The scent of the sea air hit me as soon as I stepped off the plane, an immediate reminder that beyond here is the Atlantic Ocean. I went through all the boring airport stuff, hopped in a taxi to the centre of Faro and found an open space near the marina where I set about rebuilding my bike. I then dropped my bike box off at a luggage storage facility, grabbed some lunch and headed to the train station.

My first thought upon seeing the train was that of concern - the train had only two carriages - would there be space for my bike? I needn't have worried, there was a dedicated bike storage area with hooks for four and the compartment could have even fit eight at a push. At almost every stop, other people with bicycles were getting on and off. The space provided was clearly appreciated.

I spent much of the train journey staring out the window at the changing scenery, the bustling coastal towns of the Algarve, vast swathes of farmland, prickly pears growing voraciously along the railway line and the lush green landscape ripe with citrus, olive and acacia trees. For a while, in the distance, I could see two peaks rising above the surrounding landscape - the only two significant mountains in this region, Picota and Fóia. I would find myself pedalling up these mountains in the coming days, but not before tackling the many gravel trails in the rolling hills that precede them.

Eventually, I arrived in Vila Real de Santo António, where I cycled over to my hotel, checked in and popped my bike in their bike storage shed, which proudly displays a weather-worn sign reading “bike friendly hotel”. I headed off in search of dinner, coming across a lovely little unglamorous fish place serving the day’s freshest catches.

The next day my alarm went off at 6.30 am. I got my things packed and headed downstairs for a continental breakfast. The kitchen staff weren't quite ready for me, but I made do with the dishes they'd already put out. By 8 am I was out the door, pockets stuffed with snacks and both bidons full of water. I should qualify this by saying that I wasn’t actually at the start of the official Via Algarviana route. A last-minute hotel cancellation, coupled with a general lack of availability over the holiday period meant that the nearest I could stay was 40 km from where I had wanted to. Well, that's not quite true, the next nearest hotel was just across the Guadiana river in Spain, but to cross the border would have required a detour of far more than 40 km.

The route out of Vila Real de Santo Antonio had perfect road-riding conditions, and the rolling hills coupled with the misty morning air made the kilometres tick by. By 10 am I was where I had originally planned to start, Alcoutim. Unfortunately, nothing in the town was open, no shops, no cafés, nothing. A shame, as I could have done with a second breakfast. I found myself cycling up a hill out of the town when suddenly the tarmac road ended and became a gravel track. This was the start of the Via Algarviana, primarily touted as a hiking route, occasionally suggested (with detours) as a mountain biking route, and I was about to attempt it on a gravel bike.

Let's talk about my kit. First, the bike - my trusty Canyon Griz CF SL is perfect for this kind of touring, with loads of luggage attachment options. The tyres were 45mm Schwalbe G-One Bite, rugged enough to handle the unknown surfaces I was about to put them through without being sluggish. The groupset fitted to my Grizl was Shimano 2x11 GRX Di2, this route features some fast flats and very sharp gradients so I was glad to have the full range of gears. My luggage was made up of an Apidura×Canyon top tube bag, a Rapha bar bag and a 9l Apidura Expedition Saddle Pack. 

What's in the bags? A well-stocked first aid kit, spare lights, spare brake pads, a multitool, a mini pump, a spare inner tube, GoPro stuff that I never use, a change of cycling kit, a dress and flip flops for off the bike, toiletries, a hairbrush, cables and adaptors for electronic devices, important documents, swimwear and my bike locks. In my pockets were my phone, wallet, sunscreen, hand sanitiser, lip balm and many snacks (but still never enough snacks). Other tools and bike bits are kept in my tool bottle which lives under my downtube.

Day 1 of the Via Algarviana was about acclimatisation, an opportunity to gauge how gnarly these trails were going to be and by how much I would be under-biked. Actually, it was all very doable on a gravel bike, I found myself comparing it to intermediate parts of the Pennine Bridleway in terms of difficulty.

Day 1 also gave me my first introduction to the wildlife of the region. I spotted one toad and two snakes on the trail - I didn't stop to investigate or get a photo of the snakes as the region does have a couple of venomous varieties and I don't trust my ability to correctly identify whether they were dangerous. At this point, I also have to mention the many, many dogs. I stopped counting how many dogs, domesticated or otherwise, chased me throughout this trip - let's just say that the only dog that didn’t chase me was asleep.

I often underestimate how much longer things can take when riding off-road. Everything took a lot longer than expected on this first day and my insistence on sticking as close as possible to the Via Algarviana route meant that I took it for granted that the little villages I would pass through would at least have a small shop or café open. Reader, they did not, or the ones that did were closed - my own fault for undertaking this trip in the run-up to Christmas.

