A rebel without a clue.

A battled against the sinking mud, But I didn't fight. Slowing to a gentle, yet ploughing/sucking, pace as I reached the (disused) railway lines. Skirting Beja to the east and carrying the mud of (olive) war everywhere. Beja vu... Déjà vu. Don't I know this bar from before? I tried to stop, but I was called. A shower and a Saturday. A Prancinho and a Super Bock Preta. No, I've never been here before. But similar (somewhere) - I stumbled into - on another Way in another Time. A bit middle class hipster-ish, but it's not Portuguese? It's alright as I am being torn apart by New Wave and a lady in butterfly wings. Her son a stoned wizard, but not a True star. Polkadot stepple- hat: Reprehensible! 1979 is a broken glass Heart, which is still amongst them? *** Gosh I am tired as a man converts himself. A man becomes a sheikh. Another time was in Palma Mallorca. But I was only there for a coffee and cake as it closed. Middle class and simply out of ...

Slept until the dawn was crawling upon my eyelids. The first. So quiet up here, but cold. Blue skies, mainly. It was blowing a gale as I fell away from puddles, voices and fears. Then I grabbed the additional blanket in a half waking moment. Things are still damp which I washed last night so I wear them to use body heat to dry. I've four layers on: we're not in The Algarve now, for sure? But these layers won't last once António deposits me the other side of the river/stream/brook. The roads come up here, but they don't go on. A dead end, cul-de-sac, rural idyll: Amendoeira da Serra - off-roading. Home baked bread in the taverna de Maria overlooking the hamlet, without igreja. António bought his Citroen from a padre, as he departed these lands on the edge of Portugal... This was the end of getting into the feeling of being el Camino. From Castro Marim the feeling of being with spirit has grown as the number of cars, traffic, people has faded into a trickle. This toast is...