Cliff Faces in Portugal

By Elizabeth Johnstone

Cliff top view

I can never decide about cliffs. Scenic, dramatic, but a mixed blessing on a seaside holiday. To reverse the usual saying – what goes down must come up! My most recent encounter with cliffs was a week long trip to the Algarve, Portugal, in September 2015. And there was another cliff in the story…

I booked an all-inclusive package through Thomson at the Riu Guarana Hotel in Olhos de Agua, near Albufeira. We flew from Luton, our nearest airport as the crow (or aeroplane) flies. The transport arrangements worked seamlessly and we soon found ourselves in the familiar environment of a Riu hotel. From the hotel roof – it was an organised visit, we didn’t just shimmy up a drain pipe – you could see the blue Atlantic just beyond the hotel site. Frustratingly, it was not visible from ground level.

We planned to do very little for most of the week, with perhaps one day trip for an injection of culture. Certainly, the village immediately around was quiet. It was a low-key resort. The picturesque beach nestled among red cliffs. Olhos de agua means "eyes of water" and referred to the little jets of fresh water which bubbled up through the sand at low tide. There were the usual fish restaurants and souvenir shops but, mercifully, only a couple of British-style establishments.

It was perfectly agreeable to potter around between village and hotel. There was a spectacular clifftop viewpoint a few minutes’ walk from the hotel. However, if you wanted to dip your toes in the cerulean ocean, there was either a long set of wooden steps or a long dusty path down to the shore. Best admired from above!

The Algarve is a heavily developed area. Albufeira has expanded enormously beyond the Arab Al-buhera, which means "castle of the sea". Its Old Town, overlooking the beautiful Praia dos Pescadores, is mainly a pedestrian area. Picturesque during the day, it pulsates at night. There is a more "party" area known as the Strip which we avoided. Taxis to local destinations are more convenient and no dearer than the bus service. There are also taxi drivers on whom to practise my rudimentary Portuguese! Albufeira has a bullring. Portuguese bullfighting differs somewhat from the Spanish variety and features Minoan-style bull-jumping. The posters insisted, "Bring your child and play with him," but the bull is still tormented by metal darts and is killed "offstage" after the event.

Cliff face....

A prominent local resident of Albufeira is Sir Cliff Richard. His face is to be seen beaming over displays of the wine from his vineyard at tourist shops throughout the region. Opinion is divided, however, as to the quality of the wine.

We opted for one of the day trips organised through Thomson. We paid extra to travel in a small group via minibus, having enjoyed this format on a trip to Iceland. Our first stop was at the picturesque town of Lagos. I could have happily spent much longer there, enjoying the marina, the beach, the Old Town and the Moorish castle. But, ever onwards, and we arrived at the Cabo de São Vicente, a spectacular headland known by the Romans as "the end of the world". It has been claimed that Prince Henry the Navigator established his school of sea-faring at nearby Sagres. The cliffs, jutting starkly out into the Atlantic, are magnificent, the line of tacky souvenir and food vans ("last Bratwurst before America!") less so.

Cork tree

Heading back inland, we drove up through the mountains of the Serra de Monchique to our lunch destination. I could not get over the profusion of fruit trees. Orange, lemon, persimmon, pomegranate - eventually I had to stop photographing them. A curiosity is the cork tree. Part of its bark is periodically stripped off to manufacture corks, but there is a strict regime of leaving the trees several years to recover. The number 1, for example, on the bare part of the trunk indicated that the bark had last been stripped in 2011. Unsurprisingly, the farmers are against metal and plastic bottle stoppers. But I was amazed to see shops selling bags, belts, hats and other items made from a cork so flexible as to resemble leather.

The tour company had recently changed restaurants for the day trips and the new owner was all out to impress, serving a generous lunch washed down with excellent wines. Apparently, he was José Mourinho’s cousin. The Special One wasn’t feeling too special that day, as Chelsea had just been defeated by Porto in the Champions League. Our next stop was a local distillery, where we were offered aguardente de medronho, made from the fruit of the arbutus tree. Too much like firewater for me, but the version with added honey was more palatable to most of the group.

