Highway to the European sun

BARB ROGERS takes the scenic route from Portugal to Spain.

The first drive in a foreign country is a hard memory to shake, fixed as it is with the glue of anxiety. Collecting our car is simple. Ricardo from Renault Eurodrive meets us at Lisbon Airport and, in embarrassingly good English compared to our Portuguese, gives us the low-down. Turn the key just so and wait for the light, then start up (after four weeks' driving covering 3200km we were still fumbling that one.) The speed limit in Portugal? Er ... Seat belts? A good idea.

We sign the contract which states we now own a new Renault Scenic 1.9 litre turbo. It also states we relinquish ownership when we return the greenmobile to Ricardo's Barcelona colleague at the end of our Iberian holiday.

Perhaps we look shellshocked after 34 hours getting there from Auckland. Or maybe it's all part of the service, but when we find the BP Express just outside the airport, there's Ricardo hovering like a guardian angel.

"Need any help?" Resisting the urge to invite him to join us, we thank him and head off.

Airports and service stations are prosaically familiar the world over but once on the road we know we're somewhere different and unfamiliar.

Portuguese drivers either go fast or not at all - our route is littered with dead cars and the road surface is pockmarked with craters. Massive apartment blocks line both sides of the road, many already showing signs of premature ageing.

The median strip is a gully overgrown with weeds. We thread our way through 6 pm traffic, with avoidance uppermost in our minds. Nodding with exhaustion is not the ideal state for tackling these conditions.

Luckily, the IC19, our road to Sintra, is a divided highway so we don't have to deal with "wrong-way" traffic decisions. But the car is up for it. Perched up high we have a wide field of vision (scenic, you see) and it is fashionably slim enough to squeeze past most obstacles.

In medieval towns with horse and cart lanes we learn to pin back its ears - the side-vision mirrors - to prevent passing damage. Between us there is a fridge for bottles of water and such, in the back there are tray tables similar to a plane and fiddling with the radio gives us our first taste of "personalising" the vehicle. From now on this is our home base.

Dusk is falling by the time we turn off to find our destination of Sao Pedro. We take a couple of runs at the roundabout then nose gingerly through the quiet village to find the high metal gates of our mansion for the night.

Almost speechless with exhaustion we fall into the room and count ourselves lucky. We made it. The previous night we were in Auckland.

Exploring by car in this part of Portugal we learn to toot as we approach hairpin bends. No one else seems bothered by such minor difficulties as poor vision, unfriendly camber or competition from juggernaut tourist coaches.

We are heading for the Atlantic and the apparently western-most part of Europe at Cabo da Roca. Torres Vedras to the north beckons for its rich history. This is the spot where the Duke of Wellington successfully repelled Napoleon's invading army in 1810 and walking around the well-preserved fortification is splendidly eerie.

Stories about the lack of parking and theft deter us from driving into Lisbon so we take the train and in half an hour we're in that colourful, fabulous old city, exploring by metro, train and on foot. Lisbon yields quiet treasures, it's not a big-noting town.

The Praco de Comercia, the city's riverside entrance, is a beautiful, wide square surrounded by baroque, ochre-yellow buildings. The most colourful buildings are old warehouses by the river which are now used by the university.

At the top of town you get the best view from the Castelho de Sao Jorge. The Design Museum by the river is strangely modern in a city of grand old buildings.

The Mini Rough Guide to Lisbon is indispensable for walking tours, cheap and cheerful eateries and hidden gardens.

Our base of Sintra is a bit like Titirangi, except it has a palace on every second hilltop. It's been the stamping ground of holidaying royalty, from the Moors to their Christian successors, and that prince of poetry, Byron.

Instead of three days we stay a week, taking in the stunning architecture and drop-dead-gorgeous blue and white tiles which seem to be everywhere.

Suddenly we realise we have to boot it if we want to make Barcelona in a fortnight, plus see a bit of Andalusia on the way. Heading south-east we discover Evora, a walled medieval town now come back to life with a university.

To enter by the wrong gate is to get lost in a maze of narrow alleys and one-way streets. But it's worth it for the G&Ts, at the very least (see story).

Portugal is a duchess fallen on hard times but signs of "refreshing" are everywhere. The scale of rebuilding, renovating and public works is so enormous one could be forgiven for thinking they're doing up the place for a big party some day soon.

Some roads peter out, others are mere promises unfulfilled. Parks and gardens verge on the dull and municipal. But the people are so nice and they like English visitors, thanks to the port trade and the Duke of Wellington.

Roads change immediately past the border. Spanish roads are in better nick so naturally the pace is even faster. Those enormous swaying lorries need to be treated with respect: their drivers get bored after the first few thousand kilometres and like to change lanes suddenly just to keep everyone honest.

In Cordoba these car-owners soon learn that even when you score a cheap room rate in a ritzy hotel (after 3 pm, try it if you don't mind the uncertainty) right next to the famous mosque, the Mezquita, it's only an apparent bargain. The hotel has no car park so factor in another $30 to $40 for overnight security.

In Andalusia we drive across vast beautiful plains painted in spring colours - the yellow of roadside broom, the hot red of field poppies - and the scent of broom wafts through the air conditioning.

So many roads to choose from, so many tolls, keep your change handy. And the roadside service centres are a trip: some have a cafe and a restaurant and a bar, there are shower facilities, general stores, phones, petrol and diesel pumps - even repair garages.

We stay in a white hilltop village called Zuheros, which is so pretty it resembles a film set, with vast views across this enormous olive-growing part of the world.

We make a late dash to Granada one morning hoping for tickets to the Alhambra - who knew to book this early in the season? All that Moorish fabulousness in one spot is almost too much to take in in one day, especially with temperatures in the high-30s.

Then we spend hours trying to find an overnight park, then hours trying to get out of town. Concentration is required to decipher this sophisticated motorway network.

We have two days to get to Barcelona and it's a long way. But no one could be bored: we head north towards Madrid then hook a right. All along art keeps us alert. Instead of advertising hoardings we spot sculpture: black bulls, flamenco dancers, goats, Don Quixote (we're in the middle of la Mancha).

Along the coast we drive through Valencia, orange country. Then the seaside resorts get closer together and soon you realise you have to make a choice: which motorway of the many to choose from into Barcelona?

Panic not. This is the easy part.

* Barb Rogers drove courtesy of Renault Eurodrive. For information on how to buy yours, contact your nearest travel agent. Touring this way is cheaper than using a rental if you plan to stay in Europe or Britain longer than 17 days. While you buy a brand new car, you pay only a fraction of the total cost, and in New Zealand money.

When driving . . .

* Never leave maps, cameras or other tourist paraphernalia in the car.

* Don't wash it; a dusty car might just blend in.

* Pay for secure parking.

* Toot a lot.

* Study your maps the night before to avoid dangerous dithering.

* Always have picnic stuff in the car, just in case.