From Portugal to Japan on Wheels: A Vagabond's Travelogue

June 15-June 21, 2025—Spain

Cruising along beach walks, the salty ocean air and endless views of sand and blue slowed our rhythm down and encouraged us to pause often. We bathed at a beach of stones and bare bodies, the sea wrapping us up as part of its holdings, water crystal clear. I swam far out, almost hypnotized by the freedom of the calm waters, when I spotted a jellyfish floating elegantly by. Both dazzled and horrified, I lunged back toward the shoreline, the ethereal creature drifting behind me, then back out into the vastness. We lay among the tumbled stones, sun-kissed.

We pedaled all the merry way to Castelló, where a broken and abandoned beach chair slumped by the trash bins, ready to be forgotten. Santi adopted it, sewed it up, good as new. The night fell, windy and fresh.

The next morning, we pedaled to the beach, swam, showered, and passed beautiful coastal towns. At some point, we got onto the Eurovelo8 trail and it took us through a peaceful via verde carved into the cliffs, then, more beaches. As night was nearing, we started setting up camp in a natural reserve. Feeling shaky, I sat on our new-old beach chair, among the trees and bushes in the depths of the forest. I can't see but I can hear the breathing of an animal near me. Santi was setting up our bed in the tent and I whispered to him that there is something here, and then, a deep grunt. He unzipped the tent and flashed the flashlight to scare the boar away. Another grunt. I was already thinking of which tree to climb if things got crazy. Eventually, we heard it get further away. High on primal adrenaline, Santi packed up faster than ever and we zoomed to the nearest campsite and slept it off.

We couldn't evade sleep in the morning and finally left around 2 pm, pedaled in scorching heat through rocky paths, then paved, then sandy, then paved. From far across the immense bay, we spotted a small cluster of buildings crammed on what seemed like a small island, with a castle atop. We finally reached the town and thought, some things are nicer from afar. We set up camp in the next town in a nice patch of bushes and trees littered here and there with some broken glass bottles. Santi tossed through the night, the crackling of branches and glittering glass shards painting uneasy pictures in his mind.

Morning eventually came, and we dipped our bodies in the familiar cold of the sea. Once replenished, we searched for a campsite to work and rest for the next days. We grabbed a bocadillo de tortilla, pedaled fifty-five kilometers to L'Ampolla at camping Finca Ermita, a 10-hectare piece of land owned by a French guy passionate about olive oil. We arrived in the late afternoon after riding through kilometers of peace and quiet, the occasional car rolling by. The land was vast and there were only a handful of caravans scattered spaciously between rows of aged olive trees. We settled in and relaxed, the only animal we had to beware of was the playful cat who lingered around our tent, bringing us gifts of dead mice and birds.

The next three days were a pattern of work, rest, and unrelenting sun.

June 8-June 14, 2025—Spain

By Sunday morning, we finally peeled ourselves out of the tapestry of these untamed grounds and back onto our antsy bikes covered in the dust of four days. The heat had already engulfed any sign of freshness and we pushed against a hot wind, insisting we stay put another day. Some pedal strokes later and already out of breath from the climb, shirts clinging to our bodies, drenched. We pedaled like this for the next fifty-something kilometers. 

Along the edge of a fast road where trash and lost things blend with the patchy grasses, I caught the blinding reflection of the sun on metal. Cars zooming by, I stopped to pick it up, a fully intact clown horn! Just what was missing on my setup. Santi was far ahead, stopped below a small sliver of shade, waiting for me. I honked and he looked confused, then enthused, "No way!"

We pulled up at a restaurant and ate like kings in our sweat-ridden threads. A few heavy kilometers more and we pulled in to land, set up camp near a roofless ruin reclaimed by Mama nature.

After a sleepless night, we packed and pedaled through more rising roads of gravel and beaten tarmac under a smoky sky. One of the bikes gave up twice already, defeated and wheels depleted like our moods. We finally arrived at a smooth road, where a man in a fluorescent vest stopped us, sending us back with no way around. We forged a path through bushes and brook, lifted bicycles over a guardrail to land back on fresh pavement. Some detours and dirt later, the inner tube goes flat again. Water supply low and sun high. Bike flipped, tools and tires scattered among the fallen pine needles and busy insects, bodies melting like ice cream off the cone, we dreamt of fresh juicy fruit. 

The universe obliged, in the form of a sweet old lady. She asked if we needed anything, offered cold water and a table multicolored with chilled cherries, grapes, loquat, and bananas at her place, conversation as smooth as with an old friend. Energy replenished and bike seemingly fixed, we pedaled eighty kilometers to our friend's place in Valencia, the ocean line sharpening on the horizon.