We drove through the charming spa town of Monchique and up to the viewpoint at Foia. The panorama was magnificent, especially if you kept the military installations out of your line of sight.

Silves Castle

Our last calling place was the delightful town of Silves, with its cathedral and wonderfully preserved castle. Photo opportunities by the dozen!

The all-inclusive format does not feature too many local specialities, but there was always at least one regional dish on offer in the hotel dining-room. I gorged myself on the sweet Portuguese oranges, and enjoyed fish (sardines and hake) at most meals. The custard tart is one of Portugal’s gifts to the world and I bought some at a local shop (in Portuguese!) Coffee is an art form. The waitress gave me a big thumbs-up when I asked for uma bica, or Portuguese espresso, in an Albufeira café. Even the modest local supermarket had an impressive range of port, most of which had English brand names reflecting the English involvement over the centuries in the port industry.

The national symbol is the galo de Barcelos. Legend has it that a cockerel crowed to prove the innocence of a wrongly accused man. You see these brightly painted ceramic creatures everywhere and I bought another to add to my little family on the kitchen windowsill (pictured below).

If you speak Spanish, you can understand a lot of written Portuguese. Spoken Portuguese is much harder. Unstressed endings are de-emphasised or just disappear altogether. But I love all that mellifluous "oosh-ooshing". (Spanish los platos becomes Portuguese os pratos pronounced oosh pratoosh.) And it was super fun asking for two ports or two caipirinhas, if only to see the barman’s amazement.

Custard Tarts

We had a most enjoyable holiday. I would definitely go back to the Algarve, but it is worth doing your homework to avoid the busiest times and areas. Sardines are optional, but custard tarts are a must!

The Day the Earth Stood Still

By Tess Kamara

In April 2010 my friend Elizabeth and I decided to take a writers’ holiday, choosing a self-catering apartment in Lagos on the Algarve. It was outside the season, making it cheaper and quieter than in the height of summer. With sunshine, the beach close by and few distractions, we could knuckle down to some serious work. Nothing could go wrong – could it?

We touched down on Saturday and enjoyed a scenic ride to our villa in Meia Praia, just outside the town centre. Opposite the beach, the apartments have all mod cons and a sunny terrace. There is a supermarket within walking distance and a regular bus to the town centre. The complex was only half occupied so we had peace and quiet to work in.

We soon settled into a routine – work in the morning, lunch, stroll into town to check email at a sleepy internet café, a dip in the waves then home for more work on the terrace, usually with a bottle of wine to hand. It seems hard to believe in the 21^st century but we were pretty cut off.  Satellite TV was extra so we hadn’t bothered to book it, and as neither of us speaks Portuguese, telly was restricted to a half hour American sitcom in the evening. Neither of us had an iPhone although Elizabeth had a mobile, and English newspapers were a few days old so we remained in blissful ignorance as Europe began to close down.

Surf lesson

On Tuesday we were off to surf school; I was trying to fulfil an ambition of standing up on a surfboard before I die. The Eyjafjallaj̈okull volcano had been active for some weeks by then which is normal for Iceland – the earth’s crust is so thin there that you can see hot water bubbling up on the side of the roads in Reykjavik. Back in Lagos, our hunky instructor Jez drove us out to Zavial Bay, an ideal spot for beginners as it’s fairly sheltered so the waves don’t get up to a scary height. I spent an enjoyable afternoon falling off the board – or “wiping out” as we surfer types call it. Elizabeth took to it like a duck to water and even managed to kneel up on the board, despite never having surfed before.

Next morning we went to buy presents, stopping at the internet café for coffee. It was much busier than usual and their wall TV, which normally showed football on a loop, had been switched to some sort of nature programme featuring volcanoes. Later, as we looked at tourist tat in town, Elizabeth got a short text asking whether the volcano was affecting our holiday. Mystified, we asked the shopkeeper. She assured us that no volcanic activity had occurred in Portugal and we must be thinking of the mini-tornado that had hit Lisbon the previous day.

