Turning back to the river, something catches my eye, movement by the water line about 200 metres to my right, on the far bank of the river. Squinting into the sun, I see what at first looks like the torso of a large man hauling himself out of the river, his withered legs dragging behind him, leaving a scar in the sandbank. Slowly, as he drags himself clear of the water, his torso upright from the waist only, I try to focus my eyes better, shielding them from the sun’s glare with my hand and realise it’s not a man at all. I have no idea what it is.

A footfall startles me as the tractor driver walks slowly past and steps onto the boardwalk that hems the river. His face is turned back towards the ‘thing’ on the far bank but I can’t tell whether or not he’s watching it. Suddenly, he steps off the boardwalk and disappears down the bank towards the water’s edge. Looking back towards ‘the thing’, I’ve lost sight of it. My eyes scan the far bank either side of where it emerged but I can’t see anything, the scar in the sand seems to stop at a clump of reeds. Then I spot it, beyond the reeds, heading towards the tree line, still moving awkwardly, dragging its lower torso behind it. Now completely distracted by what the hell I’m looking at, and wondering what on earth the tractor driver is doing, completely hidden from view down at the water’s edge, I wish Jack was here to provide a witness statement and second opinion to the mysterious goings-on by the river. But he’s on a desperate mission of his own and, as bizarre as my sighting is, I fear it may pale into comparison if he returns empty-handed.

We’re currently cycling from Ponte de Lima to Viana do Castelo in the Minho region of northern Portugal, following the ecovia walking and cycling path that flanks the River Lima all the way to its source on the Atlantic coast. The last time we stopped was at the tiny hamlet of Passagem where some picnic tables overlook the river. While I strolled and rested my saddle-sore backside, Jack went down to the river and into the hamlet to take some photos. Reaching this small picnic area some 4km or so later, we decided to stop for an energy bar and to take some photos of the gorgeous countryside that accompanies the ride along this stretch of river. That’s when Jack realised he’d left his camera on the picnic table at Passagem. Leaving his rucksack with me, he climbed straight back onto his bike and sped off, back down the ecovia in the hopes it might still be where he left it. As this is Portugal where, outside of the large conurbations, crime rates are delightfully low, the chances are pretty good that the camera will still be sitting on that table but it doesn’t stop a cold sweat from spreading across my back and I know Jack will be beyond frantic and peddling like crazy to get back there.

As I watch ‘the thing’ slowly crossing a large field towards the tree line, now some 300m or more in the distance, I find myself intoning the words: “Please let it be there. Please let it be there,” over and over again in my head. Anxiously watching the bend in the path where Jack will reappear, the tractor driver emerges some six or seven minutes later and strolls back to his cab in the shade. When I look back at the river, the ‘thing’ has disappeared.

Another hot, 20 minutes passes before I see Jack rounding the corner and cycling towards me. The lack of a camera around his neck and the disappointment on his face tells me all I need to know. The camera has gone. Amidst his self-recriminations and recounting his attempts to track the camera down by interrogating everyone he saw, my curious sighting slips quietly into the shadows and it isn’t until we’re about to press on that I tell Jack about it.

That was back in late July and to this day, I have no idea what ‘the thing’ was. I know it wasn’t a sealion because it wasn’t sleek and shiny, nor did it have those distinctive flippers that extend at right angles to the body. The closest thing I can think of that resembles what I saw and the way it moved on land, is an elephant seal. But in the River Lima? Of course, with no camera I have no evidence of what I saw to help me analyse it, so it will remain a mystery, one that unfolded in the midst of a drama.

.

Since then we’ve stayed in four hotels, one traditional cottage, a country house, a Provençal villa, and dined in a dozen restaurants. The experiences tore down those prison walls, but it has also been interesting to observe how different places have responded to the challenges of dealing with COVID-19. These contrasts were highlighted as we drove through three countries, from Portugal’s Atlantic coast to Provence, not only switching from stuttering along in one language to another, but trying to figure out what COVID-19 restrictions applied where.

Portugal
We leave our house near Portugal’s west coast at just after 7 a.m. When we cross the border into Spain it’s still breakfast time (if we don’t add on the hour time difference). Subsequently we don’t stop anywhere on Portuguese soil; however, our trip to the north of Portugal just over a week ago gave us plenty of examples of how Portugal is responding to travel post-COVID. Many establishments displayed ‘Clean & Safe’ stickers issued by Turismo de Portugal, which did their job in that they helped allay our fears somewhat. In hotels, breakfast buffets were completely revamped. In one, individual trays were brought to our table. In another, waiting staff filled our plates from a roped-off buffet. Eating in restaurants felt remarkably normal, especially after being seated when masks could be removed. If anything, dining experiences were enhanced as there was more space between tables than usual.

