Over the yellow mountains

I've got quite a good sense of direction and rarely need the help of GPS, the exceptions being busy urban centres I am unfamiliar with, or the occasional wild and woolly rural location.

Braga falls into the former category for, even though I think I know the city, unless I follow the exact same route each time then I end up hot, sweaty and perplexed – yet not be where I want to be.

Into the latter category falls the Serra Amarela in the Peneda-Gerês National Park, for although there are only a few roads to even contemplate driving on, there are numerous little dead-end diversions that are heavily disguised as the road you want. These little dead ends are so cunningly camouflaged that even the satnav in the car gets in a muddle and it, too, gets quite hot, sweaty and perplexed.

You get to recognise the scenario when the only other car you have seen in an hour passes in the opposite direction with a hot, sweaty and perplexed driver at the wheel. You soon find out why. The road you were driving on – as, presumably the other driver was some ten minutes earlier – a road which you were certain was heading to Entre-Ambos-Os-Rios, leads in fact to a muddy track outside a tumbledown byre.

You execute a flawless twenty-four-point turn on the narrow track - a feat which is technically impossible because the width of the road is less than the wheelbase of the car - but somehow you do it without 1) scraping against the stone walls or 2) plunging over the cliff. The two farmers working near the road in their field don't even bother to look up.

Maps

Professor Google obviously sends drivers along this way many times in one day. The missus is busy in the passenger seat, brushing up her map reading skills with the help of a ten year old map book, but the road we are on – ancient as it is – does not seem to be marked.

A group of motorcyclists clatter out of a hidden lane in front of us, causing our brakes to be tested somewhat brusquely. Instead of cussing the motards, we thank them, for having come to a halt at that precise location we now see that the hidden lane they emerged from also has a hidden sign. It points to where we want to go. Presumably the road we were on, which looked passably main-roadish (for these parts) led to another muddy track, abandoned byre and disinterested workers.

Traffic jam

We soon came to a traffic jam, though we were the only traffic in it. The rest consisted of a dozen long-horned Cachena cattle and they were undecided about where to go, though they did at least seem to be in agreement that they didn't want to be on the road. They hummed and they hawed and looked to the rocky fields on each side of the road but wouldn't go there for reasons we mere humans were unable to comprehend, even though access looked to be simple for sure footed bovines like these fine beasts. No, the point of access they wanted was, naturally, behind us.

One of them looked straight in through the windscreen and gave a mighty bellow. Clearly, it was asking us to back up. I shook my head. I was not going to reverse on this road. Going forward had been hard enough. There was a battle of wills. Have you ever tried to outstare a cow? A huge Cachena beast with gigantic horns at that? I don't recommend it. In the end, I was saved from an ignominious defeat by the sudden decision of a less confrontational ox to squeeze past the car, its huge horns barely clearing the roof. Eventually, the one with which I was engaged in a staring match slipped away to follow the rest of the herd, though I am convinced that was the one which nudged the car sharply as it went past.

All this had taken far longer than we had anticipated and we were now feeling rather peckish, having missed lunch in all the excitement, so when we finally got to a cafe on the edge of Ambos-os-Rios, we stopped to see if they had any snacks. The only person in the place was an elderly woman occupying one of the tables – and I mean occupying it: she seemed to flow all over it. She bellowed a name through an open door. Perhaps she had learned this voice skill from the herd up the road. An echoing voice answered from some distant realm and some time later a rather hot and bothered looking woman arrived. We had obviously interrupted whatever mysterious task she had been doing lower down the hill. She shook her head sadly. All they had to offer were some rather forlorn looking cakes. We shook our heads sadly in turn, more in sorrow at having disturbed her than at the sorry state of the confectionery. There's a restaurant just down the road and my brother will be glad to feed you, she told us. She flashed a bright sudden smile, the kind of smile that brings sunshine into a dark room.

Fitch is a retired teacher trainer and academic writer who has lived in northern Portugal for over 30 years. Author of 'Rice & Chips', irreverent glimpses into Portugal, and other books.

Fitch O'Connell