A quiet internet cafe - but not for long

On our strolls into Lagos we sometimes came across an elderly British lady who I dubbed Ex Pat, who’d sit drinking tea and reading papers in the main square. She was typical of a certain type of Brit who retires abroad; well into her eighties but skinny and wiry, brimming with energy and tanned a deep mahogany from years in the sun. We saw her outside a café and went over to ask if she’d heard anything. “Oh, yes dear” said Pat. “There’s been flooding at Tavira, just down the coast. A storm made the marina to burst its banks, upending boats and flooding the streets. And it turns out Iceland have let off a volcano and it’s making its way across Europe, affecting air travel.” I made a joke about Armageddon, saying that after the volcanic eruption, tornado and flood, all we needed now was a plague of locusts. “Not locusts, dear, Asian hornets” said Pat, showing us an article in the Daily Mail. “There’s an invasion of them heading to Britain across the Channel.” At this point I wouldn’t have been surprised to see the four horsemen of the Apocalypse gallop past; at least they had their own transport.

We didn’t think anything in faraway Iceland could affect us but we stopped off at the café to try and get more news. It was packed now, with people queuing for the six computers. Elizabeth rang Monarch airlines but kept getting a recording telling callers to check the website. From looking over the shoulders of others, it became clear that the major travel websites had crashed; Monarch’s had a message referring users to their phone number.

We got chatting with a friendly Scottish couple, Brian and Gayle. They were seasoned travellers; Brian was a master builder who spent several months a year overseeing projects in Spain and Portugal, accompanied by his wife.  They had been due to go home on the same flight as us, and were busy working out a plan B. At this stage nobody knew anything and the café was swirling with rumours and speculation in different languages. Because foreign roaming charges were so steep Elizabeth’s friend would only send the most laconic texts, but of course she had no more clue than we had. The stories grew wilder; I got the impression that the UK was covered in a pall of white ash and people were afraid to go outside. Someone confirmed that all European flights had been grounded and even if they were to resume in the near future, there was already a backlog of passengers trying to leave. It slowly dawned on us that we weren’t flying anywhere that Saturday. We briefly considered road travel, but that was impractical by now; every taxi and hire car had already been commandeered, while congestion was causing the continent’s motorways to close up like clogged arteries.

We did what the British do best in adversity and ordered drinks. Eventually Gayle waved us over; Brian had had a breakthrough. He’d managed to get on to the Brittany Ferries website and was booking them on the next available sailing, on the following Wednesday. He strongly advised us to do the same while the website was still open. After a moment’s wavering we did so. We found out later that shortly after we booked, all sailings filled up for the next month.  Trains out of Lagos were full for the foreseeable future but luckily the café was a not far from the bus station. The four of us pelted down there and joined a long queue, not knowing what we were buying tickets for. When we reached the front we found we could get tickets to Seville for Monday morning; we snapped them up, joking wryly that when we arrived in Seville we’d wing it.

All hope of a peaceful break evaporated as we bustled about, rearranging schedules and informing our employers. We were able to stay on at the villa paying a daily rate but we heard horror stories from other British tourists asking them to leave their hotels or pay double because of a sudden increase in demand. Of course there was no extra demand as the incomers were stranded as well; it was just a nasty trick to get money from already overstretched families. One family of five we met later in Madrid said they were forced to sleep on the beach because they simply couldn’t stump up the extra cash. We kept the TV on all evening and looked up every time a news bulletin came on. Although we don’t speak the language we both know French and Spanish and it’s amazing what you can learn when you have to.

News was coming in from all over Europe, with Britain low in the pecking order. The Queen of Denmark’s birthday was ruined because her extended family couldn’t make it. The funeral of the Polish prime minister, who’d died in a plane crash on the day we arrived, would have to be postponed because no heads of state could attend. Queen of the world Angela Merkel was stuck in Belgium, to no-one’s dismay. Over in Paris, taxi companies were making a fortune sending fleets to ferry passengers between the airport and the station as people scrabbled frantically for ways out. Wags were calling it the two-centre holiday; three days hanging around Orly airport waiting for a flight, followed by three nights sleeping in the Gare du Nord in the vain hope of getting on Eurostar. The only news item from the UK was a comic one – Dan Snow setting off with a fleet of rubber dinghies to ferry stranded Brits from Calais.

