Picture Perfect Oporto

Four nights in Porto is all I could squeeze into my itinerary. My love for Portugal is genetic. It’s not skin deep; I’m wired to love that slip of a Mediterranean country, hemmed in by Spain on one side and the ocean on the other. My aunt lived in a tiny fishing village south of Lisbon, Cascais, where Fado music is often heard in cafes and bars. My Dad fell in love with it, and even Butch has a pipe dream of selling Piri-piri chicken on the street. Little does he know, there are no chickens in Portugal, and piri-piri comes from Mozambique, in bottles. Nevertheless, it confirms my natural attraction!

 

 

In my mind’s eye, I’ve always imagined Porto to be a little like Stellenbosch; maybe it’s because it’s a university town, has a river (the Douro) running through it, or has vineyards, cellars and an atmosphere created by being so close to the earth. This small yet important city oozes character; its opulence is romantic, swaying to a rhythm that comes alive at night. Beautiful, rich in history, colourful and vibrant. It must surely be the Ruby in Portugal's crown, inspiring admiration and interest among visitors.

 

 

Not much has changed here over the last couple of centuries; maybe the local dialect has shifted, or the young ones are a little more sophisticated, but the older generation still tills the land and keeps the bustling fresh-produce market. Sunburnt, hardened men bring in the catch of the day. Bells toll in the Cathedral spires; tiny boats bring in shipments of liquid gold in Port-soaked oak barrels. Trams, trains and funiculars are still the preferred modes of transport, and the local bookshop is now far too big for its boots, having become a centre of attraction since its quaintness has become so popular. Cafés serve dark, syrupy coffees and delicious Pastel de Nata, a milk tart baked in a buttery, golden, flaky pastry with a slightly burnt topping. Oh, it's heaven on the tongue, each baker guarding her great-grandmother-8-times-removed's secret recipe to the death. 

 

 

I was there to wait for Lise, my daughter from Canada, the perfect place to spend a few days before our grand trek began. But waiting for me was my very dearest friend, Megan, all the way from England. She would be my companion, guide and roomie; she loves Porto and has spent many memorable holidays exploring the city.

 

 

We’d hardly settled when it was time to set off to see the sights, take in the magnificent architecture, snoop around the morning market, take a deep breath by the river Douro, and walk the maze of narrow streets. In the beautifully decorated cathedrals, churches, and tiny wall niches, I thought of my loved ones and lit a candle. The soft whisperings of the faithful filled me with hope and restored my faith in our human race. The elderly still pray for peace and forgiveness and find comfort in their daily routines; they are filled with joy and acceptance, making me feel grateful and connected.

 

 

Summer was upon us in full force. I couldn’t be happier; I was travelling with a backpack, which limited my wardrobe to a few T-shirts and shorts, one black dress, a scarf, a pair of flip-flops, my hiking boots, and last season’s bathing suit. As the days grew hotter, we realised it would be best to do as much sightseeing in the early mornings and late afternoons, and during the long evenings we’d saunter out for a gourmet meal.

 

 

Our accommodation was cool; we stayed in the centre of the old town, just a few blocks from the Metro, the market, the old station and the river. It was an old building, renovated and modernised. We loved our apartment for its clever use of colour, minimalist furnishings, a comfortable shower room, and an adequate kitchen with a stove, refrigerator, and Nespresso machine. The apartment sleeps two adults, but a sofa bed can easily accommodate an extra guest. Diogo Braga, the Manager of Oporto Local Studios on Almada Street, was incredibly helpful; he greeted us upon arrival, provided detailed directions, and shared local safety tips, which made navigating Porto much easier and more enjoyable for first-time visitors like us.

 

 

Diogo sent me a link to download their app, which was a great help in orienting me beforehand and offered excellent suggestions, including up-to-date directions and ideas to make a stay in Porto worthwhile. As often happens, some of Lise’s luggage was lost and had to be delivered. Diogo organised everything, from contacting the airport and the courier company to arranging the delivery date and drop-off point, as we’d be on our Camino de Santiago by then. We couldn’t be more pleased.

