Meh..
So where were we, Ah yes, that’s right – so I’ve left Pombal and now am off in a North Easterly direction. I think I’ll just go in that general direction and then when the light starts to fade, I’ll turn in. Or maybe hit a motorway to crack on into the evening.
Little roads though at the moment. I divert to a little town called Lousa for refreshment and a custard doughnut.
It’s hot and quiet. As I sit down, the peace of the afternoon is disturbed by some guy wandering around shouting a lot at passers by and traffic. People stop.. folks hang from windows and stare. After a few minutes the little old woman from the café comes out shooing him away, holding a broom. She comes and puts her hand on my shoulder, and shrugs to say sorry about that.
Funny old day..
Back to it. I’m now crossing through the Serra de Estrala, pootling towards Spain. Late afternoon, 36 degrees. A quick drink stop for a coca-cola.
I join up with some of the faster road to make up a few kms.
My bike ticks over 60,000 miles. Oh- and if you look close can see a possible source of the water ingress on the Zumo too, the seal on one of the buttons having now fully given way. At the moment rain isn’t a problem though eh..
So by now the temperature has crept up to 40 degrees - the late afternoon just seems to be getting hotter, rather than cooling down.
Anyway - It was going well.
Notice I say ‘was’.
Until I go to shift.
No clutch again.
Aaaaarghhhh!! Not again!!!!! You really have got to be kidding me!
So I’m in exactly the same situation as I was 48 hours ago- no clutch at all. Bloody Groundhog day! So I crash into 3rd and start the procedures and checklists for emergency landing. Yet again. Check for town, aim at town, find somewhere suitable to wait around, stall, curse, wait.
The town of Trancoso is close by, so I make my way off the main road and in carefully. As I head in, there’s an Intermarche supermarket and on the right, a pizzeria café with chairs and tables outside, up opposite I do a nifty about turn and chug over to the café. Clunk, surge, stall.
I go in and order a large super bock and neck it in one. Deep Breath. The girl behind the counter watches me carefully. I grab a large bottle of water and settle up.
I phone my man at J&M to let him know what’s happened. He’s at a bit of a loss and apologetic as you’d expect. Unfortunately it’s late now and everyone has gone home, and of course I’m 150 odd miles away now. But he says to stay in touch and if he can do anything to let him know.
I plonk the bike on the centre stand and pump the clutch to see if there’s any life. Barely anything. It just seems kind of academic now, but I’m developing a nervous pump clutch twitch. And I’m hardly going to damage it, I suppose.
I call recovery and explain the situation. It’s not easy for them to digest, which to a certain extent I can sympathise with given all of the twists and turns of recent days, but after a bit of time the message is gotten across and they will get recovery organised. The funny part is the conversation: ‘So it was repaired.. by a BMW dealer?.. and you have the same problem again?’ They sort of find it hard to understand. For some reason though, I don’t..
Being occupied with the calls, texting people and all I haven’t paid much attention to the dynamic and what’s going on outside the pizza café. I’m parked twenty or so yards away and happily not getting a great deal of attention. Sat in silvery patio chairs there are a group of what I assume locals, who look to be a generally sour faced and scruffy bunch. Adjacent to them, separately there’s a group of firemen, wearing red polo shirts with ‘Bombeiros’ written on the back. The firemen are dirtied and look weary. Both groups are kicking back with beers. Fires weren’t far away, and so it’s pretty safe to assume I reckon this is what the fireman guys have been attending to.
All doesn’t seem right between the two groups. There’s a bit of finger pointing and words exchanged and this goes on.
I pump the clutch a bit more.
More locals, and more Bombeiros appear over time and the groups get bigger. Beers stack up on the tables with the girl serving buzzing around frantically. For a pizza place, there’s not a great deal of pizza about.
It’s been over an hour now. The atmosphere as well as the weather continues heated. And then- one of the silver chairs comes flying across to the firemen with a crash, at which point things start to get very animated. The groups merge- pushing, shoving, fists, glass breaking.
This would appear to be my cue- it doesn’t seem all that wise to hang about. Call me old fashioned if you will, but I don’t fancy forming part any knuckle draggers’ skirmish anecdotes. My now OCD reflex of pumping the clutch proved worthwhile- some bare crumbs of life, enough for a gear selection and a brisk exit.
Up the hill towards the centre of Trancoso now - and there’s a sign for a hotel. So with a left turn and another left turn, and traffic in my favour I roll up to the hotel. By now its nearly 9pm.
I book in at a very reasonable rate. The place looks very nice and great for pot luck. I roll the bike into the car park as suggested by the helpful receptionist.
I go to the room, update the breakdown people on events. They say no problem, and that they’ll be in touch in the morning. I then dunk myself in the bath to reflect on another series of shall we say, unanticipated events and contemplate my next move.
I’d forgotten about dinner and the time. It is a bit late. So a change and down to reception. The hotel restaurant is closed. Similar to the other night with Mr. Alberty, it doesn’t seem there are many people staying here and that seems kind of sad for such a nice spot. I ask- can I get anywhere to eat. The girl looks at her watch ‘Everything closes at 10pm, so you must hurry’. It’s 9.50, and about a seven minute walk to the centre. Not looking good. She outlines a couple of places in town to try, the best option directly in the centre, in a straight line, in front of you and upstairs once I get to the square. I flip flop off in much haste, determined not to be beaten.
Into the town through the castle walls as directed..
I find the upstairs restaurant really simply. I pass a lady, in kitchen regalia outside leaning up against a pillar having a cigarette. I bluster past with a smile and hello. Boa noite..!
Upstairs the young waiter is looking at me with dismay. He speaks English, happily for me again, but he shakes his head and says sorry, but we close at ten.
The lady from downstairs re-appears.
She joins us and the waiter and her speak. She turns to me: ‘English?’ she says. ‘You look sad. Beefsteak and fries OK?’ with a shrug and a smile. It might seem such a little thing, but I could have hugged her until her head popped off. ‘Anything, that’s fine!’ The young waiter beams, and we have a deal.
I order everything at once. Large beer, Large red wine, water, bread, olives, bits, bobs.
I don’t dawdle so everyone can pack up, fair’s fair and all that. I plough through, overtaking a family still having dessert, and ask to settle up, whereby I’m given a bill for the princely sum nine euros and thirty cents..
I leave full and happy with my spirits lifted and with a reputation as a huge tipper
There’s a band out playing in the square. I find a seat out in a bar and get a beer – one euro and five cents. It’s certainly pretty reasonable in this part of the world.
My tip for the waiter results in a wheelbarrow size portion of nuts. A few more beers caps the night off.
Lemons and all that..