Local TV showed scenes of utter bedlam at Faro airport. Families who’d run out of money were camped out in the grounds. Mothers were putting babies to bed in open suitcases as kids ran amok, enjoying the chaos. Stories emerged of people paying hundreds of pounds for taxis to take them to the nearest port, but even that option failed as the roads of Europe became gridlocked. I’ve always taken air travel for granted but this was the first time I realised how dependent on it we are. Watching the world grind to a halt seemed surreal. I had the feeling I sometimes get commuting in the rush hour while thousands travel in the opposite direction; why does everybody always need to be everywhere else?

Monday morning saw us on the bus to Seville when we should have been back at our desks. We got quite a few texts congratulating us on the extended holiday, but the joke got old after half a day on a packed bus. In Seville we followed Brian and Gayle’s lead and bought train tickets to Madrid, booking hotel rooms as we would be arriving late. Madrid looked promising but I was too tired to explore it after a long day’s travel and went straight to bed. The hotel rooms had satellite TV so we could catch up on world news. The stories were the same everywhere – business and government paralysed except, apparently in Norway, where the Prime Minister was pictured running the country from his iPad. The saddest story was a report from a Kenyan farmer’s collective; they relied heavily on sending shipments of roses to Europe and now their entire summer’s livelihood was wilting in an aircraft hangar.

Next morning we spent four hours in a massive queue at Madrid station, wilting like Kenyan roses in the stifling heat. Once we confirmed we could actually get on a train to Santander, we booked hotel rooms near the ferry dock. The whole experience was proving very expensive although we did eventually get the return fare refunded by Monarch Airways. However we were still much better off than the British families we kept bumping into as they made the same trek across Spain as us. Most of them had no idea what to do when they reached Santander as the sailings were sold out. One couple with three small children said that if they couldn’t get on a crossing they’d schlep across to Bilbao and try their luck there.

Once in Santander I felt I could breathe out; we had our ferry tickets and could finally kick back and relax. Our hotel, the Central Ignacia, was eccentrically painted bright blue, which was handy when asking for directions as I couldn’t understand the local dialect. It was also only ten minutes’ walk from the port and in a busy area packed with shops and restaurants, so we had a chance to stroll around and shake out the kinks after two days of almost continuous travel.

Wednesday dawned, a gloriously sunny day. The ferry didn’t leave until late afternoon so we had plenty of time to check out this elegant and cultured city. I’d only been to the Costas before so my predominant impression of Spain has been one of concrete hotels slung up to accommodate British hen and stag parties. Santander remains unspoiled despite being a popular tourist destination and the hotels tend to be traditional and gracious. The shops and restaurants are upmarket and somewhat expensive, which I suppose helps to deter the party crowd. We took in an art exhibition before heading back to the beachfront for lunch. An impressive sight awaited us; a British warship, the HMS Albion, had arrived to take home stranded passengers and a long queue of hopefuls was forming, snaking along the seafront. Far out at sea, we caught a glimpse of our ferry coming in. We chose an al fresco tapas bar and settled back to enjoy the view.

The crew of the Albion were moving along the lines, prioritising disabled people and families with babies. People who weren’t chosen were becoming quite frustrated – understandable under the circumstances. I’m not sure I’d want to go home on a warship (although it makes a great story) because it looked very basic – they had rows of camp beds laid out on an open deck. Because there were no proper facilities for civilians the only way they could get wheelchair-bound people onto the deck was to carry them. As this was happening our ferry loomed into view. It took about three hours to disembark the inbound passengers and let us on. We stayed at the bar until the last moment as we already had reserved cabins.

