The RS badge has always carried a dual meaning. In its earliest form, it stood for Rennsport, rooted firmly in competition. That changed in 1976 with the arrival of the BMW R 100 RS, when BMW reframed the abbreviation as Reise und Sport—travel and performance combined into a single purpose. What might sound like a simple redefinition was, in reality, a shift in how motorcycles could be used. The RS was no longer about chasing lap times. It was about covering serious distance at speed, without exhausting the rider in the process.

The R 100 RS made that philosophy tangible. It introduced a frame-mounted full fairing developed in the wind tunnel, something no large-scale production motorcycle had offered before. The result was not just visual identity, but function. Wind protection improved stability and reduced fatigue, allowing riders to maintain higher average speeds over long distances with far less effort. In practical terms, it changed what a day in the saddle could look like. The RS did not simply move faster; it made sustained speed usable.

That distinction became clearer a year later at Nardò. BMW took a modified RS onto the high-speed test track in southern Italy and pursued endurance records rather than outright velocity. The machine exceeded 220 km/h and set multiple records across distance and time categories, including 10 kilometres, 100 kilometres, and extended runs over six, twelve, and twenty-four hours. The exercise was not about spectacle. It demonstrated that the RS concept could hold together under pressure, maintaining pace over time rather than peaking briefly before fading.

Through the decades that followed, BMW refined the RS without losing sight of its purpose. The core remained the boxer twin, a configuration that delivered usable torque and a mechanical simplicity that suited long-distance travel. When demand grew for its return in the mid-1980s, the reintroduced BMW R 100 RS Monolever confirmed that riders were not interested in novelty for its own sake. They wanted continuity, provided it continued to work.

The 1990s brought more substantial technical change. With the BMW R 1100 RS, BMW moved to four-valve technology, air/oil cooling, and modern fuel injection. Power increased significantly, but the more important development lay in control. The introduction of the Telelever front suspension reduced dive under braking and improved stability, particularly in real-world riding conditions where surfaces and speeds varied. The RS became more precise without becoming demanding.

Subsequent generations followed the same pattern of measured evolution. The BMW R 1200 RS introduced a liquid-cooled boxer engine and semi-active suspension, allowing the motorcycle to adapt dynamically to changing conditions. This was not technology for its own sake, but an extension of the original idea: maintaining performance across distance, regardless of terrain or load. The BMW R 1250 RS built on this with ShiftCam variable valve timing, improving torque delivery across the rev range and reducing the compromises typically associated with engine tuning.

Alongside the boxer lineage, BMW explored the RS concept with four-cylinder K-series models. Machines such as the BMW K 100 RS approached the same problem from a different angle, offering smoothness, stability, and high-speed capability with a distinct engine layout. Despite their differences, these motorcycles adhered to the same principle: combining sustained performance with the ability to travel comfortably over long distances. The RS identity proved flexible enough to accommodate both approaches without losing coherence.

The current expression of this philosophy is the BMW R 1300 RS. On paper, it represents a significant step forward, with a 1300 cc boxer engine producing 145 horsepower, making it the most powerful production boxer BMW has built to date. However, the figures alone do not define the motorcycle. The more telling changes lie in the integration of systems that refine how that performance is delivered. A new chassis and updated aerodynamics improve precision at speed, while electronic systems such as riding modes, engine drag torque control, and optional automated shifting enhance usability rather than overshadow it.

What emerges from this progression is a clear pattern. The RS series has never pursued extremes for their own sake. It has avoided becoming either a pure sport machine or a dedicated tourer, instead occupying the space between. This is a more difficult position to maintain because it requires balance rather than specialisation. The challenge lies not in achieving peak performance in a single area, but in ensuring that no aspect undermines another.

Fifty years on, that balance remains the defining characteristic of the RS. The motorcycles carrying this badge continue to address the same fundamental requirement: enabling riders to travel long distances at meaningful speed, with a level of control and comfort that makes the journey sustainable. There are machines that are faster, and others that are more comfortable in isolation, but few manage to combine both qualities without compromise.

That is why the RS designation still matters. It has not been preserved as a historical reference, nor diluted into a marketing label. It continues to describe a practical solution to a real problem, one that has not changed significantly since 1976. The road is still long, the distances still demanding, and the desire to cover them efficiently remains. The RS endures because it was built around that reality from the beginning.