There’s no requirement to wear masks in Portugal’s streets, but in Arcos de Valdevez many of the older residents did so anyway. Generally life meandered on as normal, albeit at a two-meter distance. The only time social distancing wasn’t respected was by a sour-faced woman in a supermarket queue who jostled the folk in front of her, impatient to get her goods on the conveyor belt, and by a large group of teenagers in a riverside bar who, bolstered by the immortality of youth, mobbed a table, adding chairs and more tables till they encroached on everyone immediately around them.

Spain
A ‘break and bocadillo‘ stop at motorway services just across the border illustrates the inconsistencies which can surround the adherence to COVID regulations. Spain’s regulations have been among the most severe in Europe, and the wearing of face masks in public spaces is compulsory. Aside from the fact the place serves the worst bocadillos we’ve eaten, inside is COVID chaos. People entering wear face masks, but some of those who have already eaten wander around ‘sin‘ masks. Next to where the pre-ordered food is left on the counter for a waitress (with face mask) to collect are two wizened old men drinking cafe con leche. As they’re drinking, neither wear face masks. There is hand gel available everywhere, but when I visit the toilets I see some men not bothering washing their hands after using the facilities. I’ve had a bugbear about personal hygiene since long before COVID raised its head, believing inconsideration and poor hygiene habits of dirty buggers to be the cause of many a disease spread around resort areas. Inedible bocadillos aside, it’s not a place I want to spend a lot of time in.

Eight hours later, and having crossed Spain’s endless, hot dusty plains we arrive in green and scenic Catalonia, at the Hotel Gran Claustre in Altafulla near Tarragona. As we check in the receptionist points a gun at our heads. It’s a relief to find that our temperatures are normal, even though it’s 35C outside.
There’s a summer holiday ambience to the streets of the old town, if we ignore the fact everyone is wearing masks. Being used to restrictions in Portugal which are more relaxed, we occasionally forget to put ours on when we stroll along the cobbled streets, but there are no Invasion of the Bodysnatchers type scenes of people pointing at us and screaming accusingly in ear-piercing, alien voices.
The hotel smells slightly of disinfectant perfumed by essential oils, whilst the hotel’s restaurant has a novel way of ensuring there’s no menu-touching going on; the menu is accessed via a QR code on the table. It’s a neat idea except for one thing. Not everyone has a smartphone. Not only that, my phone declares the hotel’s wifi to be dodgy and refuses to open the menu. By the time the waitress returns to ask if we’re ready to order, I still haven’t a clue what’s on offer.

France
Most of the journey across Portugal and Spain was relaxing and traffic-free. The South of France is a very different prospect. It’s busy. Our villa is in the village of Éguilles, which isn’t busy; it’s one of the areas not badly affected by COVID the owner, Laurent, tells us… as way of reassurance as he isn’t wearing a mask when he shows around the property. This part of France’s COVID restrictions seem to fall somewhere between Portugal’s and Spain’s. Face masks are compulsory in enclosed busy places, but also outdoors in busy locations like Paris, Nice, Lyon etc. When we walk into the village to buy croissants each morning, we only put on masks when we enter the boulangerie. Wine tasting in the village’s winery is probably not much different from normal. We wear masks to enter, but thereafter remove them as we’re introduced to a generous selection of the area’s rosé and red wines.

Mask-wearing aside, life in the village seems comfortingly normal. It’s only when we venture further afield that we realise the fear ingrained from months of scare stories in the press hasn’t totally dissipated. There might be a lack of British visitors in Provence, but French holidaymakers are there in their droves. Last time we visited the underground art installation of Carrières de Lumières we simply parked the car and wandered in. That was late September when summer holidays in the south of Europe were over. This time there are lines of cars parked along the road for miles. The place is mobbed. We’ve pre-booked and breeze past the queue waiting to get in (after passing another temperature test). Whereas the number of people entering Carrières de Lumières is regulated, the number of people on the streets of the picturesque town of Les Baux-de-Provence overlooking the quarry isn’t. We spend ten minutes on its too-crowded streets, where some people wear masks and some don’t, before deciding to escape. COVID has influenced our hasty exit for sure, but we’d have done the same pre-virus as it’s an overcrowded tourist trap.

The large town of Aix-en-Provence is better… in parts. Some streets and squares are uncomfortably crowded, but those not on the main drag aren’t. Away from the mobs there are lovely Provençal streets and alleys, lined by elegant honey-coloured buildings. These are home to the sort of tiny, atmospheric restaurants you hope to find in the back lanes of a French town. We pick one with an enticing menu de midi – i.e. it has moules frites – and spend an enjoyable couple hours tossing empty shells into pans, sipping a summery rosé, and marvelling at the fashion sense of the chic young French women who pass by. It is exactly what we would have done if we’d visited the town a year ago.

COVID has obviously changed how we travel, but in the last month our experiences have taught me that in many ways, it hasn’t.

