I had a leisurely breakfast. The 'youth' hostel clientèle seemed mainly middle-aged; maybe it was still too early for the youngsters. And some – closer to thirty than their teens – did trickle in later. Mainly female. And mainly quite heavy. I was surprised at the number of large, sometimes huge, legs and butts. On casual display. Excess flesh, in short clothing, at eye-level as I ate my breakfast – it was somewhat off-putting. Relatively speaking, obese that I presumably still am, I wasn't too bad. But it was a low bar I was comparing myself to.

I went to reception to book for a second night; my tired legs seemed to be sending me a warning about another day in the saddle without some recuperation. But I was SOL, as we used to say. No lower bunks available. And me clambering up and down in the night on my numerous (well, two or three) trips to the bathroom would not have been much fun for the person sleeping below me. It looks like I'm on the road again...

In expectation of a second day here, my electronics were not recharged. So I hooked my Wahoo into my power back. I shouldn't need too much.

A young man had arrived sometime in the night, judging by the mop of hair I could see above the edge of the upper bunk opposite. The elderly man on the lower bunk didn't seem to be moving much. We'd exchanged a friendly thumbs-up when I'd got up for breakfast but now he was back in the bunk. Under the heavier covers that were available although the room was very warm. He also was wearing a woolly sweater, a cap and gloves! An occasional light snore reassured me that he was, indeed, still alive.

I mentioned the old gent when I was checking out at reception and she was going to look in and make sure he was fine. Then I was out of the garage and heading west again. Slow to start, as my legs warmed up, and slow to continue for the rest of the day.

There was a westerly breeze that grew stronger as the day progressed. My weather app forecast 18 mph with gusts of 30 mph. I was riding right into it most of the time. I found my self on a posted cycle route, along the south coast. Quarteira, my perhaps optimistic destination for the day, didn't warrant a mention.

And there was the occasional reminder that I was also on Eurovelo 1, The Atlantic Coast Route. As Iwould be, on and off, for the next two or three weeks.

Slow plodding. Hard pedaling into the wind, especially when I was right along the coast. At one point, my cycle.travel route had me going straight when the EV1 sign said left. I turned left. After a kilometre, there was the sudden end of a boardwalk and a bar across the path. I could see what looked like a continuation in about three hundred metres so I tilted the bike under the bar, off the boardwalk and half a metre down to sand. There were a number of bike tyres tracks so I presumed things were still good. Sandy tracks alongside fields led to a little bridge - a six-by-six post. I wheeled across, up a sandy bank, through a hole in a fence, and onto a section of double track. Which did, eventually, rejoin my cycle.travel route. All part of the 'fun' I suppose but it was a low energy day for me and I could well do without these extra challenges.

Busy A-roads into Olhão, with a shoulder but nothing much to look at. I stopped at a Lidl (foregoing the Aldi I'd seen a couple of kilometres earlier) for some pizza-flavoured crumbly rolls and some orange juice. I ate in the shade of Lidl, on a window ledge, under the watchful gaze of security. Maybe I looked homeless?

Then some fun graffiti!

More traffic into Faro. I had always anticipated staying in Faro but accommodation was sparse or expensive and the dormitory in Quarteira beckoned.

Portugal had felt different almost from the start. Here I began to notice it more. Lots of golf courses, either complete or planned. And numerous sales offices, with signs in English, hoping to separate retirees from some of their accumulated cash. It didn't appeal that much, not to me. More Mercedes and BMWs. Audis and Teslas.

Looking into the windows of realtors or sales offices, prices seemed to be five or six times the prices I'd seen in Spain. Roughly. To face onto bright green fairways, I presumed. And not have to learn the language.

The hills seemed harder as, late in the day, I arrived in Quarteira. The dorm was very comfortable. The cod kebab and shrimp just across from the dorm was excellent. I slept very well.

A rest day. I feel like it's necessary. Hanging out in the 'hotel,' catching up on my blog. Despite seemingly masses of people checking in, I was the only guest in my six-bunk room. Maybe they separate off all the oldies. Or the snorers?

