better of it; sidles up closer. Places a hand on the cyclist’s shoulder. Gets comfortable. Readies her practised smile as both camera and face focus on one another. There’s a three second pause before he makes his move. Rotates his head towards the woman. Just enough so that she’s aware from the corner of her eye. The penny doesn’t drop. Not immediately. It just hovers above the ground. Suspended between their heads by her disbelief. When it does, it’s as if she’s just touched a live wire. A sudden jolt of reality kicks in. Almost lifts her out of her high-heels. She reels away. Hand to mouth.

Many of Aviero’s buildings show off their tiled exteriors. Adding a decorative appeal and an extra layer of waterproofing.

At the end of today’s journey, it isn’t until Mr S checks into Parque Campismo da Penha, that he discovers Beastie took a route up to it’s summit of 613 metres (2,011 ft), not recommended for motorhomes. Due to a technical issue with the onboard camera, no footage was recorded. Pity, since Mrs S gave birth to several kittens during the ascent.

Churches, cathedrals, monasteries, mosques, synagogues, basilicas all share a common thread. Not always clear, or visible to the layperson. Those in the know, recognise and realise how the various liturgical structures within their particular faith, mould and bring life into their communities.

Faith, like love, is a doing word. An activity that promotes individual wellbeing. Encourages helpful outreach. Throughout history it’s been paramount in bringing consolation to those in desperate need. Enabled acts of reconciliation and forgiveness when none were due. Played a major role in shaping nations.

This week’s trinity of holy sites is completed with a visit to the UNESCO World Heritage Batalha Monastery.

The whole of the exterior is currently undergoing a thorough and overdue clean. Scaffolding and fencing dampen its magnificence that’s stood its ground for more than half a millenium. Half-price entry guaranteed in Portugal for the not quite so old 2 Cheeses.

It’s commonly recognised that walking is one of the best exercises for body and mind. Feeling under the weather, fed-up, depressed, achy, tired even? Go walk it off. Or swim it off. Or bike it off.

Combine that exercise with a bit of nature and you have the perfect remedy.

Not that 2 Cheeses are feeling any of the above. In fact quite the opposite. Dutch couple Emile & Sanne, who bought Quinta da Cerejeira camping just two and a half years ago, have managed to create a beautiful respite within their 1.5 hectare back garden. All who enter are made to feel welcome and therefore quite at home.

They leave nothing to chance and have a caring eye for detail. Yoga, pilates, boat trips, cycle routes and hiking routes all planned and available for their guests. We choose hiking route number 2. A short 6.7K loop simply downloaded into Komoot.

The map is flat. The route isn’t. The fact that it’s named Mirodoura da Cruz Alta, should have been a clue. We are clueless. It’s of no consequence. It’s a joyful mix of lanes, road and track.

We learn that at one point during the storm a tornado raged through a campsite in Albufeira in the Algarve, causing destruction and complete mayem. Killing three people in the process.

Not far from base we come across an ancient water pump. Sadly chained.

We must all learn to accept blame. Especially when it is fully justified. Admitting to one’s own fallibility is essential for maturity. It encourages growth and is an aid to self-forgiveness and forgiveness of others.

“It should be fun getting out” – prophetic last words spoken by Mr S on entering Redondo Camping yesterday. Destined to take a chunk out of his and Beastie’s backside this morning.

Mr S should have really done his homework. Sussed out the lie of the land fully. We came in from the left, so that’s where we should exit from. It’s a very tight squeeze up there. However, Mr Infallible, AKA SatNav, has other ideas. Instructs “In fifty metres turn right”. That sows doubt. So with front wheels not quite over the brow, Mr S decides to brake and make the decision then. Mistake! Big mistake!!

Beastie is not in the mood for playing a game of tug of war. It’s too early in the morning. He’s not had his Weetabix. The steep incline, ably aided and abeted by the sheer force of gravity, makes the first move. Takes Mr S and Beastie by surprise. Prevents any further upwards movement. Exerts its magnetic influence. Steadily tugs him backwards. Like iron filings in the grip of an invisible force. First gear coupled with an onboard UP gizmo unable to create enough counterplay. Foot and hand brakes work overtime. As do pulses.

Phew! That really was fun! The day is already feeling better. Tomar and its Convento do Cristo, here we come . . .

This beautiful sun drenched town, dominated and overlooked by its high-rise castle, radiates an underlying aura of sophistication we’ve yet to experience in Portugal.

Founded 866 years ago by Gualdim Pais, a Grand Master of the Order of the Knights Templar, Tomar’s Convento is a masterpiece of construction. Intricate and extraordinary carved stonework exudes the importance of attention to detail on every level.

Some children and young adults maintain their basic facial features throughout every decade. Even in their senior years those younger looks remain clearly visible. Others, like Mr S, seem to experience a continuous state of change. An ongoing metamorphosis, flatfish like. Fortunately no signs of Marty Feldman showing yet. Though there may still be time. Early years looking like his mum. Then more and more like his dad. A couple of decades later, he spent some time being mistaken as a Tony Blair twin, during the era when New Labour sprang onto the scene. Of course, hidden dreams of morphing into a Richard Gere, or a Daniel Craig mere candy-floss.