The staff of Brittany Ferries couldn’t have been more helpful. They allowed a thousand extra people on as foot passengers and left the restaurant eating areas open all night so they could sleep on the comfortable banquettes. Elizabeth and I had a twin bed cabin – small but well appointed. On Friday morning we docked at Plymouth, almost a week later than planned. The information desk on the boat had done its homework and posted a list of travel options to London and the south. It was rather short; all trains were fully booked and a local airline was offering first come first serve flights to Gatwick for £50, but it had very limited capacity. It began to seem that we would have to try and get a B&B in Plymouth before all the other thousands pouring off the ferry had the same idea.  We’d lost sight of Brian and Gayle by now but I wouldn’t be surprised if they were first in the queue for cheap flights. Just then someone (he later introduced himself as Jim) came up to the information desk and said he could take two extra passengers to Reading in his delivery van.

As we drove off the ferry squeezed into the van, I could have hugged Jim. He had to take a convoluted route to make his various drop-offs, but the weather was wonderful and the countryside was breathtaking. It was election time and as we drove through different counties we would see the same light blue Conservative posters on hoardings and banners fluttering on telegraph poles; I hadn’t realised before how true blue Middle England really is. The vehicle was cramped but we were able to spread out as each delivery emptied it. In any case, it was so miraculous to be back on British soil, we might as well be riding in Cinderella’s carriage. I texted my manager that we were back in Blighty and on the way home in a furniture van – she thought it was hilarious. When we finally got back to work, the week’s lateness was written off as the whole ash cloud situation was unprecedented.

By the time Jim dropped us off at Reading, we’d traversed five counties – Devon, Somerset, Wiltshire, Reading and Berkshire. Driving past Chippenham, I saw the great sight of Stonehenge for the first time in my life. Jim took us right into the station, helped carry our bags in and refused to take any petrol money – the perfect gentleman. I’ve never been so happy to return from an alleged holiday, and the counties of England have never looked more picturesque. I wondered briefly why anybody would ever want to go abroad when dear old Britain has this much to offer.

First published in VISA 117 (August 2014)

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)

Northern Portugal

by Lincoln Betteridge

I guess many people from the UK tend to travel to the south of Portugal. Living as I do in the north of Spain, it is much easier for me to travel to the North, just jump in the car and off I go. Actually this is more or less true, they have built some good new roads across the North of Spain that offer good driving, for the most part they are free, and they also pass through some interesting areas and cities.

To digress for a moment, an option for some would be to fly into Zaragoza then drive across as I did. There are flights from Stansted to Zaragoza and then one could hire a car. The road passes through Leon which is worth a visit and then one could follow the Duero river right through to Oporto. The Duero river now offers some of the best wines to be had in Iberia and there are many bodegas that are well worth a visit. As I had rented out a small house in the very north of Portugal I actually went up through Galicia, ignoring the Duero and then dropped into Portugal from the very north of the country.

The North is very green. Many of the roads are very narrow and one needs to be careful when judging distances. The house we chose for example wasn't that far from the sea, but when we actually drove along the narrow roads it actually took forever to get there! There are many tiny roads, many tiny villages and something that is most uncommon in Spain is the fact that there are many houses scattered across the fields outside of the village. A Spaniard would never consider living outside a village.

Although many Portuguese would not like me saying this, rural Portugal is probably 50 years behind rural Spain. One can still see farmers walking their cattle down the roads. I saw few tractors and those that I did were small and old fashioned, much of the work being done by hand. Basically it is green fields, small villages, bright whitewashed houses and in general much more sun than in the UK. Of course, if it is sun you are after, then head down south.

One last word on logistics. Two of us drove across from Zaragoza. We picked up the last person in Oporto. It may seem a long way from the north of Portugal to Oporto, particularly after what I have said about the roads, but there is a toll motorway running right down the middle of Portugal, once one gets on it then the going is actually very good. The person flew in from Liverpool so this is an option for those of you in the North. Don't try this unless you rent a car, you won't get anywhere on public transport.