Some blog progress made but I am still falling further and further behind.

An unremarkable day, only made somewhat remarkable by its length. My longest day in a year or two.

Up from and down to sea-level quite frequently. Under a hot sun.

There was lots of traffic on busy roads, fortunately with reasonable shoulders. A long slog with little especially to recommend it. But it got me where I needed to be – even if it wore me out in the process!

I didn't book accommodation until the last moment, worried that I wouldn't make it that far. The accommodation was room in a small village house owned by a German surfer who has been coming here for about twenty years and then decided to move here. I learned that property prices have doubled and tripled recently, post-Covid, as digital nomads look for somewhere pleasant to settle.

I had a very nice pizza and three large beers to rehydrate in The Den, apparently a surfers' hangout. I felt I'd earned them.

I planned two evenings in this accommodation: a surfer's house, reasonably priced considering I got my own room if not my own bathroom. At 35.8 km, it wasn't really the rest day my body craved.

I could use it as a base to go south to Sagres and then on to the westmost part of Portugal at Cabo de São Vicente, regarded as the south-westernmost point of Europe, according to Wikipedia.

How is the most south-western point, which is neither the most southerly or the most westerly point is determined, I wonder? Parts of Spain are further south (as is nearby Sagres!)and parts of Ireland are further west.

A pannier-free loop, returning in the late afternoon. Up a long gravel road into a fierce head wind.

But it was more fun on the bike than I had expected, without panniers. Slow progress on the way back, with fierce headwinds out of the north of a slightly uphill gravel road, racing along at about 7 kph.

I stopped at the pub in the village for a beer. Locals were eating plates of snails. The same snails that I had noticed clustered together on cactus leaves or bike route signs. When I returned for dinner, I had missed the snail for that day but I did get to watch four women enjoying theirs as they put down several bottles of beer. No snails for me, no draft either. They'd run out of that, too. A pub out of draft? I went across the road to The Den for pizza. But they were closed, even though their sign said they should be open. Back to the pub, wine from a box FFS!, and a couple of custard tarts for dinner.

I was not particularly looking forward to this day. Or those following, to be truthful. I am feeling the pressure of reaching Ferrol in time for the train to my ferry. And the thought of the Nortada, the summer north wind, continuing to impede my progress isn't cheering me up much.

I decided upon sticking to pavement. A steady headwind would slow me enough without adding gravel into the mix. And the wind was there, sure enough, as I set off along the road to Vila do Bispo, although I wouldn't feel its full force until I turned north.

I went to Lidl for bread, candy and juice. I have sufficient laughing cow imitatation cheese triangles to last for the amount of bread I have. Then a breakfast at Lizzy Market, which also advertised itself as a Vegan Boutique. Their breakfast of waffles with chocolate and fruit sounded nicer than it turned out to be but there were some calories there to get me going.

Now I was heading north and the wind was heading south. Anything uphill was slow, walking pace, down to four kilometres per hour at times. The road had no shoulders and they was traffic so it was not the best of conditions for a fun day.

I was on a higher plain and the scenery was pleasant. Pine trees but not like those at home. I had thought them to be pines when I saw them before and some pine cones lying on the ground cleared away any doubt. But some vehicles were too fast, too close, for my liking. (Whining, I know.) Elegant wind turbines.

Fortunately, the wind wasn't relentless. There was generally enough to make terrain I'd usually fly over more of a struggle but the wind seemed weaker when I was further inland. I was never very far from the sea but saw only occasional glimpses. Areas of pine were burnt, quite recently judging by the limited regrowth. In 2017 and 2023, forest fires caused much damage and loss of life (in the 60s) in Portugal.

A steep picturesque downhill between prettily painted houses, and past a cute traditional windmill repurposed as a tourist attraction, brought me into town. My front brake may have been misbehaving but it was hard to really tell through the throbbing cobbles.

The Residencia do Parque was at the top of a steep flight of stairs. I WhatsApp-ed the manager to enquire about my bike. All good, it can go in the room. That did, of course, mean carrying it up those steep stairs.