Today, unknowingly, or perhaps unwittingly, his current looks reach a pinnacle unlikely to be surpassed . . . walking back across Tomar we bump into Afonso. (the Portuguese version of Alfonso) “Bom dia’s” exchange; then he stops in his tracks. “You look just like King Charles” . . . eerrrrrrr!

Fifty minutes later, our Royal Yacht sails us into the peaceful port of Quinta da Cerejeira.

People search. Often in the wrong places. Recognising, or perhaps realising, that surely there must be more than just a birth, a life, then death. Spirituality seekers hold heads to the sky, the stars, the universe, or the even moon. Hoping for something from without, that can only be found within.

Human nature demands an explanation for all things. To an extent, it drives what some might call progress. Yet, at the same time there are many things that can’t be explained. So many personal experiences that don’t make sense. Will never make sense. Knowing how, can never explain why?

Why? The single word puzzle that has continued to confound and confuse mankind.

Today, we head to the Silver Coast resort of Nazaré. Famous for its 2026 record for the tallest wave ever surfed – 86 feet! No chance of seeing anything remotely like that. Wrong time of the year. A long stretch of convenient boardwalk encourages a stop for a leg stretch and photo shoot – across the bay towards São Martinho do Porto.

Nazaré downtown, the epitome of a typical coastal resort, exhibits all its trappings. Gift shops, restaurants, hotels, surviving on the whim of passing trade in summer. On the benefits of the surfing communities that arrive from all four corners of the globe to compete, during November to March, when the waves can become formidable.

Nazaré uptown, is certainly that. Precipitously perched.

The old town, known as Sitio, a complete contrast to it’s lowly other half. A handful of visitors sniff out every nook and cranny, like bloodhounds caught up on the scent.

Our day of religious study continues with a visit to the Sanctuary of Fátima. Portugal’s answer to Lourdes.

Many pilgrims arrive on knees along dedicated paths. Like slow snails they leave a golden trail of devotion in their wake. Hearts full of intention. Either for themselves, or those they love most dearly.

Our day eventually ends on Camping Redondo.

When touring, it pays to expect the unexpected. That way it’s not unexpected. Is it? With a one in a million chance of being struck by lightning, you’d think the saying ‘It never strikes twice in the same place’, would hold true. Yet, try telling that to Roy Sullivan. A Guinness Book record holder.

We’ve enjoyed the luxury of this peaceful site and its pool, but it’s time to move on.

Day 30 – This morning’s intentions to head northwards again are brought to a halt. Even before a twist of the ignition key. Mr S’s beady eye spies another pointy trespasser. Embedded in the very same front tyre. More chunky than his compatriot. But a potential problem nonetheless.

Time to phone Jorge Jesus. “OK. Can you come this afternoon? No? OK, come now”

Another queue of hopeful customers stand in a ragged line at the entrance to his workshop. Jorge calmly juggles the different problems presented to him. His quiet calmness infectious. He seems to float between each expectant with a masterful air. All ready to bow down at his beckoning. Every new arrival acknowledged. Patience pervades.

Four Asian men, their car jacked high on a lift, need a new alternator €250; an old teenager enquires about his repaired bumper. “Come back after lunch, I’ll have it ready”; a German man, here for the surfing, calls in on spec. His hired campervan has a defunct leisure battery. Fridge and freezer contents on the melt. Jorge makes a brief phone call “Come back at 5pm – I’ll fit a new one. €290”. Other vehicles are backed up. Overlap the entrance. Spill out onto the main road. Called to their messiah. Frequent queries from his small army of workshop disciples intermingle and are efficiently dealt with. Meanwhile he’s supervising a young novice. Delegated to deal with the metal intruder. A form of initiation test. Like a tooth under anaesthetic, the extraction is painless. It hasn’t pierced the tyre wall. No air escapes. It’s taken for a baptism. Full submersion. To be on the safe side. Not a single bubble rises to the surface. A miraculous healing. Alleluia!

“How much Jorge?” “No charge” – that’s painless too. Very. Somehow not unexpected.

Day 31 – Yesterday’s blip, yet another example of the future becoming the present, then the past. On our way to tonight’s stopover at Parque de Campismo Orbitur Foz de Arelho (I could simply have written campsite, but this sounds much more exotic), we spend a lovely afternoon exploring Buddha Eden. The largest oriental garden in Europe. It’s a massive outdoor exhibition sprawling over 86 acres. Undulating and manicured to perfection. Created using over six thousand tons of marble and granite. Buddhas, stone sculptures of all shapes and sizes, blue terracotta soldiers, metal herds of African beasts are scattered throughout the garden.

Created by art enthusiast Comendador Jose Berardo as a reaction to the 2001 Taliban destruction of the Buddhas of Bamiyan, Afghanistan.

