Alex and I have been riding together since we were 8 and 9 years old, so it makes sense that almost as soon as I began working on my Fulbright application my junior year, we began planning, or at least talking about the possibility of, a European riding trip. As I waited to hear back last year, I spent downtime online dreaming up trips and came across the UK-based company Far and Ride, which arranges such excursions around the world. Once I got to Spain, we started planning for real.
Because of rumors of Spanish airport worker strikes during Semana Santa (Holy Week/Spring Break), Alex and I decided to meet up in Lisbon rather than Madrid. She got in Thursday night, and I found her the next morning at the Lisbon Lounge Hostel (which I highly recommend if you’re ever in Lisbon). We spent that first day catching up while traversing the entire city, even deciding at one point to cross the River Tagus to visit a small town the woman at the ferry dock recommended to us. Unfortunately, there was nothing of interest on the other side, just a dusty bus station with a cafe behind it. Though the ice cream there was stale and the coffee not great, the woman behind the counter proudly greeted us in English and introduced us to an old man who also spoke a bit of English.
We both loved the buildings in Lisbon.
In that way I found Portugal’s capital to be friendlier than Madrid. Shopkeepers and cafe staff were less standoffish than their Spanish counterparts and all willing to overlook our lack of Portuguese (beyond thank you -- obrigado or obrigada) and eager to assist us.
Tired and not expecting much, we decided to eat at the hostel that night, as they brought in a chef to prepare dinner in the evenings. The meal turned out to be fantastic and filling: a fresh salad to start followed by basic couscous and veggies with a main dish of garlicky delicious piri piri chicken. Add wine and follow with ice cream, and you’ve got a thoroughly satisfying dinner. We got to chat with our roommates for a bit, two Chinese students coming from England and about to leave for Madrid in the morning. They’d been out of the city for the day and we talked them into walking around for a bit after dinner in search of a bar. Apparently they’re all in the Bairro Alto, which we had dismissed as too touristy, but we managed to find a place with tables outside not too far from our hostel.
We took the train to Sintra, a town full of castles, on Saturday after picking up picnic foods at a market. Once we arrived, we bought a bottle of wine, caught a bus up the curving forested hillside and disembarked at the Pena Palace Gardens. We ended up wandering the main path up to the highest point (where Alex’s flipflop broke, and we proudly pieced it back together with the bandaids and a twist-tie we had in our bags) and then winding our way back down on the lesser-traveled paths until we came upon The Queen’s Throne, a seat carved into the rock and tiled over with a view of the fairytale cartoonesque Pena Palace. We paused for our picnic: wine, the best cheese I have eaten yet in Europe, fresh bread, olives, grapes and cherry tomatoes off the vine that tasted like biting straight into summer. By the time we’d made it out of the beautiful gardens, we were exhausted, headed straight back to Lisbon (after a stop to pick up some cheap flip-flops), napped away the early evening and awoke in time to finish our picnic for dinner.
The almost fairytale cartoon-esque Pena Palace
We did a bit of shopping the next day before catching the bus south, which we barely got to on time. We had ordered lunch to take along for the ride, but the cafe took forever putting it together, so we had to rush for the metro with all of our luggage, and once we got off the metro, find the bus station that was supposed to be right there, but was not well marked. By the time we got to our bus and had a little mixup about tickets, I was trying to explain myself to the driver in a mezcla of English and Spanish and “obrigadas.” He held the bus for us, helped us get everything sorted out (remember what I said about the friendly Portuguese?), and we were on our way.
Once at Quinta Paraiso Alto, we met our host, Jinny, and fellow riders, all from the UK. We ate together and went to bed early in anticipation of the start of our ride.
Our horses graze while we picnic
We met our horses after breakfast the next morning. I rode Chuva, an adorable little pinto mixed breed and the newest addition to the ranch. Once everyone had tacked up and gotten on, our guide, Nat, led us out of town, stopping a couple hours in for a picnic lunch. We had been warned that it was tick season in Portugal, and Chuva had picked up a few that had latched on around her tail. The positive thing about the fact that Portuguese ticks are larger than American ticks is that they’re easier to see and thus get rid of! After lunch, despite out of riding shape muscles, we pressed on through cork forests until we arrived at the beautiful Herdade de Beicudo ranch, which would serve as our base for the next two nights. We drove along the cliffside above the beach on our way to dinner in Carrapateira and got out in the wind for a bit to admire the scenery. After a dinner of lamb chops accompanied by vinho verde, Portuguese green wine, and followed by honey madronho, sore muscles begged for sleep.
