Dream Collapsing
On flying over Northern Spain on route to Oporto, I remarked to a Portuguese nurse sitting next to me about how wonderfully green the landscape appeared from above. With evergreen forests and misty pockets of silver trailing in my wake, the descent upon Portugal’s second city had already begun to take shape. Any assumption that Portugal is a geographical extension of Spain is woefully misleading on a number of levels. Unlike the Iberian aridity of the south, the Douro region is predominately Celtic and Germanic in stock. Situated in the corn, cabbage and port region of Portugal, the northern green fields could easily pass of as Ireland to an unknowing visitor. For there are more flowers and bushes in Portugal and there are more trees, including the sprawling eucalyptus, which are noticeably absent on the neighbouring Castilian plateau.
Somewhat fittingly Portugal has now followed the Irish Republic to become the third member of the eurozone to be bailed out by the EU and IMF. Economically weak in an uncertain world, the Portuguese frontiers have remained virtually unchanged since 1139. They removed their last dictator, António de Oliveira Salazar, in 1970 and had a democratic revolution in 1974 and like the Portuguese nurse on the plane; they are one of the most congenial of Europeans.
Youth in Revolt
According to my erudite source on the plane, the country’s student population celebrate Queima das Fitas (Burning of the Ribbons) in the first week of May. On arriving in a university town on the verge of a drunken apogee, I checked in at the Porto Spot Hostel, and booked myself a sleepless night inside a white walled dorm. Despite my room having the capacity to host three weary bodies, I fortunately only had to share with a pepper bald German man.
Travelling is a privilege and after exploring the continent in my early twenties, I still have fond memories of budgeting every penny and dining in car parks eating ripped bread and cheese. Despite growing up and finding myself desperate to progress beyond shared accommodation, I all too frequently discover the invisible hand of economics has a far greater influence over my upwardly mobile pretentions.
Fortunately the money you might save on accommodation can be invested elsewhere and on departing the boutique hostel, I began to explore the melancholy splendour of Porto. Most normal cities would consider being labelled ‘workmanlike’ an insult and the commercial district does stir with ordinariness. Deeply atmospheric and exceedingly ramshackle in places, many of the city’s buildings are in a dilapidated state of repair. Most of their finest religious buildings are adorned with blue mosaic tiles, which are the ubiquitous emblems of Portugal, and provide the country with a truly beautiful motif.
Close to the Praça dos Leões lies one of the most outlandish and beautiful bookshops in Europe. Opened in 1906, Livraria Lello is an intricate wooden cathedral with a stunning fairy tale staircase inspired by the Parisian galleries of Lafayette. There are not too many bookshops in the world with a neo-Gothic staircase and a stained glass skylight. With a luscious red carpet leading its readers towards a literary heaven, English speakers may not be able to buy a book in a familiar language but the art nouveau exterior is worth the hike up Rua das Carmelitas on its own.
On arriving at the 18th century quayside, the iconic double-decker bridge, Ponte Dom Luis I, provides a truly magnificent spectacle across the River Douro. This marine blue bridge is one of the wonders of Portugal. Hosting a progressive and modern tram network and providing stunning views of the Cais de Ribeira quayside and Vila Nova de Gaia. Squawking seagulls can be seen following wooden boats full of white-shirted visitors from Germany and the Home Counties. And old ladies and housewives can be seen hanging their washing out to dry.
Porto’s charms lie in its unspoken cracks and idyllic forgetfulness, something no tourist board could ever successfully advertise. More discerning visitors to Porto like to enjoy samples of Portugal’s famous port lodges such as Sandemans or Grahams in the independent municipality of ‘Gaia’. Famous brands advertise their lodges using large Hollywood signs in a bold attempt to seduce tourists over from the Cais de Ribeira to the rickety winding lanes of time forgotten.
Bom Apetite
Vila Nova de Gaia is a romantic throwback to the 1930s and grapes have flown down the river for over three centuries. This historic process helps provide wine lovers across the globe with ruby, tawny and white tipples, which are traditionally enjoyed at the end of a beautiful meal. Fittingly back at the river front, I enjoyed my first evening dish with a regional Porto delicacy – the infamous Francesinhe. Scotland would never have been able to live it down if they had served up this culinary invention. Drenched in saturated fat and quite literally a heart attack on a plate, Francesinhe means “little French girl” in Portuguese. Inspired by the story of a returning emigrant, the sandwich’s composition involves multiple layers of bread, cured ham, sausages and steak, which is outrageously soaked in melted cheese and tomato beer sauce.
Sitting on one of the hundreds of outdoor café tables looking across the river, I instantly regretted not eating one of their freshly caught sardines. The local ‘delicacy’ is so violently nefarious, I personally believe the Francesinhe should made be illegal under European Law. Alas not all southern Mediterranean cuisines are healthy but Porto remains a city with a poetic sensibility. From the lush vegetation of its surrounding countryside to the urban charms of the city centre, rarely if ever will visitors be offered such a rich casket of wonders.
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