Plodding Porto.
Four details to consider.
There’s plenty to say about Porto, but in the interest of brevity — and, I suppose, in the shadow of the internet, travel guides, bloggers, books, and bonkers, talentless berks — I’ll focus on some certain elements.
Detail number one: damp.
Oh, you thought you’d be safe from the grey?
No dice. Nothing’s certain in the shoulder season.
This little stretch of October performs its rendition of enduring damp in the form of misty, drizzly skies. And you hum along. You’re not even mad.
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Why? Because it’s a splendid city, is Porto.
Even if the persistent clouds shave degrees of beauty from the mirador views.
Even if the cobbles have you slipping and sliding.
Even if the hotspots are in fact tepid and veiled.
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Honestly, quite enough about the conditions.
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Know what else is damp? The Douro river.
Is that strictly accurate though? Is wetness just intense dampness? Surely.
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The river separates de facto Porto (the mostly charming, sometimes overtly touristy, ever-bustling Ribeira area, specifically), from Nova de Gaia on the other side. Nova de Gaia is itself worth a stop. At first venture, it seems to have hung happily on the coattails of Porto’s appeal, with urban sprawl all too evident in the tat and traps, thanks in no small part to the majestic Dom Luís I Bridge. But there’s a distinction there. Alongside all the sellers, you’ve also got oodles of…cellars.
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And that’s fitting, because you know what else is damp? Port. And wine. And Super Bock. Porto’s soaking in the stuff. Delicious. Nova de Gaia is home to dozens of port producers and cellars. We cold-shoulder a formal cellar tour in favour of a tasting at Portologia – La Maison des Port. It’s terrific. Full of rich, sweet tipples and knowledge nugs from the proprietor. The only thing I would say: it’s difficult to discern the difference between this Tawny port and that Reserve port and even that elite Vintage port when you’ve been sipping away for an hour. Maybe you need a palate-cleansing sorbet and a glug of water between every try. No. Absurd.
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Just around the corner, there’s a glorious little port cellar called Arco e Meio. The decor’s dark and moody and alluring. The drinks are cheap. The nibbles are exquisite — especially the sardines with chilli oil and pickles. And most importantly: the patrons are fucked. Sloshers the lot of ‘em. Nothing cultural about it. Quintessential Porto, thank you very much.
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Anyway, let’s move on. Just quickly, first, d’you know what else is damp?
Our basement-level apartment.
Not ideal. But in the interest of brevity…
Detail number two: gradient.
Porto is a hilly city. There’s your headline.
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Architecturally, you’ve got colourful tile buildings brushing shoulders with crumbling palimpsests, shimmering balconies partnered with peeling paint, ever undulating up towards some residential gem or down to the Douro, where tourists rather like us mooch the bars and port cellars and snap boats ferrying other tourists rather like us up and down the silky thing.
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You can’t move for tiles in Porto. Harkens back to the arrival of the Arabs in the 13th century, so I read. These glazed, ornate things are plonked nicely on the base of homes, the sides of churches, in storefronts, and on select walkways. If you’re into tiles you’ll be a fan. Some people are into tiles. Do you reckon some people are really into tiles? Like…really? Better not to think about.
The sun rolls through for a brief visit one day, which is most welcome. Rooftop Flores is a ray-doused delight during this stretch. Quite famously, everything looks better with blue skies above it. Those pastel-coloured facades stacked across the city. Those shutters flung open. Those washing lines slung between windows.
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Livraria Lello is pretty. (Pretty busy, mind, I’m not sure it’s that essential). Either way, that’s up a hill. The cloisters of Porto Cathedral are equally majestic, if not more so. You’ll bet your little ass they’re up a hill too. The clocktower there adds stairs to the mixer — blessed be another route to elevation. At the top, someone’s poor ol’ father is clearly scared shitless of heights, for he clings desperately to the wall of the stairwell, well away from the edge. There’s robust metal gating preventing even the slightest mishap. Oh Papa, what are these cowering movements of yours? What is this crazed aversion?