The highlight of the day—or not, depending on how you feel about wading across a river—was the crossing of the Foupana river. The map had shown this as a thin line, which I expected to be no more than an ankle or even knee-deep stream. Not so, this came up to mid-thigh, and I'm quite a tall woman so that’s saying something. It wasn't vigorous or fast flowing and the water was very clear, though the thought did cross my mind whether Portugal might have crocodiles, as far as I could determine, they do not. I also spotted a small turtle in a later (and less deep) stream crossing, but it rushed to hide under a rock before I could snap a picture.

After taking far too long to ride the almost 100 km of gravel planned for this first day, I decided to insert some shortcuts and take to the roads to get to my hotel sooner. The staff were getting a bit pushy about my arrival time and I didn't want to find myself locked out by turning up too late (that's happened to me before).

I arrived at the hotel exactly when I said I would, but as it turned out my choice of hotel in Salir was far from ideal. The staff had already left, having sent me a video with instructions on how to access my room. Google informed me that only one restaurant was open in town but when I arrived there it was closed, everything was closed. An app on my phone informed me that I was also out of range for any sort of food delivery service. There would be no dinner that night. I messaged the hotel staff to enquire about breakfast the next morning and was informed that they would also not be providing breakfast!

I decided the best thing to do was to research the nearest minimart or supermarket that would be open first thing in the morning and aim to get a decent breakfast to make up for it. I returned to my room to get some sleep and discovered that there was no functioning heating, but I managed to locate some extra blankets, so it wasn't a complete nightmare. But let me tell you, I will most certainly not be returning to that hotel—they would need to pay me to stay there!

Day 2 started quite well, I found a local supermarket in the town to grab a pastry, a yoghurt drink and some more snacks to sustain me until the next major town, if not further if need be (it was Christmas Eve, after all). For lunch, I stopped at an Intermarché in São Bartolomeu de Messines for a tuna baguette and a caffeinated drink. I'm 70% sure that recognising them as a cycling sponsor fed into my choice to stop there. That, and the lack of alternative choices available.

Some hours later, things got very sketchy – my routing app said it was a trail, Google disagreed. In reality, it was a slow and precarious scramble down a rockslide into a valley and then a hike back out the other side. It took me half an hour to move 100m but considering the steep hill I had just climbed to get to that point I didn't have the energy or mental capacity to figure out how much of a detour it would be to take a different path. This was the first time on this trip where I genuinely thought I could end up in the hospital. Fortunately, I do a bit of hiking now and then in rocky terrain, so this wasn't completely out of my depth, but it would have been nice not to have the additional weight of my partially laden bike pulling me downwards.

My next stop was at a Lidl in Silves to refill my bidons with a combination of water and carbonated energy drink, I then commenced the 11 km ascent of Picota, ending in Monchique where I would be finishing the day. Given the dodgy descent I had navigated earlier I didn't fancy dealing with anything like that in the quickly fading light, so I stuck to a mixture of tarmac and unmaintained roads to get me to my hotel. 

The owner greeted me wearing a Santa hat and with a warm welcome of 'Feliz Natal!' He let me store my bicycle in the breakfast room, where he assured me it would be safe and showed me to my room. He explained that the pool was closed in the winter season, asked whether I'd be heading into town for dinner (It was past 8 pm, I was knackered and needed to shower and prep for the next day, so I resigned myself to eating my leftover snacks for dinner) and informed me that breakfast would be from 8-ish. The next day was my last day of this journey and was forecast to be substantially shorter in duration than the previous two, so I didn't bother to trouble him for anything earlier. This rustic hotel was a delight, my room was huge, the shower powerful and they had even provided an extra radiator in my room, just in case.

At breakfast the next morning, I was convinced that I might be the only person staying at the hotel at this time of year. Contrary to the vast quantities of food set out, it was just me and the owner in the breakfast room. Eventually, at about 10 am, I set off for what would be the last ride of this trip.

The third day started brilliantly, I completed the 6 km ascent from Monchique to Fóia on an unmaintained road that alternated between gravel and tarmac. The low-lying cloud gave everything an eerie but peaceful element. Not expecting to find anyone else at the summit, I came across a couple of Brazilian motorcyclists who were just as surprised to see me. It was cold, windy and misty, so I can't treat you to photos of the view from Fóia because there wasn't one. On went the jacket and so commenced the descent to the coast.

