Three months around Europe

The pilgrim's goal, the cathedral at Santiago DE Compostela did not disappoint.
At 9am on a rather dull Monday morning it was full to bursting. A young nun was taking the service and she was going hammer and tongs, her high pitched voice making the most of the 1000 year fine tuning of the acoustics. The building dominated the square, indeed the town .
Fine carvings inside and out , somber priests in full regalia, the pious, the footsore and locals . Sandals and shoes scraping across the floor.
I joined a queue shuffling forward, only to discover that I was in the line for the confessional and was directed by a priest to a box. Not being a left footer or having any real need to share my many sins I made my excuses and left.
The town square was hosting a tent city of demonstrators . I couldn't quite work out what it was about but they were certainly making their presence felt and there was a heavy, if benign number of police looking on.
The road to Porto, my first stop in Portugal was dull. I just followed a b road of industrial sprawl with smoke belching , grimy factories.
The difference in roads between Spain and Portugal was immediate. Potholes, weeds, broken barriers and signs indicated I was now in one of the poorest countries in the old EEC.
I began to see the first signs of the recession: half finished buildings, idle cranes, groups of young males hanging around town squares.
Porto is a lovely city with a very intact medieval quarter that I walked around for a couple of hours. There is a lovely old 1950s style tram that does a circuit..
Porto is founded on and sustained by grog. Its trade in port wine with the UK goes back three or more centuries. Warehouses with English trade names: Cockburns, Taylors., Pissedasachook, line the waterfront.
The old custom house has been refurbished – well part refurbished , the funds ran out -as a museum . Tucked in one corner was the most amazing collection of cars.
You have to remember that Portugal has only been a modern democracy for just over 35 years – women did not get the vote until 1975. Up until that time you had to get a permit for everything – including a cigarette lighter. So motoring as we know it is relatively modern.
The cars were mainly British :Rollers, Alvis, Lancaster, Armstrong Siddely, Morris, Austin - probably owned by the ex pat community.
I had now done around 6000 km on the bike and I wanted to get it serviced. On the recommendation of the campsite owner ( a BMW 1200 owner) I went to a local mechanic who apart from doing a first class job very cheaply, had the most amazing collection of Vespa scooters. His workshop was the HQ of the local Vespa club and when I arrived there at 7pm , the members of the club were cleaning my bike.
They were very interested in my trip and a dozen of us shared numerous bottles of Porto's finest as we talked about motorbikes , rugby, soccer ( our world cup record is well recognised) and politics. They did not believe that we gave women the vote way back in the 1860s - but then I reminded them that they had a women PM some 10 years before us.
You get the impression that chauvinism is alive here – but the
generation X and Y are pushing the traditional barriers aside and quick to make their mark through protest.
Porto also had a tent city in its town square. Elections are imminent here and the ruling PS party had set up a trailer with a remote message that boomed out twice an hour. I thought their choice of theme song - “ Anything you want – you got it “ wide of the mark as the country is having to initiate an austerity drive to satisfy the EU bankers. Well politics is about perception.
I took some time to walk around the tent city. It seemed to be protesting about a lack of democracy, globalisation, global warning , Palestine and the paucity of a decent backup for Dan Carter. It was well organised with workshops every few hours including a daily Yoga workshop, organic gardening discussion group and male grooming techniques .
Every time the PS message began , a few demonstrators would rush out ,start yelling , banging pots and yelling their own message through squeaky megaphones.. These were protestors for democracy remember – perhaps only I could see the irony. The mainly old audience thought it all great fun and were laughing and cackling away as they traded insults and wisecracks with both side.
No one got really angry and it was great to see the respect the young protestors had for their elders sitting in the square.
And this, even though many of the protesters were ginger haired.
I am slowly moving down the Portuguese Atlantic Coast taking in castles, ruins, surf beaches and the most delicious lunches.
The daily special is usually around $10 and that includes soup, fish or meat, veges, wine or beer, a small dessert pastry and a coffee. And there is usually free wife.

Till next time

Safe riding.