Is it social media (or media of any kind) with its army of amateur experts whose knowledge is fuelled by any Tweets which happen to conveniently fit their view, whether penned by a cyberspace troll, @AnnieOnimouse or, god forbid, a reputable source (whatever the hell that is now)? Normally the more I read the more I learn, and the more I know. When it comes to COVID-19, the more I read, the less clear everything becomes – too many conflicting and contrasting opinions and statistics. It constantly amazes me how people can be unshakeable in their knowledge about what is the true ‘reality’ in a situation where the only thing certain to me is the sea of uncertainty surrounding COVID-19.

Or is reality this silent, sun-drenched spot on the rooftop of Portugal? ‘Rooftop of Portugal’ might sound rather grand, especially as most houses in traditional parts of Portugal tend to be one-story cottages so ‘rooftop’ isn’t particularly high. In this case it’s around 900m above sea level on a curvaceous hilltop in Peneda-Gerês National Park. From this lofty position (in Portuguese terms) we can see for an eternity in all directions. Despite it being late July, the land looks sated; the bracken and whin bushes which line our path all perky and green – a sharp contrast to the mainly thirsty brown plains and valleys we drove through to reach this wild world on the border with Spain.

In these open hills there are no other people, most folk wouldn’t dream of walking when temperatures are predicted to hit the upper 30s, yet there is an abundance of life. Ignoring us as we sit in the meagre shade of a human-sized cairn are wild Garrano horses. There must be 15 or more, leisurely grazing as they saunter past; they have no knowledge of the crisis which has brought about drastic changes in the human world. Neither do the long-horn Cachena cattle whose gently clanging bells add a calming soundtrack to an already serene scene. In their world everything remains the same as ever. We mentally plug into this air of simplistic normality and devour its recuperative qualities. There’s an odd and intoxicating sensation of having been released from prison. Freedom.

As well as cattle and wild horses, we pass the occasional hoopoe, darting and dipping along the path beside us. Every so often the sharp cry of a buzzard pierces the still air; in these wild lands there are birds of prey aplenty. As we explore an old wolf trap – where there are still bleached bones of various creatures – birds with huge wingspans glide imperceptibly across the sky in lazy circles until they are directly overhead. Circling vultures plus bleached bones plus oppressive heat add up to an ominous cliché. We hope we’ll avoid adding to the pile of bleached bones.

Our path eventually descends to the valley floor where small hamlets cluster around shaded streams. In one, as we pause on the cobbled path to check the route ahead, we hear someone shout “Bom dia” from the shadowy interior of an animal shed next to the path. Except it’s not an animal shed at all, it’s a house. As our eyes adjust to its dim interior we see an old woman sitting on a bed which dominates the tiny edifice. The door to the building is a ragged curtain. Life is simple in these parts. But not so simple that events in the outside world have passed by unnoticed. When an elderly woman, dressed in black and wearing a wide-brimmed straw hat, sees us approach, she skips briskly away to a safe distance. Strangers are to be feared by some. That’s not exclusive to this remote part of Portugal. It’s ironic that people think the virus only wears a stranger’s mask.

Our base for two nights is a stone cottage in the centre of Soajo, a tiny mountain village. We’re so close to the centre our bedroom window looks over the village’s unusual pillory with its smiling face and, so some claim, bready hat. Interestingly, the village’s restaurants are busier at lunchtimes than they usually are in July. With most people not travelling beyond the country’s borders, staycations in remote locations have become popular. In a cafe we order the first beer we’ve downed outside our home in months. Ordering initially feels awkward – mask on to enter the bar, a dousing of handwash, not sure whether to hand over cash (I haven’t used cash in months) or a card. When I ask the barman which he’d prefer the response is a puzzled look. Only a foreigner/stranger would try to pay for two beers with a card. At the outside tables, widely spaced, I can easily tell visitors from locals. The visitors, like me, tend to look a tad unsure of the drill; the locals sit around a table, chatting and laughing (no masks at any point). The barman, who had put on a mask to serve me, doesn’t bother with one when he mixes with the locals. The easy, relaxed atmosphere, and the beer, eases us out of our institutionalised frame of mind and back into one of relative normality. We realise life outside of our immediate bubble back home might have changed, but not to a point where it is unpleasant and unfamiliar – there’s no grim dystopian society on display in these parts.

This is reinforced further when we swap the hills for the riverside town of Arcos de Valdevez; a place which is buzzing in the sunshine. The River Vez is full of people, cooling down in the shallow water, kayaking, or just messing around as you do when it’s hot and there’s a river to cool down in. It looks and feels like a town enjoying hot summer days. What was I expecting? Blade Runner 2020? Some older people wear masks as they walk the streets, others don’t. Younger residents don’t seem to bother, even when they cluster together in large groups, protected by the immortality of youth no doubt – I can vaguely remember that feeling. But, whatever people choose to do, the overall ambience is relaxed and, apologies if I’m in danger of overusing the word, normal.