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I’d happily walk uphill for live music, but I can’t impart a great deal of insight on Porto’s offering. We’ll chalk it up to the midweek. There is a wonderfully adept busking violinist; that certainly qualifies.
Detail number three: other gastronomical gems.
Right next to our damp little abode is Camellia Antiques Café — a quaint corner with no-fuss coffee, pasteis de nata and other treats. It’s stacked with knick-knacks and vintage fare. The one woman working there is as sweet as they come, and a steady flow of must-be-regulars pop in to say hello, from students to elderly plodders and their fluffy friends.
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I’d have to jump firmly on the bandwagon and say — of the dozens of delicious custardy numbers we sampled — Manteigaria offers up the best. It’s a staple chain with several spots in Lisbon and Porto, offering up structurally sublime pasteis. That splendid crust parts right on time to reveal warm, cinnamony custard. Yeah. Certified doozies. Now, I know what you’re thinking — what’s the savoury counterpart to a custard tart? Perhaps it’s the salt codfish fritter. Locals and bumbling tourists call it pasteis de bacalhau. It’s not in the highest echelon of fried goods, if I’m honest, and it was consistently better in Brazil, if I’m double boring honest. Sometimes, lie. There. That’s that covered.
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On the topic of Portuguese staples, what the hell is a Franceschinha? Glad you asked. It’s a sarnie. It originated in Porto, and comprises white bread either side of ham, steak, sausage, and cheese. The whole shebang is then plonked in a rich tomatoey gravy that sort of tastes like Heinz tommie soup. Fried egg laid on top, quite naturally. We grab one at Brasao — famed for the legendary local dish.
It’s a lot. It’s…
What is it? Good, sort of. But altogether too much.
Which, in fairness, may have something to do with our ordering an ENTIRE FRIED ONION alongside the thing. And some dense, delicious croquettes. A regular party of saturates worming their way from our plates to our baffled mouths. Ideal.
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I can’t feasibly talk of Porto in gastronomical detail without mentioning Mercado do Bolhao. It’s a total delight. And barely damp at all, bar its exposed ends. This (mostly) covered marketplace is a staple for fresh fruits, dried fruits, mushrooms, fresh pasta cooked in cheese, a plethora of cheeses themselves unbothered by pasta, fresh flowers, dried flowers, fresh meat, dried meat, fresh people, dried up people gasping for a vino to walk around with. You get the idea.
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At the market, you get what you fancy and you get it fast. There are certain eateries in this mighty fine city, however, that operate a ‘no list, just queue up there and see what happens’ policy’. This obviously gives the impression of clout, and it’s likely justified. The queues would stop forming otherwise, right? I dunno. But however coveted such spots are (Taberna dos Mercadores, Taberna dos Fernandes, I’m looking at you two specifically), I just can’t get onboard with such antics. Fortunately, directly opposite the latter, there’s a divine spot called Ora Viva, where they serve up delicious seafood in top-tier ambience. The waiter’s a legend. The beers are frothy. The wine’s right nice. Global currency notes dangle from the roof, watching over the whole gluttonous medley of smoked cheese, cured meat, shellfish rice and a monkfish/prawn stew in a crazy fragrant curry sauce. Notes of green pepper and sparkling wine don’t you know? Aye aye aye.
I’d stick that spot on your list.
And when you get there, right, just ask them, and they’ll stick you on theirs.
Magnificent valour.
Detail number four: Douro Valley.
