Nine kilometers to Portugal, the sign says.
This is my first time visiting Portugal.
I will cross the border and head toward the sea. It will be nice to settle down early today.
I’ll unload the gear and decide what to do next.
I pass what used to be a building and border checkpoint between Spain and Portugal.
I don’t even need to slow down.
The beach is close by; there must be a campsite there.
Oh, great, there’s a sign for a campsite.
I follow the sign, then another sign, and here I am.
There are so many caravans here. I didn’t think it would be this full.
Slowly, I drive through the campsite.
I find a spot to set up the tent.
I arrange the sleeping bag and the mat; now everything is ready.
All the websites say it’s worth visiting the cities along the coast.
I read more… This place is a must-see, and this city shouldn’t be missed.
Before I even go to sleep, I already have a route filled with must-visit recommendations.
10:00 a.m.
and I’m packed. The motorcycle is ready, and I’m filled with excitement as ride toward the old city of Faro. I park on the sidewalk and step into what’s supposed to be an unmissable destination.
But as I wander, all I see are tourists—lots of them. Tourist shops, tourist restaurants, souvenir stores, and even street performers catering to tourists. It’s like the city exists solely for them. After a few hours of aimless strolling, I return to my bike, ready to move on.
The next stop, according to every glowing review, is Loule. Another “must-see.”
I ride about 5 kilometers, but something feels off. The excitement I had earlier is gone. I’m not enjoying myself at all. In fact, I feel lonely. Roundabout after roundabout, I’m stuck in traffic, and the atmosphere grows heavier with each passing minute.
I tell myself the next city will be different, that it will surprise me, but deep down, I’m doubtful. Finally, I decide to stop. At the first restaurant I see, I park the bike and walk in.
I order a bowl of vegetable soup, sip it slowly, and pull out my map. I also open Google, hoping to find some inspiration, but every site keeps pointing me to the same coastal cities, the same overhyped spots packed with tourists.
I order a burger with fries, trying to distract myself. While eating, I search different websites, but it’s like a broken record—the same recommendations again and again. Dessert arrives—ice cream—and I keep looking, determined to find something new. But even now, every site insists these “must-see” places are worth the visit.
2:00 p.m. rolls around, and I’m frustrated, staring at the table, thinking, “This can’t be it.”
Suddenly, I have an idea. I pull out the map and look for places based on the terrain instead of the websites. My eyes land on a lake in the mountains. It looks promising. A quick search reveals… nothing. No details, no tourist buzz, no recommendations. Perfect.
I get back on the bike and start riding toward the pin I dropped on the map, unsure of what I’ll find but excited for the unknown.
The traffic thins out, and the road narrows as it winds up into lush green mountains. With every kilometer I climb, my mood improves. I pass small farms and quiet villages. Horses graze, sheep roam—it’s peaceful, and I can finally breathe again.
A small dirt path to my left catches my attention, and I can’t resist. I turn onto it and follow a stream, passing even more farms along the way. The path climbs up a hill, and when I reach the top, I stop.
I don’t deliberate for long—I just act. I kill the engine, set up my tent, unpack my stove, and start preparing dinner.
As the sun sets, I hear the faint sound of sheep bells in the distance. The flock is returning to the barn. I smile to myself. Leaving the tourist-packed areas was the best decision I’ve made all day.
Sheep bells echo near my tent, stirring me awake. I step outside, scanning the area but can’t see them. Their bleating is close, hidden behind the bushes.
Time to ride. Without a set destination, I take a narrow, scenic road winding through the countryside. The path rises and falls, weaving its way into the mountains. Not far ahead, I spot a quaint village with a beautiful church marking its entrance. A stream flows alongside the village, adding to its charm.
I park near a small restaurant in the village center, just behind the church. Choosing a table on the sidewalk, I notice a group of people seated nearby. I can’t tell if they’re trekkers or locals. One of the women turns to me and asks about my motorcycle and where I’m from. Before long, the whole group joins in, and we’re deep in conversation.
It turns out they’re locals, not tourists, and their warmth and openness impress me. Even after finishing my meal, I linger, enjoying the lively exchange.
Later in the day, I decide it’s time to find a spot for the night. Riding along the stream, I search for a good camping spot but come up empty. Then, I see a shaded area near the water where two couples and another woman are sitting, drinking beer.
“Hey, it’s you guys from the restaurant!” I say. One of the women hands me a beer, and I sit with them, feeling instantly at ease.
“Do you know of a good place where I could pitch my tent?” I ask. They think for a moment before one of them suggests, “You can set up in my garden.”
We ride back to her house, where I ask, “Where’s a good spot?” But before we get to that, she makes me a cup of tea. We sit in her living room until 9 p.m., giving me the chance to learn about village life and her experiences.
“Come on,” she suddenly says. “There’s a football game—we’re going to the pub!” Wrapping a scarf around her neck in her team’s colors, she leads the way.
The pub turns out to be the same restaurant where we had lunch. A large TV screen takes center stage, and everyone who enters wears a team scarf. While waiting for the game to start, we drink beer and share pizza. Suddenly, a roar erupts—Gooooal! The room explodes with cheers, waving scarves, and hugs. The joy is infectious.
We return to her home after the game, where I crash on her sofa. As I lie there, I think, “How did I end up here?” Traveling solo always seems to bring these magical moments.
8:00 a.m. The next morning, over coffee, I thank her sincerely for her kindness.
And then I’m off, back on the road.
“Where to?” I ask myself aloud.
“Lisbon,” comes the answer.
