From Portugal to Japan on Wheels: A Vagabond's Travelogue
"For some of us, the road less traveled is the only road, the journey is the only purpose, and the freedom of owning nothing is the only way to live a rich life."
Hey! I'm Sylvia, the "vagabond" behind this online travel magazine. This section is about my own adventures on the road. With over a decade of vagabonding across four continents, I thought it was about time to have a log of my adventures.
I have backpacked, settled for short periods in various countries, traveled in a custom-built van, and now, I am currently biketouring from Portugal to Japan with Santi.
Check out the Instagram page he created for visuals of this journey and his perspective about it @wetravelonbikes
Here is how that adventure goes.
Week One: Pedals and New Horizons
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. Tomorrow we would make it to our last Portuguese town before crossing over to Spain.