This is less a detail and more an entire region. Shoddy penmanship? I say nay, naysayers. Did I ever claim to be flawless or on form when it comes to categorisation? Check mate. To enjoy the (spoiler: exquisite) details of the Douro Valley, you need to get to the Douro Valley. Apparently this is not simple. Quite naturally, the train we’re supposed to catch toward Pocinho is a no-go. The morning iteration derailed, in turn derailing our route inland from the city. We’ve got a little spot booked in Casal de Loivos — up a winding road through vineyards and quaint hillside homes from Pinhao. The first bloke we ask in the train station ticket booth just says “Nah, Pinhao not possible today”. Righto. Cheers. Bus then, is it? The woman there is equally helpful: “Pinhao? No. Not at all. Nearby? I don’t know. Look it up”. Righto. Class. We’re scheming obscure routes through the Douro Valley when we give it one last go at Campanha train station. A good man emerges from the rumble and rubble of customer service: “Yep, the train to Regua is still running, but not onwards to Pinhao.”
Righto. We’ll figure it out from there.
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The train snakes alongside the Douro river — damp, I grant you — to full-blown wine region, where rugged old houses hug the tiered landscape of dripping vines. This right here is supposed to be one of the most beautiful rail journeys in all of Europe. It’s streaky and grey and wet, but we sense the grandeur in glimpses. From Regua we catch a pricey taxi further into the valley, and Casal de Loivos is thankfully worth the whole furore, boasting all the quintessence of rural village life — morning nods, roaming dogs, and a rustic catch-all café to host locals.
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Our home is narrow and high, gorgeously equipped with artistic flourishes and quirky details. The next morning, we discover that a polydactyl cat looks like it’s got thumbs, and that moody clouds do in fact part, because the best part of the day is spent under the embrace of the blue beyond. We discover Cardanho dos Presuntos, an exemplary little bar despite (perhaps because of) the proprietor’s shrugs, mumbles, and constant movement. All is swell and sweet on account of cheap freepour vinho tinto, gorgeous flame-roasted chorizo, and accompanying onions. A few times, we loop through the small town and down to the riverfront, where cruise visitors sip at pop-up cafes and boat tours pop off every hour. We check out small independent shops and the views from winery gardens, but mostly we chill and enjoy the sunshine. That rare, righteous orb.
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Pinhao is a fascinating case. It’s on the tourist trail. That much is clear (i.e. we’re here). But it’s not lost its charm. Rustic storefronts hug the cobbled curb, and so many of the residences above them look dilapidated. Strange how wear-and-tear represents charm nowadays, no? The train station is a single, squat building adorned with florid blue tiles and original signage. The local people move slowly. For the most part, it’s quiet and simple and special. Gah, I’d love to see this place in 10 years.
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The public transport doth not exist, however. We want a way back up, you see. One guy half shrugs: “maybe there’s a bus around 6pm”. We’ll fact check that one with this woman. “No there’s no bus, but there is a bus, maybe, at around 6, up there.” Third time’s a charm. “Nah, no busy, only taxi.” Sod it. We’re still none the wiser as to whether such a bus exists, because we miss it. Or we don’t miss it because it doesn’t exist. The steep upward burst to Casal de Loivos is resplendent, mind. The sun flirts with the tip of swooping ridges above the river, and the non-existent bus yawns in envy. Stunning scenery, seriously.
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Are we fools for not delving deeper into the valley? Perhaps. A few things I’ve read suggest the stretch from Pinhao to Pocinho is the most stunning of all. But we’re straight chilling. Sometimes that’s okay. Sometimes you can do that. Don’t let anyone tell you otherwise.
On our final night, the wind smacks against the creaky wooden roof above our heads. I rouse at least four times to the howls. Eventually, I just have to ask the question: “Jesus H Christ…is this a hurricane?” Oh titter titter. You’re dramatic Samuel; that’s wind that is. Yeah well, turns out it was a hurricane. An official one. Kirk. Our fully-packed stroll back down through the olive groves and wine vines the next morning is fortunately not susceptible to such gails, but there’s a definite dishevelment. The train back to Porto is delayed by a few hours, allowing for some time with our books, a few snacks, and a big ol’ bout of people watching. Mostly other, flustered folk wondering about the next leg of their self-guided piss-up.
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Details done. Would recommend.
