fect ride. It started sunny and warm
but not hot, in a landscape of sweep-
ing vistas of fertile fields rimmed
by distant mountains that could
have been Colorado or Wyoming,
then Brian turned us on to a seldom
used track of moderate but contin-
uous twisties through the hills. We
stopped for a coffee in the tiny village
of Alaraz, where locals who spoke
little English directed us to an open
café. We stopped for a light lunch of
pizza in UNESCO World Heritage Site
#3, Salamanca, a city where every
building on every street seemed to
have balconies on every floor.
After Salamanca, we passed by the
gorgeous old Roman bridges at the
village of LeDesMa. All around the
fragrance of honeysuckle filled the
air for miles, reminding us of one of
the many reasons why we travel by
moto instead of auto.
Just before the border at Bempos-
ta, we detoured through a rugged
volcanic landscape to visit Almendra
Dam across the River Tormes, one of
Spain’s highest structures, forming
the Embalse de Almendra.
As I gazed down from the top of
the dam at large schools of big fish
suspended just under the surface of
the water hundreds of feet below us.
I remembered the first time I was in
Spain, with my father in 1968 when
he was supervising the construction
of a large hydroelectric project. It is
a fair bet that I was now walking on
what he had helped build. I was also
struck by the contrast of how easily it
was to visit this dam, and how diffi-
cult it has now become to visit Hoo-
ver Dam in the US, where you have to
park at a remote location and walk a
long distance or even take a shuttle
bus to then enter through a fenced
enclosure because of concerns over
terrorist threats. Not so many years
ago, you could drive right across it,
just like Almendra. The world chang-
es, not always for the better.
From the dam, it was just a short
ride to the Portuguese border. Brian
led us through the Parque Natural do
Douro Internacional, winding down
(and up) the walls of the steep River
Douro canyon. We stopped at the
bottom to take photos and admire
the scenery. From this perspective, it
was very easy to see how this became
the border between Spain and Portu-
gal, so perfect for defense against an
invader in the days before cannons or
aircraft.
We stopped for the night at the
small town of Miranda do Douro, at
the Parador Santa Catarina perched
on a bluff overlooking the Douro.
This Portuguese parador was not as
fancy as the Spanish equivalent in
Avila, but the views were spectacular,
and here Brain proclaimed the lamb
as succulent and excellent.
The balcony of my room opened
over the river where wildflowers
bloomed all the way down to the
water, across from near-vertical cliffs
that looked as though some giant had
spilled buckets of yellow paint down
the rock face.
The close of day celebration fin-
ished the Johnnie Black, so we moved
on to beer and wine, and much
laughter.
Early next morning, it was a short
walk for two of us to find fresh coffee
and then to the old town at the top
of the hill. They were still setting
up the travelling market in the town
square for the day. We both bought
socks from the happy vendors. After
breakfast, the entire crew also rode
through the old town. Miranda do
Douro resplendent with the colours
and aromas of iris, azalea, scarlet
roses, and purple lavender, in sharp
contrast to the bleak lands surround-
ing the town called Tras-os-Montes
that we headed through on our way to
the ancient citadel city of Braganca.
This region of Portugal is much
poorer than what we had ridden
through in Spain, and more crop
than livestock focused. Everything
seemed older and in rougher condi-
tion. Herds of cattle and the smell of
TRAVERSE 79
manure were replaced with smaller
plowed fields. We passed old wom-
en completely covered in heavy
black dresses with long gray stock-
ings, their men all with slouch caps,
hoeing small plots by hand. There
were no brick houses this side of the
border, it was all stucco or cut stone,
the wealthier houses more and more
decorated with colorful tile walls. In
the villages, abundant dogs frolicked
in the streets, chased our bikes and
engaged in x-rated behavior.
We stopped for our break in Bra-
ganca at a small coffeeshop near the
railway station overlooking a boule-
vard that featured a middle strip of
fountains and statues surrounded
by trimmed hedges and bright flow-
ers, and the uniquely Portuguese
sidewalks of sweeping stone mosaic
designs - exactly like what you will
see in city centers in Brazil, which
makes perfect sense as Brazil was a
Portuguese colony and even the seat
of the Portuguese government during
the Napoleonic Peninsular War.
After Braganca, we skirted one
of the wildest regions of Europe,
the Parque Natural de Montesinho,
following twisty roads up and down
arroyos all the way across northern
Portugal, through Chavez, along and
across the Rabazal and Tamega Rivers
and the hills of Vinhas.
The further west we rode, the more
fertile the land became. We rode the
ridges, with views of yellow rape,
freshly ploughed fields, vineyards,
fruit orchards, olive trees and the
rivers.
At one roundabout, the Guardia
National was stopping traffic and
searching cars, but they waved us
through with smiles. At the end of
the day we arrived in Braga, one of
the largest cities in Portugal, right at
rush hour. The streets were clogged.
It was slow, stop and go in the heat,
challenging cars for right of way. Our
road rules are that you are responsi-
ble to keep track of the rider behind
you, and to pull over if you cannot