We have another deadline. We are pet-sitting seven dogs near Marbella on the Costa del Sol for a week in mid-December which meant a slight rearrangement to our route south and a little less time for Portugal at this stage. That said, we still had four fantastic days there.
We drove through to Porto using the toll-free roads and the moment we crossed the border from Spain to Portugal the road condition deteriorated markedly. Unlike Spain, the alternative routes in Portugal are very much second-rate compared to the motorways. The road wound through mountains with villages perched on forested slopes, then headed downhill, for what seemed like an age, before reaching the populated urban areas along the coastline leading into Porto. Porto is the second-largest city in Portugal after Lisbon with a population of 216,000 in the city, but with 2.4 million in the surrounding urban area it has a feel of a large sprawling city, and our first impression was of an obviously poorer cousin to neighbouring Spain.
Our campsite was just out of the city, directly across from the beach. It was a beautiful spot and after a day cooped up in the van I wasted no time getting out for an evening walk on the wooden promenade that ran for miles along the beach. A few surf-casters were trying their luck from the rocks and further along a group of surfers were making the most of a surf break. Bars and restaurants were dotted along the dunes, built on platforms above the sand. Many were busy with people lapping up the uninterrupted views of the setting sun. No doubt it would be teeming in summer.
We were too far out of the city to bike so the next morning we caught the bus. The bus driver obviously knew his machine well, he didn’t even hesitate before charging full steam down narrow one-lane streets, leaving pedestrians clinging to the walls of buildings and us sucking in our stomachs in a natural reaction.
A hair-raising 45 minutes ended with us safely in the centre of Porto. We took a photo of the street sign where the bus dropped us – now a habit after once spending an hour trying to find where we had parked our bikes – and headed off into town. First stop, the church of Saint Ildefonso with its typically Portuguese baroque-style architecture and blue tiled façade. From there we walked through the pedestrian area of the main shopping street Rua de Santa Catarina, all decked out for Christmas and humming with activity, down Rua Formosa to the Balhoa Markets, famous for its fresh produce, flowers and delicacies, to Avenida dos Aliados (Allies Avenue), which gets its name from the victory of the Allied Nations in World War I. Lined with ornately carved neo-classical buildings and with the stately town hall standing at the top of the avenue it was designed to be majestic and imposing, however, the buildings are run down and look like they need a good scrub. The square in front of the town hall was taped off and workers were busy putting up the Christmas tree. Tourist police outnumbered people.
Not overwhelmed at this stage, we walked up Rua dos Clérigos to the iconic Torre dos Clérigos, a baroque bell tower in the medieval centre of the Ribiero district. I go up nearly every tower I find, but Mr Love is more discerning. I persuaded him that we needed to get perspective of this city as we were not feeling it’s vibe. It was worth the 225 steps and offered a great view over the UNESCO listed medieval town built on steep slopes leading down to the Douro river, and across to the other side where the famous port cellars line the riverbank. We now had a better feel for the lay of the land and we ventured back down.
By now we were starting to get hungry and right by the tower was a small shop selling a Portuguese delicacy, Bolinhos de bacalhau. The chef was making these in the window and we were intrigued. Made from a mixture of potatoes, dried salted cod (bacalhau), eggs, parsley and onion they are shaped using two spoons, deep fried and served hot. We decided to share one between us and declined the suggestion of pairing it with a white port for the ultimate experience. It was an interesting flavour and texture and we were pleased we only opted for one.
The Bolinhos de bacalhau had whet our appitites. Time to find somewhere for lunch. We walked down through the steep lanes of the old town, a mish-mash that seemed to have evolved without plan, getting lost a couple of times and feeling a bit sad for Porto, it’s run down and there are a lot of vacant buildings and graffiti. We made our way to a pedestrian street lined with restaurants and found a cute little café serving soup of the day. That suited us fine.
After lunch we continued our descent down to the river, stopping at the Church of São Francisco. The inside of this magnificent Baroque church appears to be covered in gold, due to the abundance of gilt-edged woodcarvings. It was well worth the modest 4 Euros for admission. Sometimes we feel we should pay more as the upkeep of these places must be huge and we get to enjoy their extraordinary beauty for a paltry sum. The catacombs next to the church were also included and these dimly lit rooms filled with the dead of Porto’s past were oddly intriguing.
Back out in the sunshine we walked along the riverbank, the vibrant Muro dos Cobertos da Riberira lined with colourful merchant houses and with restaurants spilling out over the paved walkways, to the Ponte Luis I. Built in 1886 this iron bridge was a masterpiece of engineering at the time, spanning the steep banks of the Douro at a height of 85 metres. The upper deck is a pedestrian walkway and tramway and lower deck has footpaths alongside the roadway, we took the lower deck and walked across. The geography of Porto is quite remarkable, the steep sides to the valley means that the bridges are more like viaducts, hanging across the crevasse.