Complete autonomy, being remote and almost off-grid generates a powerful sense of freedom. Relinquishing ties to modern day living, doing without convenience and certain luxuries is liberating.

It’s easy to understand why some people look for isolation. Cut themselves off from the complexities of being with others and its associated stress. Maybe the monks of old had something.

Long distance hikers and cyclists, will no doubt experience the daily enhancement that comes from being indulgently self-sufficient on each leg of their journey. The fact that at certain times you can be sure that no-one else in the world knows exactly where you are, is empowering, builds independence and can lead to self-discovery.

Not that 2 Cheeses ever feel completely cut off. Travelling with Beastie’s Belly topped up with a variety of communicating gizmos, ensures that.

It can be difficult to move on sometimes. It’s often said that it’s supposed to be all about the journey, not the destination. However, when touring, there are lots of destinations. Some more tempting than others. Campismo Sao Miguel in Odeceixe is one of those. (Oh, now you know where we are . . . )

Like a vivid dream, what should remain as a memorable memory, can often be fleeting. Yet a nightmare, or a distressing event can seem to remain locked and available for recall long after.

The brain seems to operate in a totally indiscriminate manner. It gives no choice in memory matters. When pushed to bring the past to light, it stubbornly refuses. Like a petulant child. Stamps its feet. Demands a sweetie before obliging the parent’s wish. Expects you to perform weird and whacky routines. Just to demonstrate who’s really in control of the situation.

Yet, surely it knows that without maintaining memory, we become isolated from our very self. Its lazy characteristic can all too easily create a lost soul.

Day 25 – Campigir Sao Torpes needs to be wiped from our memories. With Stalag 17 lookalike shower facilities, cold water wash-up sinks that just about manage to cling on to an outside wall and dilapidated pitch, a one night stay is more than enough for two lost souls.

This site’s one saving grace – being within a fifteen minute walk of the local beach.

Day 26 – We move on. Not far. 10K. In search of something better. To Camping Costa Vizir – Porto Covo. Interrupt our journey with a few hours sunbathing. This is how we remember Portugal’s beautiful and rugged coastline.

Is it ever right to keep a secret from your better half? “Well, it really depends on the circumstance and context. Will it cause hurt? Will it seriously jeopardise your relationship? Are you able to live with the secret? If your answers are no, no and yes, then I’d advise you to keep shtum.“

So, that’s exactly what Mr S does. Having noticed this spiky potential game-changer, firmly embedded in Beastie’s driver’s side front tyre, two days ago. With a two-nighter planned at Alferce, Beastie was going nowhere slow, until today. Logic prevailing. Why cause unnecessary worry for Mrs S. These things always get resolved, one way, or another.

Day 23 – Now though – time to spill the beans.

Mr S loads MAPS. Keys “Tyre repairs near me” Checks distance and reviews. Ah, English speaker. Less than one hour away. Perfect. Makes telephone call. Jorge, our saviour, confirms “Yes, come”. We do just that.

The drive over is taken sedately. More so than usual. Potholes not welcome. Every jolt feels like those seconds when you’re charged with blowing up a balloon to it’s very maximum capacity. At every tiny additional puff you fear it might explode in your face.

Forty minutes and nineteen euro later, Jorge has pulled the culprit, plugged the hole, sealed it and sent us on our way.

Then it’s a quick about turn down south. Twenty minutes to Aljezur and Parque Campismo do Serrao. A two nighter. Check-in another bureaucrat’s utopia.

Stepping down into this woody labyrinth of eucalyptus, Mr S’s eyeballs whizz into a tizz. Negotiating Beastie through this perceived obstacle course is going to be tricky. He scans around trying to make some sense of the layout. If there is any. Not really keeping either eye on where he’s walking. Stops. Goes to turn. Heel catches on a tree stump. Causing just enough change in momentum to tip the balance from perpendicular to horizontal. In the space of a nano-second, Mr S transforms into Jenga-man. Timber! Luckily a slight crack on the head, a sore hip, and a dusty t-shirt, mere minor mementoes. Mrs S watches it happen in slow motion. The way she describes the unfolding scene, sounds rather balletic – or did she say pathetic?

Later, the abundance of trunks prove their use.

Day 24 – A less eventful day all round. An a.m. wash cycle before an afternoon doing absolutely nothing, poolside.

Later, Mrs S is relieved of kitchen duties for the evening. After a 1.5k walk up to Altura Steakhouse, she gets more than she’s bargained for.

With Portugal receiving more than 300 days of sunshine each year, it’s no wonder Brits flock here throughout the seasons. That’s more than twice the UK average of around 145 days. Perhaps that’s why we go a little stir crazy under hot azure conditions, at home or abroad.

Most visitors zoom into the coastal regions. Without realising what they may be missing a short distance inland.

Day 21 – We decide not to miss out. Head up into the Monchique Mountains region. Discover that at Alferce, the local council have constructed a beautiful overnight parking lot for touring campers. For €11 per night, it’s a bargain. No showers, but Beastie is well equiped.

