This was a day of slowly riding towards the sea. Fátima still sat bright and quiet on its plateau when I rolled out, but the landscape soon turned drier and rougher: limestone, olive trees, stone walls and small white villages. The first climb came almost unnoticed – a long, shallow pull over several kilometres, more warm-up than battle. After that, the route gradually gave away height. Just before Nazaré, the road kicked once more, a final hill with salt already in the air. Then the Atlantic appeared: cliffs, light, arrival.