On the opposite bank from the Old Town are the port cellars. Port is from Porto, funnily enough. Only fortified wine created from grapes grown in the Douro valley can be call Port. The cellars have their names in big white letters on their roofs and we quickly identified the who’s who of port – Taylor’s, Graham’s, Ferreira, Offley, Cockburn’s, Sandeman and Calem. We were keen to see inside a cellar and decided on a tour of the oldest port cellar in Porto, Calem. The tour and tasting cost 10 Euros and was a great experience. First, we looked around the well laid out port museum before being called to the tour and taken through into the cellar, smelling divinely of wood, wax and fermentation. Our guide was enthusiastic and knowledgeable and although we both know a bit about wine and port we still learned a lot. The cellar was incredible, filled with impressive oak vats with life spans of around 150 years and some holding over 60,000 litres of port. We finished the tour with a tasting of two ports, a ruby and a white. They were more like glasses of port, not tastings, and we left feeling warm and fuzzy.
By now it was getting on and the sun was low as we caught the Funicular dos Guindais up the hill to the top deck of the Ponte Luis I. We walked slowly back across the bridge, enjoying the sweeping views over the river and old town, the coloured terraced houses glowing in the dusk and the tiled facades catching the last of the sunlight.
Back at the beach, we reflected on Porto while sitting looking out over the Atlantic from one of those bars on the sand dunes. We had taken a while to warm to this city, it’s grubbier and shabbier than we expected, but it has a vibrancy, a pulse, that made us think again.
The next morning, we were off early to Coimbra. Coimbra, is just over 120km south of Porto and back in the 12th century was the country’s capital. I had read about the cultural significance of this city with its well preserved medieval old town and the historic University of Coimbra and thought adding it to our short Portuguese itinerary would be worthwhile.
We arrived at the campground at mid-day and after lunch caught a bus to town. It was a cold, grey afternoon and the wind was howling through the narrow lanes. Coimbra is built on a steep hill beside the Montego River and, much like Porto, to see the town requires walking up hills and stairs.
Behind the Almendina Arch, the original gateway to the old city, we found a small museum tucked away. The door was shut, and we hesitated, thinking it was most likely closed, but inside we were warmly welcomed by the curator who gave us a personal tour of his museum recounting the history of the defensive walls that once surrounded Coimbra and the power struggle between the Islamic Moors and the Christians. The Almedina Arch that we first walked through is a relic of the Moorish town walls, in Arabic medina means town. The museum is inside the 12th century Torre de Anto, a tower built above the arch providing an elevated view over rooftops of Coimbra’s historic centre.
Understanding more about the history of Coimbra we continued on our way, through narrow pedestrian lanes scarred with ugly graffiti with ambiguous political messages.
On the way up the hill we stopped at the 12th-century Romanesque cathedral Sé Velha before walking further up to Coimbra’s pride and joy, the University of Coimbra, the oldest university in Portugal. Built on the grounds of a former palace, the university is a World Heritage Site famed for its baroque library, the Biblioteca Joanina, and its 18th-century bell tower. Through the archway the expansive marbled courtyard of the historic university is grandiose, very different to the rundown graffitied old town we had just walked through. The courtyard is framed by the treasured historic buildings of the university, including the ornate library with its huge wooden door flanked by columns. Inside it is a marvel to behold, with soaring ceilings, gilded archways and opulently carved shelves holding 250,000 books from the 1500’s to 1700’s.
Back down in the historic town centre students wearing black gowns were celebrating their graduation, playing music on the streets and giving away “free hugs” for charity. Their bubbling enthusiasm giving the town a much-needed pick-me-up. The cold was setting in and we headed back to camp.
The next morning, we were on the road early heading to Portugal’s highest city Guarda, near the Spanish border. It wasn’t long after leaving Coimbra and that we were confronted with hundreds of hectares of burnt forests. Powerlines were hanging from skeletons of trees, their poles disintegrated, road signs were burnt to a crisp, houses gutted and buildings on the edges of villages singed black. This area of Portugal had been ravaged by wildfires in October, less than 6 weeks months before we drove through. Many were deliberately lit, and many people lost their lives. The scale of the area affected was overwhelming.
Guarda was shrouded in thick, cold fog when we arrived at midday. We wrapped up warmly and walked around the medieval walled city, barely being able to see the buildings through the mist. A stage for the Christmas festival was being erected in the town square and the streets were decked out in Christmas lights. Weather plays a big part in how you perceive a place, and although a picturesque little town, being over a thousand metres above sea level winter had come early to Guarda. We decided we wouldn’t stay and instead pressed on to Spain.
