After yesterday’s used legs, this morning feels almost like a gift. Coimbra drops away beside the Mondego, and soon the ride turns wide, flat and quiet. I roll through fields, small villages and the open rice country of the Baixo Mondego, with ditches, reeds and more salt in the air with every kilometre. The only real climbing is more a memory of hills: a few short ramps out of Coimbra, then just gentle waves. Near Montemor-o-Velho, the castle rises above the plain before Figueira da Foz arrives in Atlantic light.