It feels like a parallel universe to the one which is painted on various feeds on the black mirror.

I know which one I want to continue to inhabit.

I was Mr Package Holiday arguing that, with only two weeks to spare at a go, I didn’t want to waste time trawling around a destination trying to find accommodation. Package holidays were all neatly wrapped and ready for us to slip into with little effort required. Having already travelled with a friend around the USA by Greyhound when she was 21, Andy was the more adventurous traveller and far keener to DIY it.

Greece changed my way of thinking. To be more accurate, it was the six to eleven-hour flight delays that came as standard with any Greek Island package holiday in the late 80s/early 90s.  Those and tour reps who would herd customers through security in order to wash their hands of them, knowing the plane hadn’t even left Britain yet.

After a few of those unpleasant experiences we decided to stray from the path when we booked a package holiday to Lesbos by arranging our own transfers to and from the airport. We arrived at our hotel overlooking a postcard type Greek harbour in Molyvos an hour before our fellow package passengers. On departure, whilst they were herded through security to find their flight delayed, we sunbathed on a beach opposite and ate a leisurely mezes lunch at its taverna, not shifting until we saw our plane come into land (it was only a small airport). That experience was a catalyst for change.

Magical mystery tour travel in Peneda-Gerês
Jump forward nearly three decades and in early March this year we drive into Peneda-Gerês National Park in the north of Portugal. We have no accommodation booked and no fixed plan to do anything. What we have is a remit to take a look around to see if it has the potential to be a suitable destination for an Inntravel walking holiday.

It’s an approach to travel at the completely opposite end of the spectrum, and one we’re not only entirely comfortable with but which has become a travel preference. The world has changed dramatically and technology/social media has made it a doddle to be able to roll into a place with the minimum of pre-planned arrangements. It’s given us the freedom to chop and change plans on a whim. There are certain ingredients we have to be on the look out for – is there what we call an ‘Inntravel hotel’ (it has to have a specific character) in the area? Are there sufficient dining options? Is the walking up to par? Are there taxis/buses to get customers to and from walks if required? How we find these things out and where we stay and eat is flexible, it has to be.

We drive up dirt tracks, explore sections of walking routes, check out hotels, talk to various people, and eat wherever is open that appeals. We can research all of these things to a certain level before we step foot in a place, but that’s never the same as experiencing them for ourselves. Subsequently, we visit some hotels and file them in the unsuitable folder. Sometimes hotels which look the part have no available room, that’s the risk with this type of anarchic travel, and we have to consult Tripadvisor, Booking.com etc. to find somewhere else to lay our hats for a night.

It might sound like messy travel, but there’s an exhilarating, magical mystery tour element to it– we are following a framework, but we often don’t know exactly where it will lead. That in itself is exciting.  Talking to local people reveals unforeseen opportunities; a restaurant owner who has the sort of accommodation we’re looking for and who has loads of useful other contacts. The hotel we want to stay at has no available rooms, which leads to us discovering other potentially suitable hotels which lie below the radar. It’s another one of those areas known to the Portuguese, yet not so much by British travellers.

As we drive, walk, talk, sleep and eat we develop a better feel for place, gain little insights to Peneda-Gerês. In doing so we succumb to its charms. The long-horn cattle and wild horses which have priority on the country roads and who wander freely through villages; the welcoming hospitality of locals like Pedro, a Portuguese restaurant owner with a New York accent; a wild and wonderful walkers’ landscape unlike any other we’ve encountered in Portugal; and accommodation which is eclectically diverse and quirky – from a hotel where goat is described as lamb on the English version of the dinner menu to another where we arrive to find rose petals scattered across the bed and a bottle of cava on ice. Who knows why? It was just a standard booking on Booking.com.

By the end of our visit to Peneda-Gerês we have an additional three locations and three hotels to consider, none of which were included in the original plans for the potential holiday. This is evolutionary travel in a way.

Over two subsequent visits Peneda-Gerês moves from being a potential location for an Inntravel walking holiday to being a fully formed itinerant Slow Travel holiday which has pride of place in a brochure about to wing its way to customers as I write.

It is an immensely satisfying form of travel to visit an area with no preconceived notions of what to expect, and then to take time get to know it to such an extent you can share that knowledge with others who are like-minded.

Rolling up to new locations where we have to ostensibly fit together jigsaw pieces on the hoof definitely wouldn’t have been for the younger me. Now I wouldn’t want it any other way.

Our mission was to introduce two of our Inntravel friends and colleagues, who didn’t know Portugal, to some of the highlights of their holidays here, as well as making a few minor improvements and picking up tips about their latest methods for writing precise walking route directions. This was also meant to showcase why Portugal is such a popular holiday destination. But not everything went exactly to plan.