Less than five minutes away is the Passadiços Barranco do Demo. Famous for its wooden walkway and suspension bridge. We wait until the hottest part of the day and set out!

It’s not often that more than 50% of a hike is walking up and down steps!

Our pre-dinner apéritif arrives in the form of a local bell-jingling family.

Day 22 – In these very remote parts, there’s absolutely no chance of catching a local bus, uber, or even thumbing a lift as traffic is sparce. So Scoot is put under starters orders. Not that he’s going to race around in any event. Mr S likes to take it slowly. Give time to exercise his rubber-neck. Much to the chagrin of Mrs S. She much prefers to be the one having a gander as we wander.

Scoot wanders into Monchique village. We find the one, built for goats street. And like the grand ole Duke of York we march to the top; then we march right down again.

Having a four year old grandson, Jason, brings many joys. Making short videos for him while touring, is one those . . .

Then it’s a short Scoot over to experience the thermal spring at Caldas de Monchique. The Roman’s loved revelling in its therapeutic waters. We arrive too late. The tiny lush thermal source has been gobbled up by a village hotel and spa.

Our Maps directed 12K Scoot, back to base, a little lumpier than anticipated. Compensates with wonderful views across the hills towards the coast.

With a population of around seventy million, the UK is often regarded as a beacon of democracy. Yet, the majority of people really have little say in matters that directly affect their lives and well being. On average, each one of the 650 elected MPs, represent around 74,000 constituents of voting age.

It’s no wonder that rules, regulations and laws can seem crazy; or unfair; or outdated; or not even necessary; or seem to favour some over others – you can’t please all of the people all of the time. Perhaps, only those minorities that blow the loudest trumpet get their needs met.

The same can be true of red tape and its bureaucratic bedfellow bumkins. Those that revel in detail. The few that interpret and take it upon themselves to ‘deliver’ what’s in our best interests.

We’d read that the Portuguese governing systems are bastions of bureaucracy. Fortresses specialising in crossing t’s and dotting i’s. A natural part of their inbuilt psyche. It filters down. Maintaining order. Making sense only to those that devise and monitor. Why create the simple, when the complex is to hand.

So, on Portuguese sites one and two, we are subjected to a typical example when first registering.

In France and Spain, it would go something like this. “We’d like a pitch for one night please” “How many people?” “Two” “Cats, or dogs?” “No” “How big is your camper?” “7.5metres” “You can take pitch 27. See, here on this map” “Thanks. How much?” “21 euro” “Cash OK?” “Yes” “Thankyou” – then off we’d go to pitch up.

Day 19 – Here, at Camping Albufeira, it’s completely different. They start by asking for both passports. These are scanned. The passport numbers and other details in the passports are then manually entered into a PC. Then you’re presented with an A4 questionnaire which asks you for your name, address, date of birth, nationality, phone number and email. This you must sign.

A similar dialogue now takes place as above. Once everything is in order we are both issued with a coloured wrist band. One of those that’s once on can only be scissored off. To be worn at all times, even around town. Plus a plastic entry & exit ID card. An A4 invoice, plus receipt are printed and handed over, along with another sheet which has to be placed on the dashboard to indicate we are ‘pukka’. Blimey! At this point 2 Cheeses think they may need to introduce a filing system.

With the afternoon all ours, Scoot scoots us down into Albufeira. A deluge of apartment blocks and hotels hem in around the centre. House thousands and thousands of sunseekers. They pour out in force. Taxi’s ferry in youngsters in fours and fives from outlying villas. Beaches, bars and cafes overflowing. It’s the final day of the Premier season. Every establishment with two massive screens on live.

Day 20 – With few inland places to pitch Beastie up, Scoot is not going to be given many sunbathing opportunities. He’s going to have to earn his keep. Today he makes a short loop of 24K. Allows a three village recce.

First stop, Guia and its pretty cobbled streets.

Next stop Algoz. Only gets a mention because there’s nothing of interest. One of those tiny towns that have grown up and around a thoroughfare. No real civil structure, that we could make sense of. No centro. Just a place en-route to somewhere better.

Tunes completes our trilogy. Sitting alongside the main drag, much quieter. We find a quiet streetside spot at Pastelaria Ornelas. Splash out in cash – cards not accepted in most small shops and cafés.

In an era where every click counts, a clever marketeer, working with the help of an AI script editor, can have you reaching for your credit card in the twinkle of an eye. In fact you don’t even need to do that.

That clever Mr Google, along with his friends at Meta, have us covered. They track every left, or right turn. Take note of every click and swipe made. Monitor and interpret every single interaction. Create a digital footprint that walks alongside. Shadows us like a silent spy. Relaying back to base in secret cypher. A constant tittle-tattle of information. Interpreting needs, wants and desires, before re-presenting them in innovative snippets of temptation. They know what we want before we do!

