Mertola to Evora

The drive to Mertola from the South leads you through many rural hamlets. These are the kind of communities that see about one motorhome a year, or so you would think from the looks on their faces when you drive though. Perhaps I get this reaction more than most, since my motorhome is burgundy with boats and dolphins on the side but, in any case, these places are what they mean by “out of the way”.

When you arrive at Mertola, the view is quite startling. You enter Mertola from the South over a high, old and narrow bridge. The white arches of the bridge contrast with the high, dark walls of the hill top town. From this angle, there is nothing to tell you that you are arriving at a 21st Century town and not a medieval one. Once over the bridge and in the town, parking could not be easier. There is a huge municipal car park at the South end of the town.

Now a Swiss guy I had met on the South Coast of Portugal had told me that you can park at a small chapel that overlooks Mertola. I knew the chapel from a previous visit and asked him if he was sure a normal motorhome could make it up such a steep hill. “Oh yes.” He assured me. “No problem.” So, since good views are one of my favourite simple pleasures in life, I decided to stay the first night at the chapel. As I started up the track to the chapel, the first thing I noticed was that the road was a loose dirt track and not tarmac. I could not see up the track as it disappeared around bends in the road. I soon found that the track was indeed as steep and difficult as I had imagined it to be from below. In first gear and not able to easily turn around on the narrow path, I decided that keeping on going was the only thing for it. Several times my 2.5 diesel engine let me know that it was inches away from stalling but, luckily, this was just a threat. When I reached the top, even the moderate speed that I was doing to get up the hill was too fast for the tiny track that ran around the chapel. As I raced around the chapel, I saw two startled people who, until that second, had been sitting on the chapel steps, enjoying a peaceful sunset. I leaned out of the window and said “Good Afternoon” and they smiled and waved back, a little bemused.

To be sure, the view was fantastic. It helped me understand one of the reasons why monarchs tried to have the highest building in the town. It was possible to see many Mertolans going about their lives from that vantage point. I suppose for the kings, as the businessmen say, “knowledge is power”. I started a pot cooking and went outside to take in the early evening view.

I got talking to the two people I had startled. They were two young French guys on a camping trip to Portugal . The two of them were travelling with their tent and a car but, since the weather had turned cold and rainy, they were staying in a youth hostel in Mertola. I invited them in for coffee and we got onto the subject of work. I told them about my project to write travel guides for motorhomes. They smiled and told me that one of them was a book distributor in France and the other had a company that formatted text on computers for printing books. Questions about how to format my guide for printing and how book distribution worked poured out of me. They kindly sat there and answered them all. When it was time for them to go, they left their contact details and said to get in touch anytime I have questions. I called my friend and told her about the meeting and she said, “Ah, that is why you went up the hill”.

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The next night I decided to park in the large municipal car park but this was not without problems. My dog started going crazy to be let out. When I did let him out, he went charging off to the Fire Station opposite the car park. Evidently, there was a lady dog at the Fire Station and Santen wanted to say hello. Whenever he was back in the motorhome, he went berserk to be let out again. I decided that a change of plan was in order and so I went to a parking place on the other side of Mertola, at the bottom of a steep road that leads down to the Guadiana River . There is a large stone quay, where tourists disembark on river tours from Vila Real. At this time of the season, it was a quiet spot with views over the tranquil river and behind you, the huge walls and old buildings of Mertola, which are especially beautiful at night when they are floodlit. At the water's edge, I felt sure that it would be all right to let the dog go free. How wrong I was. As soon as he was off the leash, he went running off.

This was most unlike him and most upsetting to me because I was now at the bottom of a very steep hill that had to be climbed in order to find the dog. I set off with a heavy heart and weary calf muscles. You may be wondering why I did not drive around to look for him but Mertola's streets are just too narrow for that, in the main. I found him back at the Fire Station. He seemed delighted to see me and my anger did not last long. The Firemen though that it was hilarious. I took the dog back to the riverside and resolved not to let him off next time I walked him. In the event, I broke my resolve, thinking that I could supervise him. In total, he got away twice more and I got lots of exercise finding him, although it got easier now that I knew where he would be each time.

