On this side of the Tagus the landscape changes almost at once. The hills and vines of the peninsula give way to a flat, sandy country of pine, scrub and, above all, cork oak, planted in wide, open woodlands that Portuguese farmers call montado. It is the beginning of the Alentejo, a region of space and silence, and the first sign is the trees themselves, their trunks stripped to a raw, orange-red where the bark has been cut. Poceirão and Vendas Novas are the nearest places of any size, with farms and warehouses scattered between.
Cork is serious business here. Portugal produces about half of the world's cork, and the harvest follows a rhythm that has hardly changed for centuries. A tree must be about twenty-five years old before it is stripped for the first time, and after that, the bark is taken every nine years or so, by hand, with a special axe. The year of the harvest is painted on the trunk in white, so that nobody cuts too soon. The trees live for more than a century, and the woodlands shelter birds, wild boar and, if you are lucky, the rare Iberian imperial eagle.
The roads cross this open land in long straights and gentle bends, with few buildings and little traffic. It is easy riding, and the temptation is to speed up, but the scenery rewards a slower pace. In summer the heat can be intense, with temperatures above forty degrees, and shade is scarce, so carry plenty of water and start early. Storks nest on every pylon and chimney, adding their untidy stacks of twigs to the skyline, and on some stretches you may see a dozen in a field.
There are plenty of shady places by streams or under the trees, and in spring the ground is bright with wildflowers. Fuel is available in Vendas Novas, nineteen kilometres away, or in Pinhal Novo. Do not assume that small villages have a station, and fill the tank before you go. Back toward Lisbon, the sunset over the plain is long and red, and the sky is wide and open.