Images, videos, banner ads, pop-ups – just a few of the tempting methods employed to grab, then hold attention. Interrupt screen gawp. Personal, with credit card details safely stored. Forever at the ready. A couple of clicks and you’ve bought into ‘the sell’. Purchase complete. It’s that easy.

A Facebook ‘pop-up’ showing an arial view of Fuseta’s beautiful beaches gets 2-Cheeses scampering for the map. (yes, we have a paper one) Where is this cute little fishing villlage? It’s close. Just over the border, Portugal. We can be there by lunchtime. We do just that.

We’re now pitched up on Camping Municipal de Fuseta. A rectangular site. Divided into narrow rectangular spaces. A converted corner of disused gravel. Greenery helps to shade MOHOs and campers of all shapes and sizes as they make do. For the sake of the ‘sell’.

This short southern Algarve coastline is famous for its sardines. Just like them, we’ve been caught, gutted, packed. We are however, in very short walking distance from the village, harbour and iconic beach.

Stink Bugs? 2

Good deeds have a lot going for them. One way, or another. Inevitably, they bless whoever is on the giving, or receiving end. Like a book-keeping double entry, they lie in wait on the opposite page. Patiently biding time for reconciliation, when everything must perfectly balance. An invisible credit in your favour.

So it was no real surprise after pitching up at Donana Camping Magazon for three nights, when early payback time arrived – in the name of Frank. We’d overlooked the fact that Bestie’s belly was running short of water. With no hot water wash-up facility on site, Mrs S couldn’t contemplate being without such an essential. The nearest water tap 30metres away. Even at a stretch, 3 metres too far. Then, “Let me help you, I’ll get my hose. You can join it together.”

On schedule, more or less. Portugal now in view.

Although this oasis has everything going for it, come Friday afternoon, an invasion of tongue wagging, loud mouthed Spanish week-enders quickly fill up vacant pitches. It’s currently past midnight and there are still children kicking a ball about, while parents gladly natter away. All par for the course.

We move on tomorrow.

Most people, I imagine, experience a point in their lives when they feel they are at the peak of their powers. There exists and emanates a huge confidence in one’s own ability to master all and sundry. Sadly, purple patches come and go.

The same has been true of empires. Whether Egyptian, Persian, British or Roman, they have all come and gone. But it’s not all doom and gloom. Personal legacies, demonstrating what can be achieved can inspire future generations. Similarly, past empires have provided the knowledge, wisdom and building blocks for much of today’s societies. Taking inspiration from what has passed, can lead to innovation and a source for good.

Of those empires now long gone, it is the Roman Empire, that still holds most sway in the minds, hearts and souls of modernity.

Mérida holds a huge bounty of Roman history. It’s no wonder. Having been founded in 25BC by Emperor Augustus. Nowadays civil councils, realise the rewards of preserving, maintaining and promoting their rich Roman heritage, to the benefit of the tourist trade, local coffers and most importantly, visitors.

With only one day allocated, we cough up our visitors’ €34. Focus on the ‘paid entry’ sites.

First stop, the 130 metre square footprint of the Alcazaba Citadel. Excavations and discoveries still ongoing.

Two hours fly by. We head out into the narrow streets, in search of the Temple of Diana. Come across a different type of tribute, to a different type of legend.

Our upward search interrupted by a number of on-going archeological digs. Silently squeezed in, between tidy terraced rows. Dedicated kneelers diligently scraping and brushing a daily thimbleful, or two, from off the ancient floor. Flimsy canvas curtains hang above. Provide just enough shade for exposed crouched backs and necks.

Then suddenly, without fanfare, the top of town monument appears.

Then it’s on to the piece de resistance. Or as they say in Spain “pieza de resistencia”

One final stop – almost.

Definitely the final stop. A magnificent massive organic wall composition.

Life is full of little twists and turns. Some foreseen. Some not. Some more significant than others. A fraction of a second can sometimes be the difference between a good outcome, or not.

Although aware of the idiom, measure twice, cut once, Mr S has often omitted to pause and think for just one second in order to employ that wise principle. Likewise, when a stranger is in need of assistance, he never thinks twice. Mr S (as Mrs S describes) behaves like a little yappy dog. Enthusiastically eager to please and perform. Do his master’s bidding. Tail frantically wagging like a demented metronome. Ears on starters orders. Listening for that magic word – “fetch!”

We’re currently pitched up on a bland, but necessary ‘Camping-Car Park’ site. On the edge of the ancient Roman city of Augusta Emerita. Present day Mérida.

The forced increase in worldwide oil prices, have been offset by the Spanish government (how wise), reducing tax on fuel by 11%. In France, every litre that Beastie guzzled cost around €2.20; whereas in Spain around €1.70.

A pre-dinner amble to view what remains of the once six kilometre aquaduct, the perfect way to stretch off the monotonous motorway journey south-west.

Back at camp, Mr S needs to attend to emptying the chemical toilet. Not the most salubrious of tasks. At the barriered entrance a German couple are looking bewildered. First-timers to this new type of ‘entry by app’ site.