As night drew in another motorhome arrived on the quay. They were Portuguese; a couple, Isabel and Jose, were the guests of their friend Ermando in his Renault Traffic. They told me that they were from the Algarve . I told them about the guide I was writing and that I was not planning to include the most developed parts of the Algarve . They said that their small fishing village had been transformed in the last twenty years but that it was not simply too many tourists. Before becoming a resort, the area had manufacturing, fishing and many other small businesses. Now, the village mostly depends on tourism, which has brought great wealth to the area. In the high season that was fine but out of season, the small businesses could not survive. Isabel said it was destabilising to the economy to have such variation and to be so dependent on one industry sector. I realised another benefit of motorhome tourism is that many motorhomes go to resorts out of season and stay all winter long. This must counteract the destabilising impact of standard tourism. We shared two bottles of Portuguese red and got deep into discussions about big business and humour in Portuguese. After the second bottle, they said that they would like to walk up the hill to explore the town and invited me. I declined, explaining my numerous trips to find the dog that day.

The next day Isabel, Jose and Ermando invited me to go with them to a local beauty spot, Pulo de Lobo. Getting there involved driving for several kilometres over ruts in the road that were close together and gave the juddering effect of a motorhome breaking the sound barrier. The size difference between Ermando's converted Renault Traffic and my A class type Ford Transit made the journey, and particularly parking at the other end, much easier for him than for me. The spot was indeed unique. The Guardiana River was forced through a narrow rocky gorge and flowed through with enormous energy, making a deafening crashing sound and carving out weird and wonderful shapes in the surrounding rock. After wandering the site together, I bid farewell to my new friends and continued my journey north. My destination was Beja. I needed a new indicator switch and, since Beja is the capital city of the Alentejo, it seemed the most likely place for me to find what I needed.

I soon found the part I needed at a scrap yard in nearby Cabeca Gordo (I think the name means “Fat Head”). I found a scrap yard where there were five dogs, two horses (including a young one that was very friendly and would follow me around) and lots of old Ford Transits. I bought some things there and more at a scrap yard down the road. It is interesting that I never find scrap yards in major cities but always concentrated in certain out of the way, small towns. With parts in hand, I checked into a campsite in Beja. There were possible free camping places but Beja felt a little rough round the edges and a campsite seemed like the right choice. The municipal campsite was central and charged €3.45 per day including electric hook up. You can get a discount on that if you join the Portuguese camping organization. Since I was not planning to be there for long I decided not to bother.

While at the site, I met a few British people who stay at the site for the winter. I usually meet Brits doing this when I stay at campsites. Increasingly I meet retirees who live in their caravan or motorhome because the campsite rent is cheaper than their council tax bill back home. Also at the campsite were many Scandinavians. I got talking to Petri, from Finland . He was erecting a tent outside the shower block. I thought that it was some kind of kitchen tent, perhaps with a barbeque inside. I was not far wrong. It was a sauna, complete with benches at different levels and the big spoon for pouring water onto the coals, when you want more steam. Petri invited me to try it out but I was packing up to leave and had to decline. I was going to meet my friend in Evora and that was even more important than trying out the intriguing portable sauna.

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My friend had not been to Evora before so, once we met up we did a lot of touring around the town by foot. Evora, like Mertola, is a UNESCO World Heritage Site. We went to a chapel, which had walls lined with human bones and pillars of skulls. It was made by Franciscan Monks to remind us of our mortality. Above the door, there is a sign that reads, “Our bones in here wait for yours”. We also took in the Roman temple, at the top of the town and the famous Azulejos (often complex scenes depicted on blue and white ceramic tiles) at the University. That evening we dined out in a cellar restaurant. We had tomato soup, served with grilled, Choriço sausage that you drop into your soup, followed by black pork, which is half way between pork and wild boar. The portions were huge and either one of these dishes would have been enough. We waddled home to the van that was parked in the market square, getting much needed exercise going up and down the steep hills on the way.

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Next morning we were awoken by a strange roaring sound. Despite not having a clue what it was, I was determined at first to ignore it and keep dozing. My friend looked out of the window. “There is a hot air balloon taking off next to us!” she exclaimed. This got me mobilized and I was soon leaning out of the window, looking and taking pictures. A hot air balloon, carrying the brand of the local supermarket was indeed taking off right next to us. It took them a while to fill the balloon and then the ground crew released the anchor line and, within seconds, they were away. It was a magnificent sight. I had never seen such a thing up close. The two of us sat in bed and watched the balloon get smaller in the clear blue morning sky.

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