The light of day peeked through the curtains, gently nudging me awake, eyelids sticky with sleep, consciousness just remembering where I am, the sound of a baby cooing in the other room. 

We had breakfast with Ari and little Elba—yogurt and muesli, easy chatter of old friends reminiscing over fleeted moments—and headed out to the iconic city center. Lively and vibrant. Old bones humming with a modern beat. Brimming with flavors and sand colored monuments. We strolled the streets and stretched out in the park's green calm until daylight's edge softened and faded quietly.

The next day, the beach was calling. Golden sand, soft waves, salty ocean breeze, and there, sitting as if part of the surroundings, was Naufra G. I squinted, "That looks like..." He squinted back. "How the hell!?" Crazy coincidence. Spent the day with him, still baffled by the odds, picnicked in a park, and spent the night under Ari and Naxo's roof, all bundled in together, a family of old and new friends, delighted.

The next day, it was time to move on, but first, a massive traditional bocadillo, beer, and coffee to see us off. We parted with gentle words, the bittersweet kind you share with old friends when you don't know the next time you'll meet. Naufra G. pedaled a few kilometers with us, then left. "See you soon!" I smirked, strangely convinced the universe would throw us together again. We pedaled twenty more kilometers to a camping site to work quietly for the next two days.

By Saturday morning, we were on the move again. Our coastal journey begins.

May 31-June 7, 2025—Spain

In the late morning we checked out of our tacky pharaonic temple—complete with a gold painted sarcophagus and framed hieroglyphics on papyrus—and into the blazing streets of the city. Santi's tire had gone flat from the last two days spent indoors so we patched it up and had a bite to eat. At 4:00 p.m., we took off. Rested and rolling easy for kilometers, the sky suddenly had a change of heart and poured itself out onto us. Our tires swam through freezing, heavy raindrops until we dove under a large tree and held our tarp over us and the bikes, repeating again and again how this cheap, simple piece of plastic was undoubtedly the best item in our entire kit! When the sun came back out, we glided further on to our camp spot for the night, filled our bellies and sipped some wine among the resinous scent of wild rosemary and thyme all around us. Sleep came soft and sweet that night.

It was 10 a.m. when we started moving the next morning after picking handfuls of fresh herbs to go. We glided smoothly through golden countryside landscapes speckled with old stone farmhouses and the occasional sleepy town, fifty-four kilometers until Barrax. We found camp as the evening was settling in. Boiled some noodles with the last of our DIY bouillon powder and a couple of spoonfuls of peanut butter under the pine trees. We fell asleep to the cinema of lightning bolts painting the sky in the far distance.

By the time the sunlight filtered through the open canopy the next morning, we were packed and on our way to the nearest cafe. Two cafes con leche and some brainstorming later, we decided we would start doing short interviews to the people we met along the way. 

Cafeinated and inspired, we pedaled to Albacete where we met our host, Gonzalo, with his disheveled hair, scraggly beard, and empathic demeanor. His 1920's apartment was a beautiful mess: unkempt, piles of books and potted plants in every room, lived in. We took a shower and had a siesta. When the midday Castilian heat started to die down, we all headed out to visit the city. Gonzalo guided us through its streets, speaking of its shortcomings, the politics and culture of Albacete, and the slow decline of a place he felt was losing its soul. We grabbed a beer at a cheap spot he liked and interviewed our new friend, the self-proclaimed "naufrago," ("castaway"). We baptized him Naufra G. that night and it stuck.

The next day we said our goodbyes, grabbed a tortilla and salad at a shop and ate it in a park. We left around 3 p.m., following the path Naufra G. suggested to us. The road curled along the river, steep rock faces rising over us, caves carved into the cliffs, some still dusted in the memories of their old inhabitants. We picked sun-warmed nísperos off the trees, amazed and thankful to our friend for sending us here. About sixty slow kilometers later, we pulled into a charming little town lost among the cliffs with panoramic views that stopped our pedals, La Recueja. We set up camp facing a towering off-white monolith, the pink and gold sunset projected on its blank canvas. I fell asleep that night, wondering if the people who lived there were aware of how lucky they are.

In the morning, we put our things away, excited to continue this stretch of jaw-dropping landscape.

We made our way back toward the main road and arrived at a wine bottling factory on wheels, in front of Maria's shop. As we watched the semi-mechanical production line in a truck, clinking bottles and the hum of a small motor in this quiet, picturesque town from a painting, we were amused at how our time here just kept getting better and better. We bought a bottle of red straight from Maria herself. 

