I leave São João da Madeira into a morning that smells of work, coffee and damp tarmac. The first kilometres refuse to settle: two long waves over Oliveira de Azeméis, first about 4 km gentle, then nearly 3 km with a little more bite. After that, Portugal opens up and quietens down. Around Águeda, colourful streets and river air flash past; later it is Bairrada vines, pines and small towns. The long, shallow drag towards Mealhada is never steep, just stubborn. Coimbra arrives low by the Mondego, with properly used legs.
