The town itself surrounds a cobbled historic kernel complete with castle, cathedral and steep-sided streets much too narrow for our lumbering work van. A university adds vibrancy to the township, although our clumsy pursuits of companionship among the locals have, as a rule, been received coldly. Confounded by their lack of admiration for how much alcohol we can consume, or their refusal to join the mirth when one of our friends slaps another in the balls, we stubbornly continue to do both.
After peeling myself off the bed, I throw on a fresh t-shirt and my dusty work shorts and follow the smell of coffee to the kitchen. Sam is there already, eyeing his espresso can spluttering on the stove. Jeff slouches at the table robotically shoveling milked cereal into his mouth. "Morning." I yawn, they grunt their replies. I move to the bench and start assembling some sandwiches - strategically placing the tomato between the ham and lettuce so as to avoid soggy bread. Just then the door swings open and Andrew enters the kitchen with a cheerful "Good morning!" Andrew's a morning person. He swings open the fridge door and takes out a bottle of water, then winking happily at me bends down to lift another from the freezer. I curse silently. Again I have forgotten to freeze a water bottle, denying myself the sweet relief of a cold drink later in the day.
Once we have our things together we go down stairs to see if the other half of our crew is ready. As usual, they are not but we don't complain. It just means more time to sit around and check Facebook, my main link to loved ones back home. The messages, updates and images offer a welcome sense of familiarity. Although not as remote as the other sites I have worked, in many ways rural Portugal is more alien, or more accurately, I feel more alien here. Whether in the mountains or the desert, the rules of nature are universal. Coping with the unpredictability of weather and wildlife is to be expected when employed as a trail builder. But here, even during Portugal's hottest summer in 80 years, it's the social aspect of our situation which has been brought to the fore. Put simply, we stand out like eight grubby sore thumbs.
Maybe it would be different if we were chess players or something. You see, mountain bikers are not exactly wall flowers. These are the kinds of people who look at a hillside in sheer drops covered and precarious boulders and think: "I'm going to ride my bike down that. As fast as I can." I'm not sure if this indicates the presence or lack of a particular part of the brain, but imagine taking eight of these guys, flying them to literally the other side of the planet, giving them a van, two apartments and a food allowance and saying "see you in three months". It's like some kind of low budget Hunger Games. In Chile and Mexico, our isolation sheltered most of our depravity from the locals. Here, our antics (which regularly include public nudity, the odd fist-fight and a touch of light-hearted vandalism) is on full display. And there's no retreating to the wilderness the morning after.
After packing gear and bikes in our filthy white van we clamber in ourselves. Not having to drive today, I fold myself into one of the back corner seats, plug in my head phones and attempt to doze off for the 45 min drive to our work site. Outside of the numerous ancient villages and towns the country side is dominated by stony fields sporting olive trees and cork oaks. Here, donkeys still count as a form of transport and sheep are tethered front to back foot so as not to escape. The locals are a weathered, brooding folk who, on encountering a van load of scruffy foreigners, tend towards suspicion. The largest hilltop in the area is dominated by the intimidating Marvão Castle which has existed in one form or another for over a millennia. A glowering reminder of the blood shed by Romans, Visigoths, Muslims and of course the Spanish, all of whom have at some stage invaded this land. It seems we're just the latest in a long line of unwanted visitors.
As we arrive, the wide open sky begins to smolder blue in the east. Our current worksite, a plot of land we call Charcoal One, consists of rolling terrain covered with a bedraggled assortment of lichen covered boulders, gnarled shrubs and cork trees protruding where they can. It's our task to manipulate this coarse landscape into a ride-able surface, all the while avoiding incensed scorpions, maniacal ants and that heartless sun as much as possible. While the rest of the crew unload their bikes from the back of the van, I grab a couple of tools and head off on foot. Thanks to the technicalities of Portuguese import tax, my near new mountain bike is gathering dust in a warehouse in Lisbon. With the bill to release it more than I can afford, I have chalked it up as a loss. I guess some customs officer's kid is going to have a good Christmas this year.
As I walk, the sky slowly flushes towards daylight. The pick axe and rake slung over my shoulder bump softly together with each step. The rhythmic clang is answered by the melodic chime of cow-bells as animals, unseen behind dry-stone walls, awake from their slumber. All around me the world awakes as our planet turns once more towards that incessant fount of light and heat. I'm in no hurry to reach our work site, especially as I know what lays in store: a day of manouvering piano sized boulders together, filling the gaps with smaller rocks. Already I feel my t-shirt clinging to my back from the sweat.
Suddenly the leathery face of a farmer appears over the dry stone wall. "Bom dia!" he booms, his eyes under the traditional beret sparkling. He is sitting side saddle on a donkey, which he whips lazily with a knotted rope. Recovering from my surprise, I reply, "Bom dia," but the rider and steed are already ambling off.
Later, on the ride home, we stop at a lake for a swim. Piling out of the van, the crew are at their playful, silly best after an arduous day slinging rocks. The moment we have awaited all day has arrived: the chance to plunge head first into cool bliss and jettison the layer of grime which cakes our skin and hair.
After our dip, with the doors of the van cast open and music blaring, we laze on the grass, conversation coming easily. Three of the hottest months any of us have ever experienced have proved tiresome at times, but ultimately the experience has brought us together. With the end of our contract in sight, we talk of our plans. As usual most are heading back to New Zealand, returning to the comfort of friends and family. My desire for the familiarity of home, although strong, is outweighed by the anticipation of upcoming adventures. I have made plans with Sam and a friend of his Lenny to travel south to Morocco. Afterwards I'm boarding a flight to Iceland to circumnavigate the island with another workmate Will. Then it's on to Norway where I have some wwoofing lined up, skipping over to Scotland and Ireland before continuing to my fourth and final trail building contract in Jamaica. Well, at least that's the plan. Here on the side of a lake in Portugal it all seems a little surreal.
As I move on, I look back at an unforgettable three months exploring brilliant beaches, stunning castles, and towns drenched in history. I have enjoyed great food, one euro espressos and far too much wine. But most importantly I have discovered a proud culture, reserved yet respectful; a people who enjoy the simple things in life and who understand the value of restraint. Rural Portugal is a place where the pendulum swings a little slower than usual, and the resulting pace of life is refreshing. As always I will try to accommodate some of these values into my own life. Which makes me wonder, would I have to pay customs tax on a donkey...?