Some breakfast and handfuls of sweet, sticky mulberries later, we pedaled to Alcalá del Júcar, an ancient town perched dramatically on a cliff of white limestone. With bicycles resting in a shaded spot, we entered the maze, paths curling and doubling back like they'd been dreamed up by a drunk poet, all leading up to the castle.

When we'd seen it all, we pedaled up and out of the scenic valley and toward Casas de Vez at a campsite we found online. The town was sleepy and the camping grounds deserted except for a lonely housekeeper and his two scruffy companions. We asked him about a place to stake our tent and he said the land wasn't ready to receive campers but that we could stay in a studio. We booked one for the next three nights. Santi edited videos while I wrote, both drinking Maria's wine into the morning hours to keep the creative juices flowing.

By day three, we were lazy and spent, still editing videos and words. Left the apartment but stayed at the restaurant downstairs. The overly accommodating housekeeper brought cold beer and tapas, adjusted lighting, and shooed mosquitos away. He didn't say much, he hovered silently, attentively, ready to oblige. By the time darkness crept in, we gave up on leaving, hauled our bags back into the rental studio, still as we'd left it. Tomorrow we would be ready to carry on.

May 24-May 30, 2025—Spain

Our morning started late. With the now ceremonial "dos cafés con leche" and some bread and smoked fish from the grocery shop, we were fueled up and ready to go. The GPS guided us to an off-road path away from cars and into long stretches of fields and forests. Some kilometers in and I was cursing my way through an unpaved path with loose cobbled stones rolling around under my wobbly tires with every pedal stroke, the road rising high and falling low for kilometers on end. My bike, panniers, and body all covered and dusted in the terra cotta-colored ground. We eventually made it to a brand new, shiny and smooth road and glided through to Saceruela, recharged batteries and bodies in a local cerveceria and camped.

We started pedaling at around 1 p.m. the next day. Thirty-two kilometers later, the heat of the blistering sun got to Santi, hitting him like a wall of fire. We had to find somewhere cool and shady to rest. After a few pedal strokes, we veered through a small opening in the bushes on the side of the national road into an open field dotted with white chamomile flowers and one towering oak, its branches draping over to the ground. We stepped inside, taking shelter in its leafy cave, and had a siesta under the canopy. I awoke to some ants and other small insects exploring my skin, wandering around like visitors on a new island, while Santi rested deeply beside me. 

In the evening, after setting up our tent, we were startled by the guttural call of an animal we had never heard before. Looking around, we eventually spotted it: a graceful deer curiously hopping nearby. We watched in disbelief as a raw, coarse sound came from such an elegant creature. Night came and we dozed off with a dreamy view of leaves and stars.

The morning light was just reaching our tent as we packed our last things away and pedaled cheerfully to Poblete. Our skin sticky from sweat and suncream, and covered in layers of the past two days' dirt roads. We needed a shower. With the sun at its highest point in the sky, we took refuge in the local library and Santi asked the bubbly librarian, Raquel, about where we could possibly clean ourselves and she made phone calls and sent messages determined to help. She came back to us with a place to shower and tips on where to set up for the night. We chatted a while, met a few more people in that library, and headed to the sports center for a shower. The cool soapy water ran off my body, bubbly and brown, down into the drain. My pores could breathe again.

After a quick stop for some bread and beer, we pushed ourselves up toward the Ermita where our new friends suggested we pitch our tent. One blissful swig of beer later, Raquel and her husband, Moi, appeared, offering us to spend the night in their home instead.

We drank, ate, and spoke into the early morning. That night we slept in their little backyard studio, faith in humanity restored.

The next day, after saying our goodbyes, we pedaled to the vía verde leading to Ciudad Real. We rolled through the city, uninspired by the fast-paced and insipid vibe, sat on a bench for a quick bite and a tired argument, then carried on passed Manzanares, late and spent. Sixty tired and hungry kilometers later, still searching for a place to rest in the dark, we finally gave in and pitched the tent in a lousy spot. It was midnight. We didn't bother opening the mattress knowing we would have to leave at the break of dawn.

Woke up before the sun, grumpy and silent. Packed, and dragged ourselves back to Manzanares. Stopped in one of the few cafés open at that time and had some churros and hot chocolate, listening to the chatter of the old patrons sitting at the bar in what seemed to be their familiar morning ritual. After a quick visit of the city and some fresh threads from the second-hand shop, we pedaled thirty-something kilometers and stopped early for the night. The place looked picture-perfect: trees and silence, seclusion and peace, until ticks started crawling up our legs, too many of them. We didn't leave the tent, not even to pee.

The next morning, we pedaled to Tomelloso in record time, checked into a kitsch Egyptian-themed rental apartment with three bedrooms, worked, visited, slept, repeated.