Arrabida and the Setúbal Peninsula
It starts like a dream; cloudless skies and temperatures in late February which are warm enough for short sleeves, if you’ve just arrived from the north of England. Andy and I stick with long sleeves. We eat lunch at Santiago Fort on Sesimbra’s golden sands which are empty save for a couple of surfers. It’s ideal weather for an introduction to Arrabida Natural Park, the setting for a new Inntravel walking holiday. To give our colleagues a taster we set off on a circular walking route which starts in a small village. Within a few hundred metres our colleagues are stumped. Our directions don’t match the layout on the ground. We’re bemused as well. We walked it a couple of weeks previously and it was fine then, or so we thought. It makes us look totally incompetent, not really the impression we’d aimed for. The mystery is solved a couple of weeks later when we discover the Portuguese Army have been ‘rearranging’ the landscape to make tracks for fire trucks, precautions for tackling forest fires. It becomes a route which changes constantly over the following couple of months, until the soldiers finish the job. This sort of unexpected development is one of the perils of writing walking directions.

Heading north
The road north starts with Lisbon’s Vasco da Gama Bridge, a spectacular way to cross the Tagus. On the one side are salt pans, flamingos, and fishermen. On the other, one of the most exciting cities in Europe. Whilst the landscape north of Lisbon isn’t an industrial one, it is more urban than the road south to the Algarve. As well as eucalyptus forests and whitewashed villages hugging hillsides we pass curios, garish signs for escort motels and the funkiest looking football stadium built for Euro 2004. We swap the motorway for the coast just north of Coimbra, heading to Videira to take a look at the route of a cycling holiday.

The Venice of Portugal
In February, Videira has an out of season ambience. Yet another endless Portuguese beach is virtually empty of people. On the sands a bike leans against an old wooden cart on which fishing nets are piled high. We ponder if it has Slow Travel photo potential. From Videira we trace the holiday’s cycle route, passing the lively Atlantic and an endless beach on one side and long, glassy lagoons on the other. A highlight along the way is Costa Nova, looking more like a film set than a working town. Costa Nova sits on an anorexic strip of land (sand) between the Atlantic and the Aveiro Lagoon and attracts Portuguese visitors because of its picture-postcard-pretty striped clapperboard houses, formerly fishermen’s huts. Pleasing on the eye though Costa Nova is, it’s not the main attraction in the area. That title belongs to Aveiro, the Venice of Portugal, where barcos moliceiros (lagoon boats which are Aveiro’s version of gondolas) transport visitors through the town’s network of canals. We arrive after dark, but there’s enough light to point out a quirky feature of the barcos, their prows are painted with quasi-erotic scenes – saucy scenes you’d call them if this was 1972. Somehow I don’t think that particular insight will feature prominently in the marketing.

The Count and the Minho
Another day and another city to navigate. We skirt Porto to drop one of our Inntravel colleagues at Porto Airport before heading into ‘old’ Portugal and the Minho. As well as looking different from the Portugal to the south (it’s all green valleys, meandering rivers, and even hills) Minho feels different, in many ways it has more in common with northern Spain, unsurprisingly as the region borders Galicia.

On a route around Durrães we walk on a section of the Caminho de Santiago; eat pear-shaped coconut flavoured cakes on a Roman bridge; debate for a long time whether part of the route, a bridge now totally submerged under water, was ever a bridge or was always a weir; and encounter another of Portugal’s mysteriously changing landscapes where our walking directions don’t fit. Yet again, measures to prevent forest fires (they have become almost an obsession in Portugal, understandably, since the devastation of 2017) have resulted in changes to paths and the terrain. In fairness, it’s an even better walking route as a result.

After dinner we’re due to meet Francisco, Count of Calheiros, in his manor house where, like Inntravel customers who book this holiday, we’re staying. A meeting in Ponte de Lima keeps Francisco late in town. Pete from Inntravel has an early flight from Porto so it looks like he’ll miss getting to meet the incomparable Count. At around 10.30 there’s a knock on our bedroom door. Andy, who’s just wiped off her make up, answers it to find Count Francisco standing there, looking completely bemused as he asks “Peter?” I know Andy isn’t wearing any make up but I still think it’s a bit harsh to mistake her for a ‘Peter’. Francisco wanted to say hello/goodbye to Pete and didn’t know we’d swapped rooms when we arrived at the house.

Shaggy dog tale in the valley of gold
Now on our own, we travel south east to check walking directions in the Douro Valley, an area we’ve wanted to visit ever since we were captivated by a film we saw at Graham’s Port cellar in Porto. It showed life in the Douro vineyards and the landscape was beguiling – unusually sculpted hills curving alongside an olive river. We’re based in a dream of a rural hotel, Quinta de la Rosa just outside Pinhao. As well as being a small hotel on the banks of the Douro, it’s a working vineyard with a gourmet restaurant. Perfect. Or it would be if it wasn’t chucking it down.