Well, you know how it is when someone says ‘it's all downhill from here’… It's never quite like that in reality, some more small hills were thrown in for good measure. Then the weather turned, and it started raining hard. All my things were splattered with an orange-red gravel and mud mixture (I strongly recommend waterproof bikepacking bags, it was reassuring knowing that I’d have dry clothes to change into later). So, in consideration of the onset of a loss of feeling in four of my fingers and a lack of interest in being chased by yet more dogs, I made some tweaks to the route to skip some of the small villages and rural trails, though I still managed to keep a good proportion of off-road in there.

Before I knew it, I was on the gravel track that would lead to the road that goes all the way to the southwestern tip of Portugal. It started raining again and it was very windy. You would think I'd have learned over the years that it's always windy by the coast, but no, it catches me off-guard every time.

After a quick stop by the lighthouse at Cabo de São Vicente I headed back to that last gravel track I had been on before I would commit to the N-road back to Lagos. The N-road was a fast road—at times it felt like a motorway—and signposts informed me that the speed limit was 90 kph in places.

Unfortunately, it was that last gravel track that had cemented my decision to take the N-road. Three burly livestock guardian dogs spotted me approaching in the distance, and much like every other dog I had encountered on this journey, they had no intention of being friendly. They proceeded to chase and bark at me as I made my way along the rural track. They even moved tactically to get ahead of me on the path to try and challenge me head-on. But, as with every other dog that had chased me on this trip, I remained calm, showed no fear, didn't change my speed or cadence and pretended not to even acknowledge their presence. They eventually decided either that I wasn’t a threat or that I had left their territory and went on about their day, leaving me to the rest of mine. I did ask myself afterwards what I would have done if they had decided to go in for a full attack and honestly, I didn’t have a plan - the plan was just to not do anything that would trigger an attack and it ended at that.

The number of aggressive dogs encountered on this trip? Uncountable. The percentage who chased and barked? More than 95%. The number of times bitten? Zero. The dog owners in these parts seem to have no concerns about letting their dogs roam free—and maybe that's because they're all bark and no bite. Don't quote me on that though: If you venture out in these parts, you are responsible for your own safety.

I left the rural tracks behind and rode a good 20 km on what felt like the hard shoulder of this N-road, though the regularly occurring bus stops gave me the impression that this might actually be a footway, although you'd probably have to be desperate to use it. But by this point, I was desperate. My last hotel was waiting for me. I was soaked from the rain that had pummelled me since the lighthouse, and I just wanted to shower and sleep, even if it meant another night without dinner (not what you'd normally hope for on Christmas Day, but I tend to set my expectations low to then be pleasantly surprised when they're exceeded). I must say that the driving standards throughout this journey have been fantastic, not a single close pass, or impatient or aggressive driver, even when I was on very narrow lanes.

I was in shock when I reached my hotel, it was a 4-star establishment! I had picked this hotel purely for cost, availability and proximity to the train station the following day. But maybe I'd lucked out with off-season pricing. The staff let me store my absolutely filthy bike in a storeroom, which was populated with several golf sets and a couple of e-bikes. I made my way to my room, had the longest shower to warm up and feel human again, then called down to reception to find out whether it might be possible to get a meal in the hotel restaurant (it was almost 9 pm, and the restaurant normally closed at 9:30 pm but this was also Christmas Day so my hopes remained low).

I was told that it wouldn't be possible to eat in the restaurant without a prior reservation, but they would bring me room service. Eaten alone in my room, my Christmas dinner of soup, swordfish saltimbocca, and a dessert of panna cotta with red berries was the tastiest meal I'd had in days, and I even forced myself to eat all of the cured meat as my body was probably low on salts.

The next morning, still exhausted, I decided not to get the 06:10 train but to hang about for breakfast and get the 13:23 train back to Faro instead. Rail strikes meant that the 11:10 train I had originally intended to take just wasn't going to run. I'd have to hope that the shop where I was storing my bike box would be forgiving of me arriving an hour later than planned.

I arrived in Faro at about 3 pm, picked up my bike box without much bother from the shopkeeper and wheeled it over to the open space by the marina to get my bike packed away again. The funny thing about building or dismantling a bike in public is that people who are also into bikes will come over and start asking you questions about your bike or your travels or both, we're clearly a very sociable bunch. With my bike packed away, I ordered a taxi which came within minutes, got my bike box in the back and we headed off to the airport.

I checked in at the airport, went through security and upon arriving in the departures area, sought out my first and last opportunity to have a pastel de nata, it was delicious!

I arrived back in London to the typically chill December weather and yet more train strikes. I hopped into a taxi home with nothing on my mind but my own warm bed. Unpacking and cleaning the bike could wait another day.

If you're interested in following in Dalila's tyre tracks, you can find out more about the Via Algarviana route here