May 17-May 23, 2025—Spain

We left the ruin-studded city behind and pedaled and pushed kilometers under the blazing sun. Legs burning, breath shallow, road steady and long until we could see Medellín in the distance. We'd noticed it on Lola's map of Spain when she pointed out where we could go next and Santi being from Medellín, Colombia, felt drawn to its Spanish namesake. We entered through a long solemn bridge, each weathered stone brushing stories of centuries past against our wheels, and spotted an open field next to the river with a few caravans parked comfortably for the night. We had a quick stroll through town, then, set up our little tent among them. Exhausted.

Morning came around soft and smooth and at some point, we peeled ourselves out of bed. We left everything as it was: tent out, sleeping bags freshly creased with sleep, bikes resting under a tree, and roamed freely through crumbled ruins and coffee shops, picked mulberries with stained fingers and burnt faces. The air here was kind, nurturing, like a gentle reminder that we were exactly where we needed to be. Our camp spot, out in plain sight, tucked between the bridge and river among the weekend dwellers and retired nomads felt easy, homely, like it wanted us there. So we stayed another night.

We packed slow the next morning, our things scattered around like they were part of the lawn and fallen leaves, the tent sun-warmed and rooted into the ground, two days deep. Picked more sweet berries for the road, and cycled some fifty-something kilometers to another river town, the last stretch a never-ending, soul-wrenching upward feat. When my feet finally touched land, my legs melted and resigned. We sat a while at the river's edge before searching for a spot to settle. There weren't any flat places on the riverbank so we staked the tent onto a slope, laughing at the angle. A defeated, it-is-what-it-is kind of laugh. The fiery sunset spilled into the still river to the soundtrack of frantic birdsong and buzzing insects. We sat quietly enjoying the spectacle, already knowing sleep would be restless and sore.

Woke up after barely sleeping. Bought some breakfast and ate it in a bar with a café con leche. Late 90's American hits playing on the radio creating a welcomed symphonic clash in this sleepy Spanish tavern. Heads full of sleep and nostalgia, we rode until Puebla de Alcocer. 

Our bikes didn't stand a chance in this steep old town so we retired them somewhere along the way and wandered uphill to the local library and cultural center for some information. We asked about somewhere to lay our heads for the night and the kind librarian, amused by the idea of two strangers pitching a tent in her quiet corner of the world, made some calls to the town hall. They sent us to a park downhill, beside a small chapel, said the night would be gentle there, and there’d be water too. We fell asleep to the croaking of frogs and the next morning, a noisy flock of brown sheep saw us off. 

We journeyed on to a small pueblo cradled by mountains. The views were soft and wispy, the people a little drier. Maybe we were tired or maybe some places just carry a quiet hostility, but though we were there some days, we never really got in. The locals’ stern demeanor never quite melted, even in the face of Santi’s open smile and persistent kindness, his every gesture gently reassuring them that we came in peace. We asked the young Colombian waitress at a local bar how she liked it here. She hesitated, searching for the right words:
"Agudo es... pues... es Agudo."
As if the name alone explained everything.

We left town eager to see what would come next, the road pulling us toward the unknown.

May 10-May 16, 2025—Spain

We had already been pedaling for a few kilometers before realizing that we entered Spain. No border control, no welcome signs, just a subtle change in style and eventually a panel with Spanish words on it.

"We are in Badajoz! We crossed an entire country on our bikes!"

Somehow, it felt like a new chapter. 

The next day, after visiting Badajoz, we pedaled happily for a while and eventually settled at a plum grove bordering a busy road, plums still young and green. We heard voices far off and Santi went to have a look. Turned out to be a bunch of prepubescent teens in a long-abandoned farmhouse, shouting and smashing fallen chunks of masonry, wild and free like the Lost Boys of Neverland. This abandoned ruin: their kingdom. Curious about why we were going to spend the night on the land, they insisted we stay in their crumbling playground, eager to arrange a cozy spot for us at the further end. We declined, preferring to sleep in the open air. We cooked up some hot food and let the night fall around us, the boys' youth echoing beyond the trees.

At dawn, we got woken up by the low, chugging growl of a tractor a little too near to us, packed in record time, and set off unseen. We stopped in a few forgotten towns along the way until our final stop of the day in Garrovilla. After climbing to the highest point of this little pueblo, we met Lola, a retired rancher, and her dogs up there among the olive trees and wild asparagus. She seemed happy to see us, happy to spend some time with two strangers, talking politics, plants, and better days. Smoking rolled cigarettes, right there in her happy place. She left us along with the sun, and we were greeted by the bright full moon. This spot was perfect, everything leading to this moment was perfect.