BMW MOTORRAD

The post Fifty Years of BMW RS Motorcycles: The Long Road Between Speed and Distance appeared first on overland-europe.

There is no polite way to soften this one. The Lidl Grill Meister Steck-Gasgrill doesn’t just fall short, it misses the point entirely. At €34.99, expectations are modest. Nobody is asking for precision engineering or restaurant-grade performance. But even at this level, a grill should do one thing properly: produce consistent, usable heat. This one doesn’t.

First Impressions: Packaging and Concept

The grill arrives in a black carry bag, a practical touch that suggests portability and simplicity. Everything is packed inside: 

• 1 x burner tube
• 1 x foot section
• 1 x head section
• 1 x base section
• 2 x side section
• 1 x heat distributor
• 1 x grill plate
• 1 x gas hose
• 1 x fireproof underlay
• 1 x instruction manual 

Everything you need except the gas bottle, which is not supplied. On paper, it’s the kind of compact solution that fits neatly into a boot or pannier, ready for spontaneous use.

There’s a certain appeal in that. Minimal, self-contained, no fuss. But first impressions don’t last long.

Assembly: Simple, but Not Refined

Putting it together is straightforward enough. One pair of hands is sufficient, and the modular “slot together” concept keeps things fairly quick. No tools, no instructions needed beyond common sense.

That said, the finish is reflected in the price. Some of the slots lack enough tolerance to let the components slide together without jiggling. Some punched edges are left with a noticeable lip and sharp enough to catch skin if you’re not paying attention. It’s not catastrophic, but it’s careless. The sort of detail that tells you someone in marketing was more interested in delivering an aggressive price than supplying quality.

In Use: Where It Falls Apart

This is where the grill stops being a product and becomes a liability.

The burner simply does not distribute heat evenly. In testing, one side of the 33 x 23 cm grill plate reached high temperature quickly while the other side remained effectively cold. Not warm. Not low heat. Cold. A simple toast test left one half charred, the other cold.

That’s not a minor imbalance. That’s a fundamental failure.

At that point, there’s no point loading it with meat. Cooking becomes guesswork at best, wasteful at worst. A grill that cannot deliver even heat across its surface isn’t a compromised tool, it’s a non-functional one.

A quick search for a solution on the internet and typical problems with gas grills can be put down to spiders have setting up home in the burner tube or gas outlet holes blocked by fat from an earlier cooking session. But we are talking about a brand new piece of kit straight out of the box. Interestingly, the search threw up other disgruntled users who had fallen into the same trap.

Verdict

The idea is sound: compact, affordable, portable. But execution matters, and here it simply isn’t there.

This is not a case of “good for the price”, it’s a case of not working as intended.

You would genuinely achieve more consistent heat distribution by setting fire to €35 in notes and trying to cook over the result.

Blunt, but accurate.

Conclusion: Not recommended.

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The German manufacturer has introduced a new generation of solar charge controllers designed specifically for motorhomes, expedition vehicles, and off-road builds. At the centre of the update is a dedicated charging programme for heated LiFePO₄ batteries, an increasingly common setup in modern overland vehicles, but one that has historically struggled in low temperatures.

Charging Lithium in the Cold—Without Workarounds

Lithium batteries are efficient, stable, and increasingly the default choice for serious travel setups. But they come with a known limitation: charging at low temperatures can damage the cells, forcing many systems to either reduce output or stop charging altogether.

Votronic’s approach sidesteps that compromise. The new controllers are designed to work directly with heated LiFePO₄ batteries, allowing them to charge safely even in cold conditions, without the need for an additional temperature sensor.

In real-world terms, it removes one more point of failure, one more component to install, and one more variable to manage in a system that should ideally look after itself. For vehicles used year-round—winter camping rigs, alpine travellers, or long-distance expedition builds—it translates into something simple: the system keeps working.

More Energy, Faster Recovery

The controllers continue to rely on MPPT (Maximum Power Point Tracking) technology, which is now standard at this level but still worth getting right. By constantly adjusting to the optimal operating point of the solar panels, the system extracts more usable energy compared to older PWM-based setups.

In practice, that means shorter charging times and better overall yield from the same solar array—useful on short winter days or when parked in less-than-ideal conditions. The system also automatically adapts to different battery types, including AGM, gel, and traditional lead-acid, making it flexible across mixed or legacy setups.

