I just wanted to get out of town and enjoy the sun and feel some energy transmitted through the rubber to the road. Just south of Coimbra, a bridge I hadn’t crossed before beckoned to me and my motorbike climbed an unfamiliar ridge to admire the Ceira river valley from a different angle.
Heading south along the Ceira watershed has become a regular escape route, but I am still amazed on every ride by the light traffic. Turn onto a side road and even the light traffic all but disappears. So far it’s been hard to get lost here. All the roads in a respective river valley form a spider web of connections and there are no wrong turns in regards to the scenery.
After stopping for pictures, I headed back through Villa Nova de Poiares to connect with the N2 highway, Portugal’s version of the USA’s old Route 66. The best dance through the curves I’ve found lies just south of there and I did my best to honor the seductive rhythm of a piece of tarmac meant for a younger rider. I’ve only been out for a few rides since some arthritic swelling in my wrist made a surprise visit at the end of the summer so I’m going easy on my throttle.
Coming into a little village, Olho Marinho, I decided to take a break and get a coffee at a sleepy little pull in. As often happens here, serendipity smiled and delighted me with a vintage moped that still looked to be in good running shape.
The café owner came down from the adjacent attached home and even though my poor Portuguese confused her, she served up a great café com leite and gave me change back from a single Euro. As I sipped my restorative cup and ogled the moped, a large transit delivery truck wheeled up and parked.
The driver and his partner stepped up to the counter and each polished off a short dark beverage, red wine or maybe Port? The friendly tone of conversation with the proprietress gave reason to believe this was a regular occurrence, surprising me a little, given what I’d read about alcohol and driving in Europe. But there was no concern about this small consumption impairing anyone. Thirst abated, the wheels of commerce continued down the road.
As I got up to leave, the owner called me over and said something I could not understand. I feebly apologized “Não compreendo “; she replied N2, N2! Then she reached into a drawer and pulled out a sticker for her Café Roger which commemorates a visit here along this piece of motorcycle nirvana. Every day is a surprise here; some days are trials, some days are all smiles. It’s best to just lean into the curves.
On the way back, the pavement climbs up some of the steepest mountain roads I’ve ever travelled (and I’m from Colorado). The sheer hillside is peppered with houses that must have deep roots not to wash away. Climbing up through a dark narrow forrest, steep and littered with leaves, I’m finally riding along a broad ridge, through villages Royo, Golpe, Rocho Velha. Narrow lanes lead through old buildings with more tractors on the road than cars.
Slowing as I approach, an older couple in work clothes crosses the road. Short stocky folks reminding me so much of my Italian grandparents. Opening a door to a lower floor under the main building, they carry two pails each. I glance as I pass and the pails were full of potatoes about to be stored away with the other pails already perched on shadowed shelves within.
A scene to make me reflect on the modern life I’ve lived, pretty much divorced from intimate contact with the land. My knowledge of the earth pales in comparison to those who have lived that agrarian life, eating what they grow, knowing the feel of weather and seasons, the smell of good earth.
My grandfather immigrated from Italy after the First World War. One hundred years later I’m beginning to explore the old world he left behind. Sometimes I can feel him looking over my shoulder.
“Eventually, all things merge into one, and a river runs through it. The river was cut by the world's great flood and runs over rocks from the basement of time. On some of the rocks are timeless raindrops. Under the rocks are the words, and some of the words are theirs. I am haunted by waters.” from A River Runs Through It, by Norman McClean
As the afternoon fades, Coimbra reveals herself far below and I wind my way back through the corkscrewed streets of the upper city. Amazing … simply amazing.
Lean into it...
Lean into it ....