One of the first trips was down to Oporto to pick up the third member of the party. The airport was easy to find, nice and modern with good access to the parking. We then used the faithful Tom-Tom to take us to a car park within the city. As the city is not large we chose one outside the centre to avoid traffic issues. The city is well worth a visit, in particular the area around the river. The city is on high and there are spectacular views of the river and one of the main bridges. One can see the bodegas across the river with names of all the famous manufactures of Port clearly written on the roof of each bodega.

One can also see the typical boats that were used to transport the wines up and down the river. The older boats have sails, the more modern have engines. A trip up the river in some sort of boat is one of the obligatory excursions from the city and there are numerous companies offering the service from the quayside. We went down to the quayside via some of the larger streets and climbed back up via a stairway and smaller streets that start from the base of the large iron bridge. One other item of interest: the food. We found that in many restaurants they offered half measures. Do not doubt whether to take a half or a full measure, always go for half. I am a big eater and my son could eat for England; even he could not finish his half measure. Through all our stay in the North we found the food to be good and the measures very generous. Take some loose fitting trousers.

There is a National Park in the North of Portugal that is well worth a visit, called the Peneda-Gerês National Park. Again the roads are narrow and one needs to plan with plenty of travel time. Many of the villages are tucked away in the hillside and are most picturesque but my favourite has to be Soajo. It is famous for the stone huts that are used to store the crops, but it is also situated in a beautiful spot perched on a hillside. The views from the town itself are well worth the trip there, but we chose to walk up into the hills and managed to get some splendid views looking back. The walk may appear long from the photographs, but was probably little more than half an hour.

Of course if one goes to Portugal, one should hit the beach at some point. This is of course a real sea and very different from the large lake that is the Mediterranean sea. The waves come in with force and I for one could feel the full force of the Atlantic Ocean beating on the sandy beaches. I hate busy beaches, in fact I hate busy anything. I always look for empty roads, empty towns to visit and empty beaches. It must also be said that I can't just sit on a beach, I have to be doing something. The following route we did quite comfortably in one day, but of course if you are one of the people that do like to enjoy the sun you may want to split the following into a couple of days. We dropped down towards the coast making our first stop a place called Ponte de Lima. This town is in fact not far off the main North-South motorway so as long as one can get on this motorway one should be able to get there fairly quickly. We found it a nice place to make a first stop, sit in one of its numerous cafes and the town itself is well worth a walk round. Even the post boxes are like in the UK so there is no excuse for not sending the postcards one bought some days previously but had not had the chance to send. The beach we chose was Afife beach. It is supposedly one of the best but it was hardly packed as the following picture shows. In addition the beach was many miles long so even if the area around the car park was full a little walk would easily provide a quieter spot.

As we wanted to be on the beach in the morning, we actually came back on ourselves to the third stop of the day in Viana do Castelo. The easier option perhaps would be to hit the beach in the afternoon then get back onto the motorway a little further North. We on the other hand enjoyed a morning on the beach then had lunch in Viana. The town has an impressive castle that is well worth a visit. It also has pleasant streets to visit. It was probably the most touristic town we visited with many, many shops selling souvenirs and many restaurants. There are quite a few restaurants strategically placed on the main street between the castle and the centre of town, but for those who can wait a little then on the other side of town there are some smaller streets with a large selection of restaurants. The biggest car park is around the castle itself and it is a good place to start the visit. There is also a nice church just off to one side of the castle and another one on top of the hill that offers excellent views of the town and castle below.

I liked Portugal. The people were very friendly, the food was good once we got used to the portions and there was little traffic in the area we visited. As one can see from the photographs there are no large numbers of people even though we went in a holiday period and to the most commonly visited towns. I can only assume that the vast majority of people must visit the South. These days there are much more exciting destinations on offer and prices are dropping all the time. However I would recommend this area for anyone. As I mentioned earlier, there are flights into Oporto that, if bought well in advance, are relatively cheap. This destination is perfect for a week away from home in a place it doesn't take forever to get to!

First published in VISA 97 (June 2011)