On one of our three days there it’s so wet I don’t take my camera when we set off to check the route directions. In fact, the weather is so poor a farmer stops his pickup at one point and asks if we’d like a lift. As we take refuge from the rain in a bus shelter in a small town 10km from our hotel, I make the mistake of speaking to a shaggy dog who’s sharing the shelter with us. He decides, as we’re now clearly friends, to tag along for the rest of the route. Then he decides he’s our dog, sitting outside the building where our room is. Every so often I can hear staff asking “whose dog is this?” He follows us to dinner, and follows us back to the room again. He’s still there when we get up in the morning. Then he stares accusingly through the restaurant’s window at us as we eat breakfast. Not for the first time, we fret about how a dog who has attached itself to us is going to get back home. In the end I confess to reception staff about our furry little problem.
“Don’t worry,” one replies nonchalantly. “Dogs do this all the time. I’ll put a photo on facebook and someone will recognise him and come to collect him. Everybody knows everybody else around here.”
Although I feel reassured, as we take to the road to head for home I see a rejected little face in the rear-view mirror and feel guilty as hell. Andy bans me from ever talking to strange dogs we meet on the path in future. We both know that isn’t going to happen.

Our road trip lasted nine days and covered five very contrasting areas in the northern half of Portugal. As well as being diverse in terms of scenery and personality most have something else in common – none, apart from the Douro, are particularly well known outside of Portugal.

At one point it occurred to me that this form of travel wasn’t a million miles away from the average package holiday coach excursion. Being ferried to experiences hand-picked by someone else wasn’t really the way I wanted to travel. I’m indebted to that trip and wouldn’t have missed it for the world; however, it was a catalyst for change in many differing ways. We both went on a couple of other press/blog trips after that but, on the whole, phased them out of our travel plans.

Six years later, stinking of vinho verde (courtesy of a bottle which broke when our rucksack fell off a bench) and sitting on the banks of the River Lima wondering whether a taxi I’d tried to arrange using bad Portuguese was going to turn up and save the day, I pondered the wisdom of swapping travel where someone else makes most of the arrangements for travel which was more seat of the pants stuff.

Travelling around cities and big towns is easy, relatively speaking. Where there are many commuters, there’s generally good public transport links. Getting from A to B isn’t a problem once you tune in to how things work in any specific location.

As experienced walkers know, it’s not the same in rural locations where low levels of population mean limited transport links. We regularly find ourselves in areas where figuring out how we’re going to travel to, or return from, a linear walking route using whatever local transport is available can prove somewhat of a ‘suck it and see’ exercise.

Stumped in Germany
Germany is an outstanding joy when it comes to public transport links. A gästekarte in some rural areas allows visitors free (you pay a nominal tax at your rural hotel and in return receive a ‘guest card’) use of buses and trains, of which there is a good network. In the Black Forest we never had to task the grey cells too much to figure out public transport connections. We’d simply hop on and off trains and buses which took us to and from start and end points of walking routes. Only on one occasion, in Kaiserlautern, we nearly came unstuck when a timetable didn’t match reality and we found ourselves sitting at an empty bus station in a place we didn’t want to be on a sleepy Sunday morning. With an hour to wait before the train which would return us to our starting point we had plenty of time to pour over our map, improvise and come up with a great little route which didn’t involve having to use any transport at all. So it all worked out well in the end.

Lost in translation in France
In many locations there are not always convenient railway stations at hand nor bus routes which run on a regular enough basis to make them viable. At these times taxis are lifesavers. In Drôme Provençale, one route took us to Saint-Paul-Trois-Châteaux. At this point Inntravel customers on the holiday we were helping design will be able to check into their new hotel and relax. However, we had to get back to accommodation at our starting point. As we were in a decent-sized town we figured there’d be no problem picking up a taxi. Wrong. There were none to be seen. Using Google advice we headed to the nearby location of one firm to find it no longer existed. We plonked ourselves down on the kerb in the car park of an adjacent supermarket and called the contact taxi. The regular driver and his English speaking girlfriend had taken the weekend off (the reason why we didn’t call them first) and the back up driver didn’t speak any English. Giving directions in a language you’re not totally comfortable in is a risky business. But Andy did a sterling job and, after one lost in translation mix up, the taxi driver rolled into the supermarket car park.
Having a local taxi firm number to hand is a sensible plan whatever your walking circumstances are.

Part of the experience on Tenerife
When is the end of a walking route not an end but a continuation of the experience? When the route involves descending the Masca Barranco on Tenerife. For years we left our car above Masca hamlet, and walked the barranco (gorge) both ways. It’s not a long route, but it is a challenging one. The last two times we took the easy option – we descended the ravine and jumped onto a water taxi (pre-booked) when we arrived at the coast. It’s an exhilarating way to end a walk; the sun warming, the sea spray refreshing on your face. Plus there’s the chance of some dolphin-spotting on the short voyage back to the resort of Los Gigantes where a queue of taxis wait to transport folk back to their cars in Masca (around €25). It’s a far more enjoyable way of experiencing the Masca Barranco than having to trudge all the way back up it again.
(Note: the Masca Barranco is currently closed to the public and is expected to open again in March 2019.)