An additional detail that will appeal to those running dual-battery systems is the integrated maintenance charging for the starter battery. It’s a small thing, but one that avoids flat batteries after extended stays off-grid.

Built for Installers, Not Just End Users

Votronic has clearly aimed this generation at professional installers and vehicle builders as much as at end users. The focus is on straightforward integration into existing onboard electrical systems, with fully automatic charging processes and an emphasis on operational reliability.

That positioning makes sense. Modern overland electrical systems are no longer simple add-ons, they are integrated, often complex systems where compatibility and ease of installation matter as much as outright performance. A controller that drops cleanly into an existing setup without requiring workarounds or additional components earns its place quickly.

A Quiet but Relevant Update

There is nothing flashy about a solar charge controller. It sits out of sight, does its job, and is usually only noticed when it fails. But this update addresses a known limitation in a growing segment of the market, and does so in a way that reflects how people are actually using their vehicles.

For anyone running lithium systems in colder climates, or planning to, the ability to maintain charging without intervention is not a luxury. It is a baseline requirement that has, until now, often needed careful system design to achieve.

Votronic’s updated range is available immediately through specialist dealers and authorised installation partners.

VOTRONIC

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In 2026, the Colorado-based company marks 25 years in business. A quarter of a century is long enough to see trends come and go, materials rise and fall out of favour, and entire segments of the outdoor industry reinvent themselves more than once. Through that, Big Agnes has remained anchored to a relatively simple idea: sleep matters, and it can be improved.

The company was founded in 2001 in Steamboat Springs, a small mountain town that still shapes how the brand operates. What began as a rough concept for a sleeping system—reportedly sketched out long before it became a product—has grown into a broad catalogue covering tents, mats, camp furniture, packs and clothing. The common thread has been consistency rather than reinvention for its own sake.

Bill Gamber, co-founder and still closely associated with the direction of the company, has often framed it in practical terms. Listen to the people using the gear. Adjust. Refine. Repeat. It is not a particularly glamorous philosophy, but it is one that tends to survive contact with real-world use.

That approach is reflected in how Big Agnes has expanded. Products are not developed in isolation or in idealised conditions, but tested in the same mountains and trails that sit on the company’s doorstep. Over time, that has built a reputation not through marketing claims, but through familiarity. Gear that works, and continues to work.

Earlier this year, the company introduced its VST tent series, aimed at lightweight backpackers and long-distance hikers. The brief is straightforward: reduce weight, improve durability, and retain a level of comfort that makes extended time outdoors sustainable rather than punishing. It is not a radical departure from what has come before, but an iteration of it … something Big Agnes has become known for.

To mark the anniversary, the company is releasing a limited “EST. 2001” collection. It brings together a selection of existing products—sleeping mats, bags, camp furniture and accessories—finished with a design inspired by the alpenglow seen in the nearby Zirkel Wilderness. There is also a small range of apparel and everyday items carrying the same motif.

The collection itself is not the story. It is a marker.

What sits behind it is a company that has grown without losing sight of where its equipment is used. Big Agnes still operates from a small town, but its reach is now global. That brings a different set of responsibilities, particularly around materials, manufacturing and the environments its customers depend on. In recent years, the brand has put increasing weight behind more sustainable production methods and support for conservation and public land initiatives … again, not as a headline, but as a gradual shift in how things are done.

There is a useful moment in Episode 14 of the OverlandEurope podcast, where Bill Gamber talks about the early days of the company and the people behind it. What comes through is not a story of rapid growth or aggressive expansion, but of a team building something they believed in, and then staying close to it as it developed. It explains, perhaps better than any product release, why the brand still feels grounded despite its scale.

Twenty-five years is enough time to establish a reputation. It is also long enough to drift away from it. Big Agnes, for now, appears to have avoided that second part.

And if the past is any indication, the next phase will not be defined by sudden changes, but by the same steady process that got them here in the first place.

The post Big Agnes at 25 Years: Small-Town Roots, Sleeping Systems and Measured Progress appeared first on overland-europe.

In certain circles, he was best known as part of the team behind the 1955 London to Singapore journey—an expedition later documented in First Overland that would go on to define many generation’s understanding of long-distance travel by vehicle. At a time when much of the route remained uncertain or simply did not exist, Slessor and his companions drove two largely standard Land Rover Series I vehicles across continents, establishing what many considered impossible.