Every web designer on planet earth, seems to adopt their own unique set of confusing procedures to accomplish, quite often, the same simple result. So, when the woman approaches Mr S for assistance, he sympathetically tries to help. Having ‘been there, done that’ some eighteen months previous. However, after fifteen unsuccessful minutes of trying to talk her through the process on her phone, he suggests she pays him in cash and uses his access card to get them in.

It’s at this point Mr S’s tail wags fervently. He turns and jogs away “Don’t run” she shouts. Ha! Mr S is in his element. But. He’s not wearing Nikes. He’s wearing flip-flops. Twenty yards later and ‘ping’ – his right calf muscle tears.

The hobbled walk back to the couple is ironically exacerbated. In just four minutes her hubby has used his phone to crack the entrance system. Their camper is now sitting pretty this side of the barrier.

5 Stink Bugs delimited

Ever since the late 19th century introduction of the phonograph, succeeding generations have been captivated by music recordings of their time. In itself, it brought about the concept and invention of popular music.

Each decade since then, has brought with it different, new and exciting eras of sound. From blues, through to opera, jazz to rockabilly. A musical cacophony of creative genres to strike a chord with everyone’s taste.

For some it can feel like chalk and cheese. A love, hate syndrome develops. Why do some like one sound and others a completely different type? When beat, rhythm and melody all harmonise, people tend to too.

After two evenings of pounding beat, it’s time to move on. Good to know the local birdsong are ready and waiting in the wings to spring into chorus, once party-time is over.

Mr S’s Merlin bird app captures sixty seconds of natty chatter.

We leave El Greco with its surround sound simmering in the distance. Meanwhile we start to simmer as the forecast heat builds.

Today’s planned short journey to Cazalegas Camping allows for a beautiful interruption. A two hour stroll to take in the stunning Barancas de Burujon.

Cazalegas Camping is fronted by a huge restaurant and venue centre, which they describe and name The Complex of Dreams. The camp area as such is a scrawny grid of thin, long pitches. Barely enough room for table and chairs. Few campers are here. Both indoor and outdoor restaurants are brimming over. There’s a birthday party, or more, on the go. How the Spaniards love to party. And how they love to indulge in the latest, loudest dance music.

Mid-evening and 2 Cheeses are wondering what time their dream time will begin. We’re starting to develop a different type of complex to the one advertised just as the (kind) DJ brings proceedings to a halt at 9pm.

Ah. Peace at last.

3 Stink Bugs

His idea, or as Einstein liked to call it, theory, considers the notion that space and time are not separate, but one and the same thing. As a result, the faster you move through space, the slower through time. But that doesn’t seem to equate when you’re late and frantically rushing to make an appointment.

Have you ever considered the speed with which the Spanish utter their sentences, compared to us English? Theirs seems rocket propelled. More often than not, just as noisy. The fact that they co-exist within Einstein’s conceptual Spacetime Continuum, proves that they are capable of speaking many more words within the same amount of given time. Their lightning fast speak can cause time to slow down. Even effecting others in close proximity. Just wait in queue behind a couple of nattering Spaniards and time literally does stand still.

They are not alone . . .

It’s Friday. We arrive and pitch up on Camping El Greco, Toledo. Just to make us feel fully at home, major week-end celebrations break out the other side of camp. An all day party starts to invade and bend the space around our ears. The pounding never-ending beat stretches irritatingly across our Spacetime Continuum. It subsides at 12.15am.

With previous experience of late-night Spaniards, Mr S is prepared.

Day 11 – As the crow flies, Toledo old town is just a 2K flight downstream. By bus, or foot, it’s nearly double. So, a lazy morning is followed by a lazy bus ride. Our Guru underground walking tour is set to start at 2.30pm.

L72 drops us within striking distance of our central meeting point. Within the impressive city walls, Old Town is a collaboration of small open plazas and undulating dark narrow alleyways; silently wishing that the sun might shine their way one day. However, necessary shade providers during the hotter months.

Alberto, four years a Guru guide, navigates our maze-like route in true Pac-Man style. His fourteen groupees in tow of his pink and blue flag.

Alberto tells us that nowadays Toledo life goes on above three layers of its mostly hidden physical history. Roman, Arab and Christian. Each conqueror in turn building on top of the conquered.

Likewise, 14th, 15th & 16th century society was tri-layered with Christians holding power; the Islamic community as the workers – everything constructed then was Muslim built; and naturally the city’s finances were run by the Jewish community.

Many of Toledo’s households have a ‘cellar’ door, leading to a little bit of history. Our tour takes in Roman, Arabic, and Judaic baths.

Two hours later we’re back in the blue.

7 Stink Bugs let loose over two days . . .

Saturday is still party time. Ear-buds to the rescue once more.

The video carousel is sending the world into a spin. Millions of ‘trivia’ creators titillate billions. A constant mobile merry-go-round. Constantly replenished. Digits slide up, or down, left and right. Searching for that next ten second ‘fix’. Perhaps something to save. Hardly ever to savour. Something to share.