Laid on a plate on Andros, Greece
Sometimes when someone else arranges the transport it can still feel like it’s part of a uniquely local experience. Fourteen kilometres of climbing in an out of valleys led us from Andros town to Ormos Korthiou, a coastal town so sleepy a swan was able to take a long dust bath in the centre of the main road without fear of being flattened. It was also a place where it was instantly evident there wasn’t going to be a bus or taxi to take us home. As always, we had a back-up number to call. But there was no need. In Allegria, one of the only tascas open, the owner greeted us with a “you need taxi? I phone taxi… but plenty of time for a beer first.” It turned out there was time for two beers, and also for the owner to have a nap on one of his tables before our taxi driver turned up in a sleek Mercedes where the meter was part of the rear-view mirror (first time I’d ever seen that). She gave us a present of scented wild lavender in a muslin bag and kept us entertained with tales of island life on the 40 min journey back to our hotel.

Thirty tears ago I would have fretted about having localised travel arrangements nailed down in advance. The older I get, the far more chilled I am about this sort of thing. If we have to wait for an hour in a small bar somewhere, no problem. In fact, all the better.

It’s all part of building up experiences of the reality of a local way of life across a wide variety of destinations.

As is the case with the language, where many Portuguese and Spanish words are similar when seen written down but sound worlds apart when heard, Portuguese cuisine may share some commonalities with its neighbour. In reality much of it is a very different kettle of fish.

Over the last twelve months we’ve visited all five of mainland Portugal’s regions, encountering a delightfully diverse gastronomy which has regularly surprised. This is an abridged version of regional dishes we enjoyed most in Porto and the north, central Portugal and also the Alentejo.

Porto and the north
Starters
Pataniscas: We’ve eaten these crispy, golden, cod, onion and parsley patties in various parts of Portugal (they’re often connected with Lisbon), the first time was in Ponte de Lima in Minho. Portions are often so big I’m too full to eat anything else after a plate of them.

Caldo Verde: A tasty bowl of steaming green kale and potato soup is a welcome warmer during winter months. It would be a good choice for vegetarians except the veggie goodness is usually corrupted by a couple of slices of sausage.

Mains
Sarrabulho: A hearty Minho speciality whose English description tends to put some people off – pigs’ blood rice. It’s their loss; this is a delish dish. Here’s the link to a more detailed description for the more adventurous foodies out there.

Alheira sausage: A north Portuguese dish with an interesting history and distinctive flavours. Alheira, a pork-less sausage made from various ingredients was created by Jewish butchers during the Inquisition so Jews in the area could ‘pretend’ to convert to Christianity – partly illustrated by the fact they were seen eating ‘sausages’ – to avoid being expelled from the country.

Snacks
A late arrival in Porto found us struggling to find somewhere to eat. A brightly lit, canteen style restaurant close to our hotel was filled with Portuguese all eating the same dish, a yellow brick marooned in a ruddy sea. It was a francesinha; a multi-layered sandwich consisting of bread and various meats covered in cheese surrounded by a spicy, beer sauce. It was an immediate hit. Despite it being a Porto speciality I’ve stuffed myself on francesinhas all over Portugal, but that first one remains the best.

Drinks
Port: We were initially put off port by a hotel barman who told us only old people drank it. A visit to one of Porto’s port cellars enlightened us and was a proper, merry introduction to its various guises. Porto’s most famous beverage has now become a favourite post-work tipple in our house, not just because of its numerous Scottish connections. 10 year old tawny is a smooth, sweet, rich winter warmer.

Central Portugal
The area we’ve spent the least time in, only 24 hours in Costa Nova and a few days in Coimbra, so we’ve still to get to know the cuisine better.
Mains
Bacalhau: Salted cod (bacalhau) is a Portuguese favourite and common everywhere. Although I really like pataniscas and bacalhau à brás (also known as bacalhau dourado), a chunk of salt cod on my plate doesn’t do it for me. So, a special mention for Restaurant Bronze in Costa Nova whose chef showed that, when cooked with skill, a fillet of bacalhau can be as tasty as the fresh variety.

Alentejo
Starters
Sarapatel: If we see this on a menu we’d order it, that’s how much we like this savoury and spicy Aletejana dish made with various meats and offal chopped into small chunks. It’s so good it’s become popular in both India and Brazil.

Gaspacho: Okay, it’s a Spanish classic cold soup. But the Portuguese gaspachos we’ve tried have been quite different – clearer and brimming with small chunks of fruit and vegetables. They’re zingy, full of aromatic flavour and refreshing on a sizzling hot Alentejo summer day.

