Down the track, through the mud and then a slow, steep and strenuous uphill push. Slow going.

A new cycle path in the making?

Off the road and on to a boardwalk. Riding over the boards was noisy and it wouldn't be a good idea to veer to close to one edge or the other; it was almost a half-metre drop on to soggy ground vegetated ground. A face plant would be inevitable.

A couple of men, father and son, walked towards me but fortunately there was a wider, fenced section where I could pull off and wait for them to pass.

I paused to take a photograph and a man poked his head out of an upstairs window and asked if I needed a room. I hadn't really come up with a plan on how far to go and it wasn't yet three in the afternoon. But I quickly decided this looked worth the stop. He came down and took me around the corner to a street-level door into a room with two double beds and space for a bike. Easy peasy.

€10. Wow!

After a bit of a lie down, not quite a siesta, I summoned the energy for a shower. Then I went back to the main part of the albergue, up the stairs, and into a room where a couple of peregrinos were waiting for their sellos. These stamps, a labour of love, were painstakingly produced by the man who had shown me my room. Each one is individually made and unique. And available only for those who stayed overnight; those passing through got only a regular stamp. So it felt a good call on many fronts to have decided upon a night in Alvaiázere!

I wandered around for a while, not discovering anything spectacular: just a small, quiet town without much going on. I had dinner in a friendly family run place. Then back to the room, pleasantly tired. And sleep.

I stopped for some bread and cheese beside a large cemetery. It was Sunday and some people were visiting graves and doing general clean-up work whilst keeping a wary eye on the cyclist sitting on a bench outside the walls. There was a church across the road and a decorated roundabout, presumably for some religious festival.

The old road? More likely a railway line. Not in use, it appears!

After a day's rest, my legs had – to start at least – a little extra energy. Just as well, because it was a largely uninspiring day.

It was overcast, misty with a fine drizzle (typical mizzle weather). Most of the day was through steep villages and busy towns, all built up with next to no exposure to open countryside. Some altitude gained to start, with clouds drifting over the tops of the houses. It was chilly, too. I wore my rain jacket for warmth as much as to keep out the damp. Then, inevitably, I would overheat clammily on the climbs.

A short section of 'single track' alongside an abandoned (?) railway line.

Then uphill and down, unnecessary perhaps because I ended up at (probably) the same railway line.

The path crossed a section of railway line that looked to be only a metre wide. And a railcrew working on the line. I had to unload my panniers to get the bike across piles of fresh gravel on either side of the track. It looked as though a once abandoned line was being recommissioned. (Maybe the one I had ridden along briefly earlier?)

I combined three peregrino stages although I wasn't exactly sure where the second ended and the third began. Just on a nondescript section of cobbled road, my route ended on the Wahoo. And the next stage started. Maybe whoever was recording the route on their gps mistakenly hit stop or end?

Then the final (second or third?) stage had a section of rocky path uphill through woods. The rocks were large, unlikely to have been laid recently: could this be an old Roman road? (I'll have to research. Later!) The slope was not so steep that I could not have ridden it (or at least most of it) if it had been more uniform cobbles but this was definitely a slow, upward stroll pushing the bike. Six o'clock and still some way to go but there were no alternatives.

Then it levelled out, into sand. Some puddles. One deceptive. Significantly.

It was deeper than I had anticipated. And softer. My wheels sank lower and lower; I pedalled harder but came to a halt. I put down my left foot, but that too sank into the soft sand. I managed to dismount without dropping the bike which was now pretty much axle deep; dropping would have been disastrous for my camera. Then a strenuous push, up and out on to relatively solid and dry ground. I was a bit of a mess, mucky legs and sandals, and the bike was worse. Would a hotel even want me in this condition?

The next puddle looked evil, more of a lake, black and oily. But there was an alternative trail off to the side and I could skirt the danger.

A couple, out walking their dogs in the woods, warned of more water hazards ahead and recommended a different route. I was examining which way to go at a junction, then got going again. But not very far, a large (possibly Roman) rock unsettled me, and over I went. I had a slow-motion vision of a large unyielding rock approaching my face as I neared the ground but I somehow managed to steer my body aside without damaging my face or the wrist of my steering hand. I lay there face down for a while, catching my breath and making sure everything was still working. A minor knee scrape, nothing worrying. I got up and started to pedal on. One friendly dog-walker caught up with me. He had seen the fall and wanted to make sure I was alright. Then he accompanied me to his suggested altenative route, down a narrow path between tall bushes, to a road. Ann all adventure for the day was over.

Entrance to Porto was over a bridge, high (very high) over the River Douro. Spectacular!

Wary of being turned away with my bike, an occasional occurrence in cities with a lack of space, I hadn't booked ahead but arrived at the Hotel Paulista late in the day. Yes, they had a room (booking.com had said they had three) and would take the bike. For €10 per night! This is the first time I have been charged to store the bike but there was a sign with parking costs, including bicycles, on the reception counter. I unloaded my panniers, got my valuables from the handlebar bag, and wheeled the now lightened bike to a nearby hotel with a garage. Without the bike for support, my ankle was very painful on the walk back to the Paulista – my ankle has definitely suffered a setback over the last few days.

I took the tiny elevator (two very friendly people at most!) up to my unexciting room. This one of the, if not the, most expensive rooms on my trip – including a deal on a five-star hotel. But this room was not five star. By any means. Two narrow single beds. But it had a shower, which was most welcome, first for cleaning the dirt off my sandals, then the dirt off my feet and legs, and finally to freshen up the rest of me.

Then I dragged myself off in search of dinner, and a tv screen to watch another lacklustre performance by England in the Euros.