Boondock Puffins

First impressions of Portugal? A bit… meh. Nothing to write home about. The air smelled vaguely like a tourist brochure, and the roads were just roads. Nothing alarming, just… nothing. You know when you land in a country and think, This’ll be fine, but I’m not holding my breath? Yep, that was Portugal in the first few minutes.

But then, a couple of kilometres in? It was like someone flipped a switch. The roads turned into beautiful, winding, motorbike-pleasing twists and turns. The countryside opened up like it had just remembered it’s supposed to be gorgeous, and by the time we were properly in the thick of it, we realised: this place is basically motorbike heaven.

Now, let’s rewind a bit. The day started in Spain – slowly, of course. The sun, in its typical Spanish fashion, finally managed to crawl out of bed at 7:52am. This is actually quite a lovely thing when you’re not planning on getting up early, but when you’re in a rush to get out the door, it’s more like the sun is mocking you. We compromised by getting in a run around the headlands at 7:10am, which was really just a fancy way of saying we jogged about 50 yards before stopping to breathe and admire the view. We had grand plans to swim, but the Atlantic had other ideas. Think frozen bath water, only slightly less inviting. If you’re looking for refreshing, try the local garden hose.

After managing to extract ourselves from the sand and water, we took the time to sit down with coffee and porridge on a cliffside bench. A proper breakfast with a view. Of course, breakfast may have just been code for “let’s delay starting the day for as long as possible.”

Then the ride started. Oh, the ride. Imagine the worst traffic, the sleepiest suburbs, and a general feeling of “why am I doing this again?” As we crawled through Portoverde, the suburbs went on forever, stretching out like a bad dream. The bike was lumbering along, taking its sweet time, and honestly, it was all I could do not to fall asleep on the back. I don’t know if it’s just me, but something about the bike’s low revs and constant hum turns my brain into mashed potatoes. It’s a constant battle to stay awake. If there are any other pillions out there, please tell me you get this too.

And then, as if someone waved a magic wand, we crossed the border into Portugal. We managed to miss the entirely non-description sign denoting a change in country. At first glance, Portugal didn’t seem that exciting. We stopped at a shop, which was notably more expensive than Spain, which really didn’t do anything to endear us to it. But, you know, we’re not ones to judge a country based on a bag of overpriced biscuits.

Then, just as we were starting to get grumpy about expensive snacks and bad roads, something amazing happened. The roads started to twist, the countryside opened up, and suddenly we were on the kind of roads motorbikes are made for. Curves, dips, climbs—roads that almost seemed to know you were coming. And just like that, we were in motorbike heaven. No cars, no traffic, just us and the road. We’d forgotten what it felt like to really ride a bike, and it was glorious.

A couple of hours later, after our blissful communion with the road, we stumbled upon a little hostel, tucked just off the Camino de Santiago. Why not stay here for the night? It was only marginally more expensive than a campsite, and after all, how often do you get to stay somewhere that sounds this quaint? Nestled amongst vineyards, the place was the perfect antidote to the previous day’s exhaustion. We were greeted by Susana, who handed us fresh lemon water like we’d just ridden into a spa. The bike was parked right outside our room, which, after weeks of camping, felt like the height of luxury. I don’t know what it is about being able to walk from the shower to your bed without needing to pull on shoes and gather up all your belongings into one giant sad heap, but it felt good.

After a leisurely wander around the local roads, admiring the countryside and casually peeping into people’s gardens (because that’s what you do in places like this), we got some work done. You know, that thing that comes with the terrifying reality of being a grown-up. But we were in no rush. This place was relaxed. So relaxed, in fact, that we missed the fact that Susana had prepared a feast for the other guests, mostly Camino walkers, who were now happily munching down on home-grown vegetables and locally produced wine. It was everything we needed, even if we didn’t realise it at the time.

The night ended in true traveller fashion: satisfied, relaxed, and very much in agreement that we’d made a great decision staying here. We’d probably come back one day. And if you ever find yourself in Portugal, especially if you’re en route to Porto or just generally looking for a bit of hidden tranquillity, this little hostel among the vines is an absolute gem.