The next morning, I went off to forage some wild asparagus and left a "Gracias Lola" engraved in a stone and two freshly plucked, atomic red poppies at her spot. We pedaled into town and met Juan and his hand-painted neon-green, undersized and under-construction bicycle at a café. He asked about every detail of our trip and gear, daydreaming of hitting the road himself one day, begrudgingly wanting to get away from this small town, it seemed.

We said our goodbyes and at around 5 p.m., pedaled toward Mérida. It was late and dark and we didn't know where to go. We pedaled at night, the city passing us like a slow blur, and managed to find some farmland on the other end. With just one headlamp and the moon guiding us, we pushed up a dirt path until we could see an overview of the city lights in the distance. Satisfied to the core of our being, we watched the moon in all its glory before nodding off.

For the next two days, we rented a small studio fully equipped with a kitchen, washing machine, leopard wallpaper, a rotating disco ball, and optional red and blue lighting. We scrubbed the wild off our skin, explored the historic streets, caught up on work, and got ready to get back on the road again.

May 3-May 10, 2025—Portugal

Departure day, and the temperamental sky above Setúbal shed heavy showers on and off, erratically, as if to test us, as if to check if we were really sure about the adventure that lay ahead. But it didn't dampen our moods. All packed up to the brim with the things we thought we'd need, and the things we weren't sure we did but brought anyway because who knows, we got ready to set off, say our goodbyes, give our hugs and promises to keep in touch, not convinced whether the latter were sincere. We pedaled wholeheartedly towards the unknown.

Fifty wet and dry, up, down, and winding kilometers later, we decided it was about time to settle for the night. We ended up near a forgettable town called Vendas Novas. Unsure how this wild camping thing goes, we pitched our tent in a dubious spot littered with broken liquor bottles and a lonely worn-out shoe, among some bushes near the train tracks. Hesitant but happy, alert but content. Me reassuring him, offering comfort born only from the quiet conviction that “it has to be fine." Not the most picturesque place but it served its purpose for the night.

The next day, in the overcrowded haphazard interior of the tent wet and cold from condensation, we woke groggily and packed our things clumsily, still getting used to cramming all our belongings into four panniers, in some sort of order, so that we could easily access the things we might need during the day, without a clue yet of what those things might be. We got on the saddles of our bargained bicycles and pushed on for some thirty kilometers or so.

Tired legs, merciless weather, wet everything: it all prompted us to search for an Alojamento Local. Checked in, we laid our weary bodies and reveled in the luxury of a shabby guest room. Tomorrow, we'd certainly be replenished and ready to head to Évora.

By morning, after about three hours of pedaling, we stopped at a shop for some bits and bobs to improve our less-than-prepared, deal-with-it-as-it-comes setup. Later, we made ourselves at home in a large field with oak trees and high grasses galore and cooked our first hot meal under the open sky: noodles and chickpeas in a peanut butter sauce, with a bottle of red, courtesy of Jacinto and Margareta in Setúbal. We swigged generously, satisfied in all the senses. This spot was good to us. The night was fresh, open, starry, and calm. My mind silent.

We rolled through the city center with its cobbled streets, Roman remains, and tourist tours by day and returned to rest in that same sleepy secluded oak-filled stretch by nightfall.

Lazy and slow morning, packing and wandering around the field as if half wanting to leave, we started cycling at around 2 p.m. and journeyed about forty kilometers on an undulating road to the quaint town of Redondo. That night, we wild camped in a ubiquitous roadside field, filled our bellies, dozed off until daybreak.

About two dozen slow-going kilometers down the road, tired and worn, we once again opted for civilized sleeping quarters so we could rest our bodies and hand-wash our trail-dusted clothes. We fell asleep in a comfy and surprisingly plush bed, the TV watching us.

The next day, our freshly cleaned clothes still damp, we checked out and rode to the nearest park to lay them in the sun and sew some makeshift straps to the four corners of our sleeping bag to secure it to the mattress, preventing the whole thing from slipping and sliding and bundling up around our bodies during the night. In the late afternoon, we pedaled twenty-eight kilometers, set up camp in an odd and narrow location, and drifted off, far too pleased with our scrappy engineering.

In the dead of night, 1:30 a.m., we were woken by the unmistakable rumble of a stampede of wild boar. We heard them once, half asleep and dazed, running toward the tent, probably curious about this blue and orange shape on their path, then I shifted and turned and heard them, this time fully aware, running away, probably startled by the movement from inside. We whispered confirmations to each other of the spectacle we'd just witnessed and somewhat uneasy, went back to sleep. Later we would make it to our last Portuguese town before crossing over to Spain.