Following the expedition, he built a long career with the BBC, producing documentaries over five decades. During that time, his work earned both the support of David Attenborough and formal recognition through a Peabody Award for outstanding journalism.

Yet for all of this, he remained a notably modest man. Driven, certainly, and disciplined in the way he approached both work and life, but never in pursuit of recognition. What mattered to him was the act of doing, of seeing something through properly, regardless of whether anyone was watching.

When he spoke about the past, he did so with a clarity that was striking. Events that had taken place decades earlier were recalled in precise detail, without exaggeration or nostalgia, as if they had only just happened. There was no sense of performance in it, only memory and a quiet willingness to share it.

I met Tim at a point when I was unsure which direction to take professionally. Over a series of long conversations at his home in London and during stays at his house in France, he spoke about his own life, the decisions he had made, and the challenges he had worked through. What stood out was not just the experience, but the clarity with which he viewed it. He had an ability to cut through uncertainty without forcing an answer. Those conversations gave me direction and ultimately led me towards journalism. He was my friend and mentor, and together we worked on one of my first articles, revisiting the London to Singapore expedition that had defined the beginning of his own public life.

He also held a clear and, at times, critical view of how overland travel has evolved. In 1955, he and his companions set out in basic vehicles with limited equipment, relying on judgement, adaptability, and a willingness to proceed into the unknown. In later years, he observed, the emphasis had shifted towards increasingly complex vehicles and equipment, often beyond what is necessary. While modern technology makes certain challenges more manageable, it can also encourage people to push further into difficulty than they might otherwise choose, sometimes with less understanding of how to extract themselves when things go wrong. For Slessor, the principle remained simple: travel did not need to be complicated to be meaningful.

Beyond First Overland, he wrote several other books, including Lying in State and Out West.

He remained, throughout his life, an advocate for straightforward, affordable travel, with the focus set upon experience.

For those who had the benefit of his time, that example will remain.

The post Tim Slessor, First Overland Pioneer and BBC Documentary Producer, Dies at 95 appeared first on overland-europe.

Tanzania • Colombia • Morocco • Arctic Europe • Nile Basin • United States • Berlin to Cape Town

Featured Stories

A Road Through Tanzania Begins to Unravel
An overland route in East Africa shifts from structure to uncertainty under field conditions.

A Berlin-to-Cape Town Story
A transcontinental journey linking Europe and Southern Africa through distance, logistics and continuity.

Colombia in Low Gear
Reduced pace. Increased awareness. Terrain and culture approached without compression.

Riding Cold
Motorcycle travel in low temperatures. Exposure, fatigue and mechanical limits.

Morocco: The Sunlit Granary Fortress
Architecture shaped by climate, storage and long-term survival.

Interview with Graham Field
Travel stripped back to experience, judgement and time on the road.

Field Tests

INEOS Grenadier MY26 & Black Edition
Refinement without dilution. Updates focused on usability and real-world driving.

Overland Photography: Field Test in Arctic Light
Equipment and technique under conditions where light is limited and unforgiving.

Travel & Portfolio

Portfolio: An American Road Trip
A visual record of long-distance travel across the United States.

Skills & Fieldcraft

Overland Medicine: Malaria on the Nile
A field case. Preparation in place. Outcome uncertain.

Overland Chef

One-Pot Tuna
Minimal kit. Direct method. Reliable outcome.

After Hours

Tomato Jam
Food as routine, not indulgence, at the end of long travel days.

This issue is for subscribers only.

Please log in below, or subscribe Subscribe for full access.

The post Number 12: Africa, Andes and Arctic Light: Expedition Journeys Across Continents and Conditions appeared first on overland-europe.

You go for the landscape first. The Pyrenees in the north, sharp and quiet, where tracks disappear into forests and the air feels cleaner with every kilometre. Then, the land softens as it rolls south through vineyards, olive groves, dry stone walls, before finally breaking open along the Mediterranean, where light, salt, and history sit side by side.

But it’s the people who make it stick.

Catalonia has a strong sense of identity. Not loud, not performative—just present. You feel it in small conversations in a bar de poble (village bar), in the way food is prepared without fuss, in the quiet pride behind local traditions. This isn’t a place built for tourists. It’s a place that lets you in slowly, if you pay attention.

For someone who travels to understand, not just to see, it works.

You can follow old trading routes into the mountains, park up beside a forgotten monastery, or sit with a winemaker who’s been working the same land for generations.

