Slow travels also means time to seek out places previously bypassed, put on hold for 'the next time' or parked until you get the time to give them time. Giving our legs time out from walking, cycling, swimming (and any other limb-killing sport) we take a leisurely drive up to Monchique, a town of cobbled streets on the side of a hill that heads up towards the highest point in the Algarve - Foia - 902m high. The panoramic view is fantastic - you can see Cape St Vincent in the west to Faro in the east and the Serra da Arrabida, near Lisbon, to the north. Had I had invested in one of the handicrafts of the area - a scissor chair, a snip at €40 - I'd have cut out the 'food' stop en route down and settled for an espresso on the camp stove.
But stop we did, at a cafe on the mountainside, with views far tastier than its fare. What was wonderful was that the bar served freshly squeezed orange juice with the oranges from a grove outside the kitchen door, picked on request. But beyond growing its own ingredients, why does a restaurant in such a prime position grow lazy? In the fishing village of Salema, where we are based, the best restaurant is not overlooking the sea but, instead, is hidden away up a small cobbled street, modestly decorated but delivering fresh fish caught by its owner, Paulo, and cooked by his mother in a kitchen the size of a cupboard.
48 really is the new 18
Heading down the hills to the houses below, there are natural springs where visitors may drink the therapeutic water, said to have healing and restorative properties. Eager to sample this 'youth dew' - our legs need all the revitalising they can get - we wait patiently as we watch an elderly couple unload their car boot of empty 5L water bottles, one by one filling them to the brim. Apparently, it is a common sight on a Sunday to see locals stocking up their water supply for the week and we count ourselves lucky that:
1. There was only one couple in full flow and,
2. It was a Wednesday.
But, not for the first time this trip, we are overwhelmed by the generosity of people as the old man slowly fills a bottle and, smiling, his wife hands it to us.
Looking at the couple, I am guessing they are actually 156, run up this mountain every morning, never sleep and have sex at least six times a day. Rejuvenation has never come so cheap, nor has my humour. In one swig, my legs feel like those of my 18 year old former self.
Maroon Five - and five black coffees
Cycling through the villages of the western Algarve, you encounter a mixed bunch of fellow travellers, from weed-smoking drop-outs to beige sixty somethings to artisans and surfer dudes who stopped at the far west of Europe - and never turned back. The land is worked hard and by hand and not necessarily by the young. Relying on tourism is a seasonal necessity and an accepted part of scraping a living in a country currently facing further government austerity measures. However, surprisingly, these are some of the happiest and kindest people I have ever met. Today, an old man in a workshop, hidden in a back street in Lagos replaces a snapped gear cable on Tony's bike, resets the gears and repairs the tie around the padlock - and all for €5. In five minutes. While we wait. We then wheel the bikes into the town square, buy a copy of The Times and sit to listen to a trio - two guitarists and a bongo player - playing in the sun. A rendition of a much-loved Maroon Five track grabs our attention and we are taken by the rasping voice of the vocalist. The square is buzzing on a sunny November afternoon and Tony is so impressed, he not only throws some euros into their hat, but buys them - and us - a small black coffee each. The vocalist tells us that, at best, he can earn €15 for a star turn during winter, that he got as far as boot camp on X-Factor and is heading for Lisbon on Friday to play to his biggest audience yet - a decent crowd of 1,000 on Saturday night. He too is called Paulo, has a newborn baby, is struggling to earn money by getting paid for a job he so obviously adores and at which he is talented, but he seems happy. He smiles a lot, speaks of his family with fondness despite 'not having slept for four nights' and takes time to chat. We take his number and consider heading for Lisbon at the weekend in time to join him at his big gig. It is only when we are later chatting about the band we realise Tony had asked the waitress for five cocks rather than five coffees. Lesson learnt, number 5765643: there is a huge difference between a pica and a bica.
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