 

 

Megan and I are foodies; she is, after all, our Queen of Tarts, and we enjoy good local food. Our dining experiences are highlights whilst travelling. On her iPad, with all the right apps, she set out to find suitable eateries with gusto and made reservations at two excellent restaurants: one was Tapa Bento, a fine dining restaurant in a slightly “colourful” neighbourhood; the other was JIMAO TAPAS E VINHOS RESTAURANT, a tapas restaurant on the riverfront, a favourite haunt. Our table outside, a very desirable spot, was welcomed by a sweet vase of flowers propping up a little blackboard with Megan's pedigree! Both meals were “Muito excepcional, de fato”. On one of our daily walks along the embankment, I persuaded her to lunch at the fishers’ local eatery, Tasquinha D'Ouro, which was loud, busy and boisterous; we had the soup of the day, the local fish dish, and half a dozen Sardinhas, as one does in Portugal, served with boiled potatoes and a typical garden salad.

 

I loved it, and it was as cheap as chips! Breakfasts were croissants and coffee, and always a pastel de nata at a special café or bar near the apartment. Lunch would be on the hoof wherever we found ourselves, preferring to seek out the most popular joint favoured by the locals. 

 

 

Two doors from our apartment was our favourite sorveteria (Gelato) serving delicious ice creams. We had to stop, being good neighbours and all, and we felt it necessary to support local business too! Having a siesta is obligatory, and we know why: it is hot and humid, days are long, and one must be prepared for the drawn-out evenings with the locals. 

 

 

I will not bore you with all the details about Porto; those are easily Googled if you’re interested or winging your way there any day now. Not a bad idea; you’ll love it. I hope my photographs tell the story of our experience there. For me, every picture tells a story, and I can feel the rhythm, energy, and joie de vivre that visitors and residents experience.

 

 

Here, every wall oozes art, and every building was carefully crafted to tell the place's history. Artisans, stonemasons and fine artists worked for years, chiselling huge marble slabs to beautify cathedrals and humble homes. The colourful tiles adorning walls, floors and ceilings tell of the rich culture and the trade routes that intrepid Portuguese explorers dared to conquer. "Painter" takes on a whole new meaning when one looks up at an adorned dome! The church certainly had standards, and one of them was a gold standard; I was speechless!

 

Yellow, blue, green, pink, red, green, and orange are the colours that immediately spring to mind when I close my eyes and think about my brief stay in that magical city. Terracotta-tiled roofs have never looked so appealing, and I could tear down our grey roof in a heartbeat and replace it with the warm, rich clay tiles I saw there.

 

 

To have art running in your veins must surely be true of the Portuguese; there you can take to the floor and show your dance steps without missing a beat. Musicians, jugglers, gypsies, writers, poets, watercolourists and graffiti artists are all welcome to show off their talents. I loved it. If I had the talent, I’d have set up my easel and gone to work with brush or pencil. The tolerance, patience, and kindness shown even to the lowliest panhandler were heart-warming and quite strange, exposing my preconceived prejudices.

 

 

I gaped openly at the shoe shops; on every corner, shoes were on grand display in the windows. Bling is big: platforms, stilettoes, chunky lace-ups, and a celebration of the old favourite Birkenstock, which has made a big comeback. I could feast with my eyes. Fashions are feminine florals in voiles, silks and chiffon. Evenings are for shining, and ladies came out to play in all their finery.

 

 

Of course, nothing could beat seeing my Lise at the airport; she’d grown another inch since I'd last seen her, I was sure. Prettier than ever, slim and toned, with her tousled blonde hair, she marched through customs with her backpack flung nonchalantly over her shoulder; she was ready to hit the road and explore. It was then that I knew all would be OK once she’d settled, siesta’d, and freshened up; this girl would be ready to see the sights.

 

We lazed in comfortable chairs, watching the world go by, ate Padron peppers, she quenched her thirst with local brews, we indulged in the most over-the-top foot-long hotdogs from a truck, the hugest crepes filled with the sweetest cream, and ridiculously decadent ice-cream cones; we kicked off our shoes and caught up on news of the boys, my girls, the grandbabies, and Grandpa and Grandma, who'd sent her a gift.

 

 

Our adventure was about to start, and I had three weeks to catch up and bond with my youngest girl. I was in heaven, or just dreaming. Happy to follow her through narrow alleys, up church spires, and over the Douro to see the Port barges, to sit and listen to her stories, or to read while she breathed her sweet breath on my neck. She was four again; it made me happy.

My photographs are chronologically correct my musing not!