There’s space to move, but also depth if you stop.

Catalonia offers both: distance and detail. And that combination is rare.

Is it then surprising that after a day exploring backcountry trails, we rolled into Capmany to find a restaurant and let the day’s events settle into something we could actually hold onto?

The tracks had led us down out of the Albera foothills, tyres dusted white, the heat still shimmering off the bonnet. Capmany didn’t announce itself. It simply appeared. Stone walls, a church tower, the low hum of a place that had been here long before anyone thought to write about it.

We parked without much thought and walked in, following instinct rather than a map, until we found Cal Ferrer. A restaurant built into arched foundations. Five tables outside on the pavement, a few more inside a bare-bricked room.

Modern, yes. But no theatrics. No menu engineered for passing trade. Just honest food that belonged to the land we’d been driving through and wine that hadn’t travelled far at all. The kind of place where conversation sits low, where time loosens its grip, and where the day, dust, distance, small discoveries start to make sense.

This is where we found it. A simple, remarkable dessert. Creamy cheesecake, served with a spoonful of jam. Luscious. And, to my surprise, crustless… a quiet win for anyone with gluten intolerance.

That detail stayed with me. Because it meant this wasn’t adapted. It wasn’t reinvented. It had always been this way.

And that’s the thing about places like this. Recipes don’t change much.

To put the icing on the cake, so to speak, if you have a GROVE or Omnia oven and are prepared to sacrifice a little gas, you can pull this five-ingredient dessert together wherever your wheels stop turning for the day.

Treat the recipe below as a practice run at home. Then downsize the ingredients for travel and the oven you use.

Tristan Brailey has made this more than a few times. It never misses.

Serves 8-10
Cook time 25-30 min
Equipment Large bowl, whisk, springform or round baking pan (or Omnia silicone baking mould, as in the photo)

Ingredients:

1 kg Philadelphia (or any other cream cheese)
360 g sugar
7-8 eggs
1 teaspoon vanilla essence
some brown cane sugar (for a slightly caramelised crust)

Preheat the oven to 170°C.

Using a whisk, combine all the ingredients in a large bowl until smooth and creamy.

Line a 10-inch (26 cm) springform pan or round baking pan with butter, oil, or enough parchment paper that it extends past the edges of the pan. This will help you remove the cheesecake from the pan later on, and will prevent it from sticking. (You can use a smaller pan for a higher cheesecake but may need to bake longer so that the center isn’t too runny.)

Bake on the centre rack for about 25-30 minutes (in the Omnia: for about 30 minutes at medium-low heat.

Note Because of the smaller size of the mould, I used a lesser amount of the cream cheese mixture). The cake will rise quite a bit but don’t worry, it will settle when it’s out of the oven.

Let it start to cool gradually by leaving it out on the counter. After an hour or so, move the cake to the fridge to cool completely. Let the cake cool fully before taking it out of the cake tin. After a few hours in the refrigerator, your cheesecake should be chilled enough to cut. (I recommend making this the day before you want to eat it, as it really benefits from a night in the fridge.)

Enjoy with a glass of sherry!

The post Capmany Cheesecake: A Village Recipe That Never Left the Empordà Hills appeared first on overland-europe.

Daylight was fading as we took a last walk through the twisted alleys of Antigo de Sarraquinhos. One house still showed signs of life. A dim bulb hung above a doorway at the top of a rough wooden staircase, and inside, hams and chouriça hung blackened under decades of smoke.

José and I stepped closer. A dog lifted its head from the landing above, watched us for a moment, and then let out a low, deliberate growl. It was enough to stop us where we stood. That brief encounter set the tone for what followed.

Not every journey requires distance, time, or elaborate preparation. In the far northeast of Portugal, beyond the reach of the coast and well outside the usual routes, lies Trás-os-Montes, a region shaped by isolation, hard seasons and a way of life that has changed little over time. This was a four-week journey into that landscape.

A Region Shaped by Isolation

Trás-os-Montes sits behind the mountains, enclosed by the Douro gorge and a series of rugged ranges that once cut it off almost entirely from the rest of the country. Roads arrived late, and with them only gradual change. Even today, the region retains a sense of distance. Villages cling to hillsides, populations have thinned, and younger generations have long since left for the coast or the cities.

What remains is a way of life shaped by necessity rather than design. The landscape still dictates the rhythm of the day, and those who remain carry a quiet self-sufficiency that reveals itself only slowly. But once trust is established, doors open without hesitation.