Herdade de Beicudo
Because of early morning rain we started out later the next morning, giving us time for a leisurely breakfast including our hostess Deborah’s homemade bread. We were bound for a line of windmills where we would meet Nidia to lead us down to the beach and her family’s restaurant in Castelejo. When we got to the beach, we realized we had left too late. The tide had come in and we were forced to lead our mounts across slippery rocks between the cliffs and the waves. Chuva and I reached new levels of trust as I grasped her reins in one hand, leaned on the saddle with the other and we scrambled along the cliffside. Once we landed on the sand, my legs were shaking. Alex described the frightening experience as, “Like missing my flight home fear. No, worse. Like imminent death fear.”
After we crossed the rocks. (All remaining pics are courtesy of David, who got shots in some amazing spots.)
We obviously couldn’t continue along the shoreline to reach the restaurant, so we made for paths that would take us around. A bit farther on, at the base of two hills, the path had washed out, and the horses had to leap it. One of the horses refused, so Nidia dismounted from hers and went over to lead the other across the ditch. Nidia’s horse suddenly realized she was free and took off up the hill to the left, Nidia making impressive time up the slope on foot. Unfortunately, we had to climb the hill to the right. Nat and her trusty pony Henri went in search of Nidia but couldn’t see her anywhere. (It turns out the horse made it all the way home.) Nat rejoined us to make the climb towards the restaurant. As Chuva strained her way up the hill, the cheap fannypack I’d picked up to carry my camera in while riding came unclasped and my camera fell out. Once we’d all made it to the top, I scooched my way back down the hill to retrieve it, but it had broken (which is not the end of the world as it was five years old and had been repaired before). At least I was able to get my memory card back with the pictures from the first few days of our journey.
Up the hill. Doesn't look too bad? It's just the last third.
We tied the horses out front of the restaurant, untacked, gave them water and then enjoyed a comforting meal: ham and clams and beer. When the non-ham eater, non-beer drinker turns to those options, you can tell that she’s had a stressful day and has also been living in Spain for too long. We enjoyed an uneventful ride back to the ranch where Deborah’s husband, Henrique had prepared an excellent paella for the group and shared his homemade madronho with us. After such an intense day, we couldn’t turn it down.
Nat didn’t ride out with us the next day; instead, Joel guided us down to the beach that we’d seen from the cliff tops two days before. It was the first time Chuva had seen actual open beach, and as we came upon it, she became more animated, snorting at the waves. All of us enjoyed a nice “canter” (though Alex and I agree that it was at least a hand-gallop if not full out gallop) along the shore before winding our way up through sand dunes and hills to a picnic in the woods. After lunch, we rode to a small stable where we left the horses for the night. We stayed in a hostel in Aljezur beneath the remains of a tenth century Moorish castle. All of us ate dinner across the street; I enjoyed ham and mushrooms (Two things that Spain has taught me I actually like. Olives are a third.)
Beach riding.
After a rather sleepless night and breakfast of coffee and pastries in a cafe, we went back up the the stables to tack up for the last day. The sun shone warmly, so I decided to leave the rain jacket I’d carried tied about my waist for the entire trip. (At worst we’d been caught in sprinkles while out riding.) Of course as the morning stretched on it began to look more like rain or rather a storm, so instead of stopping for lunch before returning the horses to the ranch, we headed them straight for home. We galloped up a windmill topped hill just before the rain began, and when we reached the summit, I understood how people in the fifteenth century could have thought that Europe’s western coast was the end of the world. Right there, we were on top of the world. Our horses turned their rumps to the driving rain as they picked their way across the ridge. All of the greenery below us moved in the increasing wind and the wind turbines above us whirred while picking up speed. I imagined the waves kicking up on the Atlantic, which was just out of our vision.
You can't quite tell how high up we are in this picture.
Then the romanticism was gone, and the rain was just cold, and my wet breeches were rubbing against the skin on my legs (though my muscles were finally not the least bit sore), I needed a bathroom, and all I wanted was a warm shower and something to eat before I had to leave Alex and continue on my way to Boston.
And so it happened. We got back to Quinta Paraiso Alto, took care of the horses and went out for a celebratory lunch of cod and wild boar, more vinho verde and madronho. I packed my stinky wet clothes, got my shower, and had to leave Alex to go to the airport.
The best part of the whole trip? The mere fact that Alex and I got to travel together after a year of living in different states/countries. There are few people I’d rather find myself in the company of after a ferry boat ride to nowhere or a wet day on horseback. Or better yet, after a magical picnic in view of a castle or a gallop across a sunny beach.
