Three months around Europe

I spent four days in Lisbon. I had arranged to meet a friend's daughter, the short but perfectly formed Ms Pinky . I arrived early so spent two nights in a campsite on the northern side of Lisbon, moving into a central hostel for the last two nights.
Ms Pinky is a real character. She had spent two years wandering the world, then decided she should go back to NZ and try to put down some roots, but the restlessness remained and she is off wandering again. Carrying a backpack bigger than her, she reminded me of a snail- all her worldly possesions in a cordura covered sac.
By coincidence we arrived on the holiday of Lisbon's patron saint, St Anthony. Street parties were in full swing, a band competition was being hotly fought between neighborhoods and the mournful sounds of Fado , were interspersed with the light music of a carnival.
There was a Brazilian drink freely on sale, so armed with one of these I sat down and watched salsa, tango, folk dancers swirl around me. After the second drink they swirled even more.
We spent the next day on the bike, taking to the hills to visit Sintra with its palatial palaces, villas and imposing castle.
Lisbon gives the impression of decayed elegance. When it had money it spent it out palaces, statues and parks to honour its navigators, poets and the doctor who discovered a remedy for piles. In the bad times well we will just make do
It is not bike friendly. Steep, cobblestoned streets and tram lines give your clutch and GPS a workout. Maureen , my GPS ( it should be Mauleen as the voice has a Chinese accent) spent so much time recalculating and taking me up wrong alleys, that I switched her off. I then navigated by tram. The number 12 would take me to the hostel , while the number 28 would take me to the town centre.
The hostel was very pleasant , but I have decided I like campsites. They are half the price, my airbed, Fat Eric, is very comfortable and I can park the bike right next to my tent.
Then it was down the coast road heading for Seville. The bike seemed to sense it was free of the city. She sat at 110 kph, the harmonics between road, suspension and engine giving a comfortable ride.
Crossing the river , Rio Floatingturd that marks the border, I was back in Spain. The road improved, it was wider, smoother and the camber on the corners just right.
It was dry countryside , similar to the backdrop of those Clint Eastwood westerns. Shrubs, rather than trees, stunted bushes and an abundance of pink white and red oleander.
Maureen took me through little sun drenched, whitewashed towns. Flinty eyed farmers and their sloe eyed wives eyed me from the cantinas as I rode through, throwing up a pale dust trail .
I could imagine the conversation: “ Conchita Alopecia is that not that hombre, the Kiwi Pensioner. The one they say is the fastest man in the west to a free piss up.
“ Si, I think so. He rides with Ms Pinky and his padron is Don Wilson dos Veruka. I have heard he is el diablo himself with the grannies.”
Someone at the hostel said Seville and Granada were the real Spain of flamenco and passion. Towns where the culture was pure Spanish.
I spent Sunday morning walking through the medieval quarter, it was quiet, the sun had not dappled here for years and the neighbours lived cheek by jowl probably for generation after generation.
Then it was off to do the 250 km to Granada. I spent two nights here, camping in the centre of town . I visited a few sights but I think I am getting historical monument fatigue or perhaps I need some company to inspire me.

I leave Granada tomorrow to meet up with the wife and four friends and stay at their home on the coast outside Cartegena. We have five birthdays in seven days, so sangria, wine and cerveza will be the norm
Till next time
Safe riding