I almost had company on the road out of Porto. Her name was Kim and she was from Belgium. I’d wondered whose bicycle it was I’d seen locked under the stairs when checking-in to the Youth Hostel. It was obvious who its owner was when I later saw a young woman holding a drinking bottle and some maps. She was also clutching two bottles of beer and looking for a drinking partner. I was easily persuaded.We got talking, or rather I took the opportunity to recount tales of cycling through Asia and the Middle East. I explained my plans to cycle up the Douro River valley from Porto rather than head south along what I guessed would be busy coastal roads. I asked her how long she was on holiday for. “I have no time plan”. I explained that was usually my response. Yet whereas I have no specific time plan, Kim neither had a plan of where she wanted to cycle to. There was no destination. “I’m trying to find a new direction.” She’d quit her 'desk job”'and seemed clueless as to where she actually wanted to go. I suggested she join me on the road. She seemed keen, or at least I thought so.It was partly the city’s fault. If Porto hadn’t been quite so enjoyable to explore and I hadn’t chosen to update the website we might have shared some miles together on the road. I decided to stay an extra day. At first Kim said she would too, but several hours later she was wheeling her bike out of the reception and waving me off before I had the chance to get her e-mail. Perhaps it was for the best. I’m not sure someone trying to ‘find a direction’ in their life is going to find one cycling with me, unless they want to cycle through Africa.I avoided the steep cobblestone climbs when I eventually pedalled out of the city the next day, although Friday afternoon traffic seemed to be following me on the northern bank of the river. A house or villa with a view of the Douro wouldn’t be a bad place to return to after a day of work, although my impressions of a green rural landscape with terraced vineyards were somewhat jaded by the sight of modern concrete blocks that seem to dominate what would once have been picturesque small villages. I suppose the modern face of development in Portugal is like that in much of the World – poorly planned, done quickly and generally ugly.The political billboards don’t help. There are local elections approaching in Portugal, which means every town or village is currently dominated by the faces of smug and occasionally solemn-looking local candidates. There are clearly far too many parties in this country and I’m not sure rural management, from an aesthetic perspective, is that high on the current political agenda.The views improved as I continued east, although it was my olfactory senses that were causing more of a distraction than the sights. Back in the depths of winter when I decided that late summer and early autumn would be an ideal time to cycle through southern Europe, it was done mostly with the weather in mind. I never knew just what heady punch of a smell that ripe grapes and figs can carry through the air at this time of year. It’s a dangerous combination, and one which is seriously liable to cause a potential accident for a cyclist who begins to weave his way across the road as his head follows his nose. If a single fig represents one of the daily five fruit or vegetables we are all meant to consume, I’ve taken a few weeks supply in the past several days. The Portuguese obviously have more important things to do (although I can’t think what) than bother with picking all the wonderful figs that grow in their backyard.Now that I’ve veered away from the Camino de Portugues, which doesn’t appear to have an official route south from Porto anyhow, there are no longer cheap and conveniently spaced pilgrimage hostels along my route. It seemed only fitting on my first night out of Porto to pitch the tent on a terrace of vines in the Douro valley. I awoke the next morning to find that the owner had chosen this particular day to come and pick his grapes. “Que Pasa”? (what's happening?) came a shout from the road above, followed by some more Portuguese I couldn’t understand. I replied with a “Bom dia” (good morning) and would have complimented him on his fine grapes that I’d been devouring for breakfast, but was unable to locate the sentence in my phrasebook.I climbed up and out of the river valley several hours later towards the town of Lamego, which like many Portuguese towns is dominated by a castle. I pushed the bike up the narrow cobblestone alleyways hoping for a view out over the town, but was informed by a young man in scout’s uniform that it was closed.Continuing south the roads began to quieten as I entered the province of Beira Alta. Pines trees now dominated a comparatively desolate landscape, interspersed by enormous prehistoric boulders – quite a contrast from all that block cement.My guidebook recommended that I “wander between the fascinating facades of ancient Jewish houses” in the village of Trancoso. This is what several coach-loads of elderly Portuguese were doing as I weaved between the medieval walls in search of the castle I’d seen approaching the place. It too was closed, as was the church. I concluded many of these structures are probably more impressive from the outside than they are in, unless one has a particular interest in Moorish architecture and Saracen domination of the town in the tenth century, so pedalled on towards the mountain range I could see approaching ahead. This was the Serra da Estrella, Portugal’s highest range, and one which like the mountain masochist I am I decided to head straight towards. It was a sure enough way to guarantee the quietest roads I’m likely to find in Portugal, although modern concrete has still found its way into the outskirts of the small villages that lie quite isolated within this National park.Quiet roads and climbs through pine-wooded slopes continued as I followed another major, but far less famous river (Rio Zezere) towards the town of Tomar. I arrived here completely sodden, having cycled all morning in rain that was heavy enough to have stripped and had a proper shower under. The thought occurred to me, having not washed properly for the last four days. Tomar fortunately has a very pleasant, and cheap, municipal campsite. Even more pleasant, or rather spectacular, is the large walled structure that dominates the town here. This is not a castle, but the Convento de Cristo – once headquarters of the Order of the Knights Templar and a place from where Christianity defended itself against invading Moors. I happily got lost, serendipitously exploring one of the most architecturally impressive buildings I’m likely to see on this trip. When I emerged several hours later it was mid-afternoon, quickly deciding with a look at the ominously grey sky that I would stay another night.