Gregor Hilbrand

The Costa de Prata isn't a route, it's a test of endurance. The wind always blows hard, no matter which direction you're going. The sea roars to the right, the sun blazes to the left, and somewhere in between, you're pedaling your heart out. From the quiet coves near São Pedro to the cliffs of Nazaré, the route follows the old fishing trails – salt, dust, the scent of eucalyptus. Around every bend, a new battle: against inclines, sand, and one's own idea that this is relaxation. But then: the...

Today it's quite tame – the sea shimmers, small waves roll onto the beach, and you wonder why anyone here is even talking about "big waves." Today it is harmless: glittering sun, seagulls, tourists – all peaceful. And then, by comparison, the other side: When the North Canyon opens up the water and all the sea gods battle for supremacy. Poseidon, Triton, Neptune—everyone wants to show who can throw the biggest tsunami. In between, tiny people on boards look as if they've accidentally wandered...

A narrow side valley of the Douro, somewhere between rocks, sun, and oblivion. The river itself—lazy, golden, thick as aged honey—has flowed for millennia through this land that has never been in a hurry. Vines cling to its edges like scales on an ancient animal. Here, people have learned to turn drought into wine—and toil into pride. The slopes are so steep that one thinks more of madness than agriculture. Yet generations have carved the terraces into the stone, vine by vine, wall by wall....