The history runs deep. Jewish communities fleeing the Inquisition settled here, leaving traces that still surface in local traditions. Smuggling routes developed across the borderlands, shaped as much by terrain as by need. Farmers endured extremes of climate that locals still describe, without exaggeration, as nine months of winter followed by three months of heat.

You begin to understand this not through explanation, but through observation.

Encounters with a Vanishing Way of Life

We had come to Portugal to explore three regions, but it was here in the northeast that the journey slowed and began to take on a different weight.

In Vinhais, during the Feira do Fumeiro, the air was thick with smoke and the steady movement of people passing between stalls. Families displayed sausages made to recipes handed down over generations. Some were dark and heavily cured, others lighter—variations that trace back to a time when Jewish communities adapted their food to avoid persecution while maintaining tradition.

Each product carried a history that was rarely explained, but always present.

That sense of continuity extended beyond the festival. Invitations came easily, and without ceremony. One farmer, with no introduction beyond a handshake, summed it up simply: “I don’t have much. But what I have is yours.”

We found ourselves standing in smoke-filled lofts where meat cured slowly above open fires, and in kitchens where bread was still baked in stone ovens. These were not demonstrations or curated experiences, but working spaces, unchanged in their purpose and largely unchanged in their form.

Life here is not presented. It is simply lived.

Borders, Smuggling and Survival

At Rio de Onor, the border between Portugal and Spain runs directly through the village. It is both a line and, in practice, something less defined.

The population has dwindled to only a handful of residents on either side, and the local dialect is fading with it. But the stories remain, carried in conversation and memory.

In the café, people observe first. Then, gradually, they talk.

Smuggling was once part of everyday life. Not organised crime, but a practical response to isolation. Coffee, cloth and small goods moved quietly across the border, sometimes tolerated, sometimes punished.

We met a retired police chief who admitted, with a hint of a smile, that everyone understood what was happening. Enforcement, he suggested, was not always a priority.

A former carpenter described nights spent transporting goods across the Douro gorge using ropes and handmade wooden gondolas. The risks were real, as were the consequences, but the alternatives were limited.

Here, geography dictated everything … including how people adapted, and where they chose to draw their own lines.

Off-Road Through a Forgotten Landscape

Portugal offers something increasingly rare in Europe: the ability to travel long distances off-road, legally.

With the support of local authorities and our guide, we followed trails that wound through forests, climbed ridgelines and dropped into remote valleys where entire settlements had been abandoned.

The effects of recent wildfires were visible across large areas. Hillsides lay blackened and silent, yet in between, the landscape opened into wide views across the Douro and beyond. Tracks led to long-forgotten mining sites and villages that seemed untouched by time.

Driving here is not about technical challenge. It is about access. Access to places that remain beyond the reach of conventional travel, and to a landscape that reveals itself gradually, rather than all at once.

A Moment That Stays With You

Domingos Moura introduced himself with a raised fist and quiet pride.

“I don’t have much,” he said again. “But what I have is yours.”

That evening turned into wine, cured ham and conversation in a dimly lit cellar. The kind of evening where language becomes secondary and understanding settles in without effort.

The next day, we returned. Lunch was already underway. Soup over an open fire, meat, vegetables and wine, everything produced within a short distance of the table.

Then came the moment of repayment.

“You have eaten at my table,” Domingos said. “Now you must take the cows to the field.”

So we did. Not just his cows, but the village herd, moving from house to house, gathering animals and guiding them out towards pasture. No instructions were needed. The animals knew the way, and the dogs maintained order.

At the edge of the field, Domingos stopped and looked across the valley.

“You can leave now,” he said. “I’m going to sleep under that tree.”

And with that, the day came to a close.

Expedition Overview

Region: Trás-os-Montes, Northeast Portugal
Duration: ~4 weeks
Terrain: Mountain tracks, border trails, remote villages
Focus: Cultural immersion, history, off-road travel
Access: Combination of public routes and permitted restricted areas

This journey was originally published in
OverlandEurope Magazine — 2019 Edition

The full article includes:

• extended interviews and local encounters
• deeper historical context
• full route details and locations
• complete photography series

The post Exploring Remote Portugal: A Journey Through Trás-os-Montes Borderlands and Forgotten Villages appeared first on overland-europe.