Is it any wonder ADHD is on the rise? The more there is, the less time is given over. Thought processes diminish in favour of diminished entertainment. Multiple platforms with diminished responsibilty encourage non-sensical monetisation.

Green Line 5 back into Madrid Centro, gives more than enough time to observe the glary eyed with poised scrolling digit. Mr & Mrs S, with phones safely tucked away, do what all traditional commuters have done for decades long gone. Stare at their reflection opposite. Look down at the different types of footwear. Re-read the one word sign which reads ‘ALARMA’ over and over again. Sneak unsuspecting glances at other passengers. Become expert peepers in broad daylight.

On our way to our timed 12.45 entry into the Prado Art Museum, we pass one of Madrid’s most iconic buildings.

Sadly, photography is banned inside. Based over three disconnected floors, the maze-like interior of corridors and dead-ends leads us in a discombobulated dance. It seems they have put everything on show. Too much to see. This has the effect of creating a weariness. And so one abandons any notion of taking much time to study detail. After ninety minutes Mr & Mrs S can hardly bare to look into another pair of those dark foreboding eyes. If only the Salida could be found . . .

We move onto something more uplifting – the Real Jardin Botanico.

Inside a modern set of artworks are on display

We round the day off with an underwhelming Italian – meal that is. Then spend the next forty minutes looking at feet, or reflections, or signs . . .

4 stink bugs dispatched today

Under the influence of a hypnotist, we can make decisions, but are they truly ours? Currently, according to the latest statistics, before booking a hotel, Air-B&B, restaurant, theatre ticket, tour-guide, camp-site and the like, 84% of people read at least ten reviews before making a decision. If that’s what it is.

It’s no wonder then, that the age of ‘the influencer’ is upon us.

Day 7 – A relatively short and uneventful 215K hop down into Madrid and Camping Osuna. A three-nighter on the cards. A lunchtime ‘Jesus stop’ replenishes our most essential supplies. AKA wine and water.

Today’s tally = 2 Stink Bugs

Day 8 – City stops inevitably lead to necessary decision making. Always too little time and too many sights. The must-see Lonely-Planet list gets shredded. With Madrid centro just under an hour away, a long afternoon is planned between two main attractions. The phenomenal Royal Palace with its 3,418 rooms and alongside, just outside the Palace gates, Madrid Cathedral.

It’s Wednesday, mid-day. Time to make a bit of a fuss about changing the guard. We arrive just as proceedings commence.

Routines well rehearsed. All twiddles present and correct. Sir!!!

Are they looking at their reviews already? . . .

Our delayed timed entry starts below stairs. A series of connected massive kitchens, that in days gone by would have most likely worked around the clock.

No expense spared. Marble, exotic hardwoods, finest silks and furnishings elaborate every nook and cranny of every room. The attention to detail critical. When keeping your head firmly on the job in hand and more importantly, on your shoulders, it’s no wonder such perfection was achievable.

Two hours later and finally, the not quite five star review . . .

Then it’s sarnie time. A nearby low wall, metres away from the Cathedral, utilised. At 2.45pm we climb the steps to enter. Entrance door firmly shut in our faces. Everyday opening hours, 10am to 2.30pm! Still, we save the entrance fee. Next time we’ll definitely go to . . .

Before our Gran Via metro return, we go drown our disappointment with a coffee and chocolate cake . . .

2 – stink bugs released from captivity

It can be difficult to know oneself at times. Out of the blue, you can do something completely surprising and not in character. It’s even possible that others may know you better than you do – or not . . .

Predictability within any relationship reinforces that perceived knowledge of the other. It’s a reciprocal alliance. One expects. The other does too. Behaviour personified. Smooth sailing often the result.

Before set off day, Mrs S always likes to give Beastie’s interior a thorough clean. It’s a woman’s world and all that. The Stink Bug count during this process neared triple figures – apparently. However, despite their French (r)evolution, it seems not all were treated with Liberté, égalité and fraternité !

Unable to squish one directly – a far too juicy treat – Mrs S sent an innumerable number into oblivion by first placing a leaf over each one in turn, before sending them into a far better place . . . which wasn’t France.

Today’s count 13 – 12 alive, 1 not so . . .

A short ninety minutes away from Camping Ezcaba lies Bardenas Reales Natural Park of 45,000 hectares. A dry, dusty, bumpy ride takes in an unexpected landscape, that challenges one’s perceived impression of Spain. Its en-route to our overnighter at Camping Fuente de la Teja, Soria.

Fun over – our two hour trip down to Soria, not quite so warm and sunny . . .

Yet we can only see so far. From day to day it’s impossible to imagine what surprises may lie ahead, or around the next corner. Our minds visualise the future and depending on our nature we see either positive, or negative scenarios.

Regardless, the key is to ‘Give a little whistle’ and always look on the bright side of life.

