Land of Paradox

by Sally Branston

At Easter we went to the north.

‘The north of where?’

Portugal, where we’ve lived for the past two years.

‘Portugal. What’s it like?’

My Portugal is a country where everyone drives an Audi or a Mercedes but can only afford to put €5 of petrol in the tank. It’s a place where everyone lives in magnificent mansions, but you won’t be asked inside, in case you notice that they can’t afford furniture. It’s a country where every one of my neighbours employs a daily maid, but both partners work long hours in order to afford her. It’s a country where my kitchen is full of the latest German appliances, but when something breaks down, there is no technical expertise to fix it. It’s a country where I’m the only person in the eco queue at the supermarket, because you bring and pack your own bags. All the other shoppers prefer to join long lines in order for the assistant to pack for them, and then wait as the person in front goes through credit card after credit card trying to find one that isn’t maxed out. It’s a country where I pay two and a half times more in rent than I obtain for my larger house in the UK. It’s a country where children go to school wearing designer clothes and with empty bellies. That’s my Portugal.

Staircase of the Church of Bom Jesus do Monte

As we headed into the countryside north of Porto, the anti-Spanish graffiti became more and more obvious on roadside walls and bus shelters. Weather-wise, it’s been a cold, wet winter and Good Friday was no exception. We wanted to visit the church of Bom Jesus do Monte, a famous sight in this part of the country and one which, the guide book assured us, would be crawling with penitents, climbing the magnificent baroque staircase in front of the church on their knees. But of course, first of all we had to find it and although this is one of the premier sights of Portugal and was, for once, sign-posted, there was no clue as to where to park or where the sanctuary was actually situated on the wooded hillside. In the end, we found it because we knew that one way to reach it was via a funicular railway and we saw a sign labelled elevador. This was indeed the car park and a means of access to the damp, misty hilltop. I would like you to guess how many pilgrims we saw. A clue is to think of a number that is less than one. The new religion of Portugal is that of the shopping mall.

From the Igreja de Bom Jesus, we headed to our hotel, the Pousada de Santa Marinha at Guimaraes. We rarely find Portuguese addresses in our sat-nav and this was no exception. We programmed in the name of a nearby street, but after a few hair-raising instructions to go up narrow, cobbled, one-way streets in the wrong direction, we headed back to town and discovered the road signs. The pousada is a former monastery, the rooms worth a sight-seeing tour in themselves. What a pity that dinner in the restaurant was scarcely worth bothering with and that the waiter tried to overcharge us.

Guimaraes

Guimaraes is known to Portuguese people as the birthplace of their nation. It was the home of their first king, Afonso Henriques, born 1110 and it’s an interesting, well-preserved town. Three things struck us: people were very friendly (unlike where we live, where my neighbours have yet to speak to me); the price of meals in restaurants was a fraction of what we’re used to in the centre of the country; and it was very obviously wash day. Local women were out in force, doing their washing in large, communal, open-air tanks. Those who weren’t doing the washing were visiting the graves of the dead. There was a well-kept cemetery adjacent to our hotel and every grave was clean and had fresh flowers.

Easter Sunday morning started bright and early with the boom of fireworks. It was a beautiful day and we set off in the car to visit the Solar de Mateus, wondering whether or not we would find it open. This is not a country where you can find that sort of information on the internet. The Solar – or stately home – is famous for featuring on the labels of the well known rosé wine. Needless to say, it took a bit of finding, and even when we arrived, we drove past, as the entrance wasn’t sign-posted. When we turned back, we weren’t sure whether to drive in or not as the gates were only partly open. But we gave it a go – and yes, it was open and yes, you could park inside, if you were prepared to pay. This was not a problem for us, but is a big issue for the Portuguese, who don’t believe you should have to pay to park, saying that it ought to be covered by your local taxes. Instead, they squeeze onto pavements; they double-park in the street; they park on roundabouts, on pedestrian crossings, in supermarket car parks, anywhere, as long as they don’t have to pay for the privilege. The house was very cold inside as there was no heating, the gardens quiet and beautiful. Guided tours were possible in English, French and Portuguese, but absolutely not in Spanish. The young guide who showed us round had attended Camden School for Girls and had a charming estuary accent.

Solar de Mateus

I was awakened next day at 3.30 am by ghostly howling from the cemetery adjoining the hotel. What a pity that it was punctuated by giggling or I might actually have believed that the ancient hotel was haunted. After a bit, there was noise from a car stereo and a vehicle drove off, the local teens presumably having tired of their joke. When we got up on Easter Monday morning, the grassy square below the graveyard was being used for a sort of twenty-a-side football match by local men and boys. A good supply of balls meant that whenever one escaped down the steep road – to be fetched back by a willing ball boy – another one came immediately into play.

En route home, we decided to visit the Citânia de Briteiros, an Iron Age Celt-Iberian settlement dating from 300 BC to 300 AD, not really knowing whether or not we should find it or whether it would be open. We did and it was. Not only open, inexpensive to visit and almost deserted, but information was available in English and there was even an on-site café. We also had the place to ourselves for the first hour and enjoyed scrambling up ancient paved roads and into the ruins of round houses; admiring beautiful mosses and wildflowers; listening to bird song and being observed by static lizards. It was a magical place that exceeded all expectations.

As the sun was now out and we were back in the vicinity of Bom Jesus, we decided to pay another quick call in order to get the photos the weather had denied us on Good Friday. In keeping with Portuguese custom and along with lots of other cars, we parked illegally and paid our return visit. Still no penitents, but traffic jams on the way home whenever we passed a road leading to a beach. The temperature on the patio when we got home was twenty-seven degrees. Perhaps the summer had arrived at long last.

First published in VISA 91 (Jun 2010)