It’s unlikely there is another city in the World that sees so many cycle tourers arriving in it as Santiago de Compostela. Dozens pedal into the main plaza each day to finish their pilgrimage. I had no idea that cycling here was so popular. As an equivalent I can only think of cycling from ‘John O Groats’ to ‘Land’s End’, but this is less a pilgrimage than a charity ride, and I doubt many Spaniards ride the Camino de Santiago as a fundraising event.

Yet whilst many people cycle towards Santiago de Compostela, few cycle away from it. Even fewer follow the Camino de Portugues. An hour of research and a visit to the tourist information centre confirmed that I could follow a pilgrimage route into Portugal.

This time there were blue arrows rather than yellow ones directing me. Over the previous week I’d become used to the comfort of knowing that a cheap hostel awaited at the end of the day’s cycle. South from Santiago de Compostela this was in the town of Pontevedra, where for 3 Euros I found the familiar dormitory bunk bed and a sign telling me that check-out was at 8am.

I crossed into Portugal the following afternoon, a large iron bridge, (courtesy of Mr Eiffel or one of his protégés) transporting me across the River Minho into the town of Valenca.

A few people had commented that Portuguese drivers are among the worst in Europe. They hadn’t mentioned that the main roads in every town are also made from cobblestones and that drains and man-holes can often disappear to Third-World depths rather unexpectedly. I bumped along considering it a kind of preparation for Africa.

Once the cobblestones stopped the road south from Valenca climbed through a green landscape of pine trees, before I was rewarded with a long descent into the picturesque town of Ponte de Lima.

Unlike my time in France and Spain, I actually had a phrase and guidebook for Portugal, even if the latter was seven years old. Fortunately I didn’t need either on the first night. The blue arrow led me across a Roman bridge to a hostel with an English-speaking receptionist. It was a relief and a surprise. At the moment Portuguese sounds more like Russian than the Spanish that I imagined it to.

More climbs and cobblestones awaited as I continued south from Ponte de Lima to Barcelos. A small road snaked its way up a hillside, where fruit-laden trees and vines overhung the garden walls of what appeared like holiday villas. I stopped to pick a handful of figs from a driveway, unaware until leaving that the owner had been watching me from the window.

I decided it was time to return to the coast so headed west, quickly discovering that what once might have been quaint fishing villages are now mostly modern towns with uninspiring apartment blocks and flats. They continued to Porto, where modernisation is a long way from stamping out the past. The cycle lane joined the tramline as I reached the centre, which then abruptly began to climb through a Dickensian style network of narrow cobblestone alleys leading up from the Douro River. I quickly realised that exploring this city would be better on foot than bicycle.

After locating the Youth Hostel, which seems to be full of loud German school students, I exhausted myself walking around the labyrinth of steep streets, before using one of the five bridges to cross the river. Here the famous Port names of Taylor, Croft, Sandeman etc can be found alongside thirsty tourists waiting for their free tour and wine tasting. Seeming that my plan is to cycle alongside the Douro river from here, I realised my time in the city would be incomplete without trying few glasses of the city’s most famous export.