Day 4 – On schedule, Beastie is left in the capable hands of Theo at GlassAuto. A family run business operating across three franchise units in this region. A two hour job, which with the help of a free loan car, enables 2 Cheeses just enough time for a quick gander into Pau, while Beastie is given a Specsavers onceover.

We head up to the chateau, only to find it closes at 11.45am for lunch! Re-opens at 2pm. France!! We make do with a leisurely stroll through this very chilled city, nestling within sight of the Pyrénées and their snowy caps.

13.15 we pick up Beastie. Hand over €2,400 – that’s the easy bit. Mr S, having organised the replacement before Aviva have officially accepted the estimate, could find his proverbial backside getting bitten. Time to ‘Give a little whistle’?

We head up and over a less mountainous route across the Pyrénées, towards Pamplona. Mrs S obviously less focused on the winding scenery than on the current hot topic of each day.

Day 5 – With the weather-man promising an afternoon of heavy showers, Scoot is kept in reserve for those sunnier, drier climes, which are sure to materialise. Beastie given the chance to be seen as the man about town.

His secure underground parking area is eventually reached. Many of the inner city roads are blocked. A marathon is in place. At one point, Mr S calls over a policeman for assistance. Google translate at the ready. He sees the phone. Beams “What? You don’t speak Spanish!”

Pamplona is famously famous for mainly one thing . . .

The day ends with 8 Stink Bugs having been sent flapping.

A memory is like a 10,000 piece jigsaw, with only 1% of the pieces in their rightful place. A further 4% randomly scattered, yet always at the ready to be repositioned to recreate a more realistic picture of events long gone – should a new perspective be presented. The remaining 95% stay in deep storage. Destined never to see the light of day again.

Day 2 – Another 345K dash south ends at Camping le Rejallant, just outside Ruffec and its pretty watery kayak/sports centre, based around a series of bridge connected mid-stream islands. A perfect way to walk off the day’s trudge.

Apres-dinner relaxation finds Mr S engrossed in the European semi. Mrs S has gone for a shower. The site has little light pollution. As in it’s basically pitch black out there. To complicate matters, all pitches have been delimited with six foot six hedging. A series of off kilter walkways connect everything. If Mrs S was a tall mouse, that would present no problem. Problem is she’s a short Cheese!

At 22.41 my mobile rings. I don’t recognise the UK number. “Hello?” “Cheese, it’s me. I’m lost!” “Where are you?” “I don’t know”.

By the end of today, 22 more Stink Bugs have been given their orders.

Day 3 – Over the last three days we’ve broken our golden rule of ‘No Tolls’ – but it’s been worth it just to save time and make the final 365K to Idron and Camping bar les Sapins. Five minutes from GlassAuto and Beastie’s new windscreen.

18 more Stink Bugs released from captivity during the course of today.

As a parent one must assume that your young child understands what a metaphore is. Else a good night’s sleep would hardly ever follow. The fact that human skin can be host to a multitude of micro organisms is information better passed on at a future date.

With the French computerised entry system down on our side of the Channel, today’s foray under La Manche, got off to a later than dreamed of start. More like a nightmare. With just three days to traverse the length of France to be in Pau by end of play Friday, Beastie will be tested.

We’re now pitched up at Camping les Ilots de Saint Val in Villiers-le-Morhier. It seems we’re also pitched up with a roosting clan of Halyomorpha halys – AKA Stink Bugs, to you and me. They creep out of every known crevice known only to the men who screwed Beastie together.

First encountered big time on our autumn trip last year. Realised we’d brought a ‘few’ back with us. It seems they’ve wintered over within Beastie’s warm interior, like a flock of starlings, without the murmuration. Aware that they’re back on home turf, they materialise from nowhere, like ghouls rising up from their graves. Thriller style, but not quite so scary. Today we carefully expunge twenty.

Obviously it will be advisable to sleep with mouth closed for the foreseeable future !

Fail to prepare, or prepare to fail – an often repeated idiom meant to encourage and emphasise the importance of leaving no stone unturned. Problem is, there are a hell of a lot of stones out there. So it can be super easy to miss the odd one. Especially when it’s hiding in plain sight.

It’s good to make a ‘to-do’ list. It brings you a feeling of being in control. Each task a mere tick away from completion. And as you strike through the increasing number of now redundant jobs, you become envigorated all the more. Itching to strike off that final item becomes a mini-quest. Yet, you can never really relinquish the idea that you may still have overlooked something. Something so obvious to see, it’s staring you in the face . . .

Bottom of the list. Wash Beastie from toe to tail. Head to foot. More often than not he’s a mucky-puppy. So it’s important he looks his best for the big off. At least for the first few days. He may be past his prime, but he still spruces up nicely.

As the final touches are being diligently applied by Mr S, he moves on to the windscreen. After a few squirts of Autoglym’s marvelous Fast Glass, it becomes as transparent as daylight. Unfortunately even more so.

A 10″ zig-zag crack is revealed.

Sacrebleu !!!!