“Whereas the tourist generally hurries back home at the end of a few weeks or months, the traveler, belonging no more to one place than to the next, moves slowly, over periods of years, from one part of the earth to another.” - Paul Bowles
Sounds very much like the story of my life, I remarked to my hosts as I read the quote written across the living room wall of their apartment. “It was done by one of our students,” explained Nate, Principal of the American International School here in Sintra. I’d contacted them earlier in the year to ask if they’d be interested in hosting me for a few days (now nearly a week) and giving me the opportunity to speak about the journey and hopefully raise some funds for the Against Malaria Foundation. 

So here I am, sat not within the school, which I visited two days ago to speak and answer a myriad of curious questions, but within a modern apartment in a suburb of a town that Robert Byron called a “glorious eden”.

This particular part of Sintra has changed somewhat since his time, and he might have found less poetic beauty in the white-washed concrete that surrounds me now. It is however still very much an eden for someone who pitches his tent in random fields and goes for days without a decent wash

It’s all quite a contrast from the usual life on the road - the bed, clean sheets, the shower, and of course the English speaking company. I didn’t expect to be reading a bedtime story to the 5-year old daughter of my hosts, but it seems the least I can do after being warmly welcomed into their home – an unshaven stranger with feet that would be better left airing outside for several days. “What’s that cheesy smell”, she asked before collecting the air-freshener from her parents room and spraying the kitchen.

After my two day ride here from Tomar, which included stopping at the wonderfully picturesque and very touristic town of Obidos, and a grotesquely opulent Palace (grostesque because like many of these architectually impressive edifices it was built with money from the colonies), I explored the wooded heights and winding climbs of Sintra - first by foot and then by bicycle. Not however on my black behemoth of a tank, which I’ve yet to give a  name, but on something far lighter.

I generally steer clear of all organised tours, but was fortunate to meet these guys and decided to tag-along for the day. They were shocked that I don’t wear a helmet. I always find it hard to explain or justify to people why I don’t – other than making some flippant remark, such as wanting to feel the wind rush through my hair. Fortunately, and rather surprisingly, the question doesn’t come up all that often when I talk to audiences, despite there being lots of photos of me cycling through mountains and deserts with nothing other than a bandana or sun-hat. I know some readers will understand. Its a personal choice and many debates arise about the issue

I took the train to Lisbon yesterday, rambing aimlessly with the camera through the narrow streets of the Alfama district and looking for interesting photos. I wasn’t disappointed. There aren’t many cyclists on the roads, which isn’t surprising, as even my tyres might disappear between the cobbles or tramlines that climb up the ridiculous inclines.

My departure date from here seems to be sliding back each day. I’m back in the school tomorrow morning and Lisbon deserves a lot more attention. I will eventually reach African soil. Somewhat more exciting than an Oil Change Kit for my bike that was waiting for me here, I received a guidebook to Morocco. Bedtime reading for the coming weeks, although tonight there’s rumour of a Fado dinner back in Lisbon.