Mains
Porco à Alentejana: My favourite Alentejo dish consists of pork loin cubed and clams (a surprisingly good match) perked up by the addition of spices, herbs, white wine, garlic and a red pepper paste.

Desserts
Conventual desserts: In Alentejo we tried a lot of desserts concocted by nuns, using leftover egg yolks (the whites being for starching habits), some with quirky names like toucinho do ceu (lard from heaven). Generally we weren’t wowed. But anyone with a sweet tooth might think differently.

In part two of this mini-series about Portuguese cuisine we’ll travel to Lisbon and the Tagus Valley as well as The Algarve.

We’re sweaty and dirty from walking all day in the heat. We’re currently in Ponte de Lima, 8km south of where we need to be; our car is parked 6km west of here; there is no taxi rank, no bus and no prospect of a lift. And just to add insult to injury, my rucksack falls off the bench, smashing the bottle of Adega Ponte de Lima Loureira vinho verde we bought from the shop as it was closing. The rucksack is now afloat in wine and smelling like a vat of fermented grapes.

Things are not looking good.

The Lima Valley
It’s our penultimate day in the Lima Valley and I guess we’ve just become too laid back, too complacent. The pace of life here is like that, it forces you to slow down, change your stride to a step, and stand awhile to watch the herons glide above the teal surface of the river which lazily melts its way across the valley.

So calm are the waters of the river, legend has it that when Roman legionnaires arrived at the banks of the Lima en route to conquer Galicia, they were so taken by its beauty and tranquillity that they believed they had arrived at the Lethe, the mythological river that divided the world of the living from the world of the dead. Frightened that they would forget their families and the lives they had left behind, they steadfastly refused to cross the river. It wasn’t until their commander crossed and then called each man by name from the opposite bank that they finally agreed to cross.

Tucked into a fertile basin beneath the border with Galicia in the far north of Portugal, the Lima Valley is a gentle landscape of rolling hills carpeted in vines, olives and corn, backed by moss-green forests of maritime pine flashed with silver patches of eucalyptus. Farming has been at the heart of the region since the Middle Ages and continues to be so. Most families own a plot of land of some kind, be it an allotment of cabbages and beans, or a rambling quinta of vineyards and chestnut groves. Lightly peppering this bucolic idyll are some of Portugal’s oldest and prettiest villages where the tables and chairs of pastelarias and traditional restaurants line the narrow cobbled streets that run between stone houses, and spill onto the riverside promenade where local life does its best to bustle.

The walking
A sizeable part of the Portuguese Caminho de Santiago passes through the Lima Valley on its way to Spain. Following the yellow arrows and occasional scallop shell symbol of the Caminho, our walking frequently takes us alongside pilgrims making their way towards Santiago de Compostela and a cheery ‘Bom caminho!” acknowledges the camaraderie of the path. Although we’re not travelling the route to worship at the tomb of the Apostle, nor are we on a journey of self discovery as so many pilgrims are, nevertheless the walking lends itself to an element of inner reflection. The way is clear to navigate, the paths are mainly flat and easy under foot and the gentle pace of life taking place around the periphery of the route all help to fuel a feeling of well being. There is nothing spectacular or particularly dramatic about the scenery, it’s just gentle, and green, and lovely, like walking through a memory of childhood when it was always summer and you didn’t have a care in the world.

As we skirt field after field of agriculture, we notice that in places, the vines are grown raised high above the ground and placed around the edges of the fields. Although the production of vinho verde is now relatively big business in the Lima Valley, most families only grow enough vines to provide wine for personal consumption so the vines are lifted above the ground to leave space for other crops to grow beneath them. Our last day in Ponte de Lima coincides with the vindima or grape harvest and as we drive out of town we pass rows and rows of tractors stacked with barrels and boxes brimming with grapes waiting to go to the town’s adega for pressing. Exclusively produced in this region, the ‘verde‘ in vinho verde‘s name refers to the youthfulness and freshness of the wine; it’s as easy on the palate as the landscape is on the eye.

All of which, I guess, is how we came to be so relaxed about our timetable on that penultimate day on the banks of the river, so intent on buying a bottle of our favourite vinho verde that the Lethe saw its opportunity to sneak like a cat burglar from its mythological infinity into our afternoon and steal the memory of an encroaching dinner date. But in this green and pleasant land, all good things come to pass, and Jack managed to muster enough Portuguese to call a taxi to get us and our drunken rucksack back to our car and home in time for dinner.

We were in the Lima Valley to create a walking holiday for Inntravel.

Andrea (Andy) Montgomery is a freelance travel writer and co-owner of Buzz Trips and The Real Tenerife series of travel websites. Published in The Telegraph, The Independent, DK Guides, Wexas Traveller, Thomas Cook Travel Magazine, Norwegian N magazine, EasyJet Traveller Magazine.