Take me to the river

Ok, so where were we?

Oh, that’s right, we were just about to leave Aveiro. I have to admit, that writing this I am quite some distance from Aveiro. We were talking the other day to our friend S, who is also keeping a blog of his travels, which is never more than a few days out of date. He mentioned friends of theirs who kept a blog, but it was terribly out of date. Well I am afraid that S has two blog writing friends lacking blog efficiency. I make no apologies for the tardiness of my blog, but what I will apologise for is the inevitable truth distortion which comes from reporting on events well past. Hopefully you will excuse my occasional and very slight exaggerations and minor fabrications.

From Aveiro we have a fast train booked to whisk us to Porto early enough to then catch the slow regional train that snakes its way east along the Douro river to Pocinho, almost at the Spanish border. The man in seat 61 (google it. A most informative website on European rail travel) advised us for best atmosphere to catch the Miradouro service, a vintage diesel locomotive hauling 1950’s era red Schindler coaches, and to sit on the right hand side of the train to get the best view of the river. He also said to catch the train from Porto’s Sao Bento station, but our Aveiro fast train did not go via Sao Bento so we change at Ermesinde, the third stop on the Douro River line. The concern here of course is that the train will likely be quite full, and the valuable RHS seats would be taken. We must have been very good lately, because the travel gods smiled upon us again when not only did a Miradouro service roll into the platform, but we also managed to snare two seats on the right hand side.

We have really been looking forward to this train trip, and it hasn’t let us down. There is something quite wonderful about slowly clickety clacking along in a rattly smelly old diesel train with a magnificent river fringed by vineyards for as far as the eye can see. It is every bit as delightful as the man in seat 61 suggests. And happily for us, although the Douro River is immensely popular with tourists, riverboats rather than trains seem to be the conveyance of choice, so although our little train is full, we are still only three carriages, we are not bursting at the seams, and we still have locals using the train for commuter services, which only adds to the experience, and all this for just €7 each way (seniors rates). I guess this will all be discovered soon and the charm will be gone.

One of the rail reviews we read suggested that we should go only as far as the tourist hub of Pinhão on the Douro, because there is nothing much to see from there to the end of the line at Pocinho. Luckily for us we ignored that advice, because some of the most beautiful scenery was in that stretch. There was certainly not much to see or do though at Pocinho other than to deboard the train, watch the locomotive move from one end of the train to the other, then reboard for the trip back to Pinhão where we were staying for a couple of nights.

We arrive at Pinhão at about 2:00pm, having left Aveiro at 8:00am. A very busy morning, with no food consumed. We were pretty hungry, so we resolved to check into our airbnb and then head out for something to eat. Only problem was that the airbnb instructions had been somewhat mangled by google’s clumsy attempt to turn Portuguese into English, and whilst we knew which street our accommodation was on we really knew very little else. After a fruitless search for the shop mentioned in the google cipher, I shot off an email to our hosts seeking clarification. By this stage our hunger had got the better of us and we headed for the nearest restaurant still open to grab a quick bite. What seemed like a light fish lunch on the menu turned out to be a mountain of food which cost more than we would have liked and took us an age to consume, not least because of the number of bones to be extracted from the dastardly codfish. That’s it, no more codfish. We really haven’t got the knack yet of ordering food in Portugal. As we ate our meal, a less cryptic airbnb missive via google translate arrived providing instructions for our apartment. Turns out it was just around the corner and (as is often the case in Europe) down the cobbled street and up a steep flight of stairs. Evidently, Next time we travel overseas we are going to fit all our belongings into something no larger than a shoe box and weighing no more than 5kg (roughly two pairs of underpants, my camera, toothbrush and iPad. I hope we go in summer).

Pinhão is only a small town, so it takes not long to explore. Surprisingly given the number of river cruise ships docked, the streets were pretty empty as we wandered about. It appears that the town holds little interest for river cruisers. They either sit and eat food and drink wine on their boats, or are bussed away to wineries where they sit and eat food and drink wine. A bit of a wander and leisurely coffee and Nata (it appears to be ok to abbreviate Pastis de Nata) rounds out the day nicely.

Our last few days we have been a little bit slack with our walking, and we have some pretty big walks coming up, So our second day in Pinhão we decide to take a good walk. And the hills and vineyards beckon. Beth was at first reticent about walking through the vineyards. It all just appeared a little exposed, but the track we were persuaded towards by the signs in town turned out to be quite delightful. It took us through the vineyards up to the Miradouro de Casal de Loivos, a lookout high above town with spectacular views across an amazing expanse of terraced vineyards down to the river. Climbing the hill was hard work, but well worth it. The walk was a circuit, and our trip back to town involved closely skirting vineyards, walking through Cork Oak forests, through private gardens and across some really interesting terrain. It is quite amazing to be walking through vineyards which have been producing wine since Roman times. As we walked through the vineyards I noticed that the stakes supporting the vines all had a dark, burnt appearance and I wondered why. Closer inspection revealed that each stake was actually a slender, manually split shard of the same schist rock which had been used to build the magnificent terraces. The amount of effort it must have taken to build these vineyards is staggering. They really are an enormous work of art. Olive trees and orange trees abound here, some in groves and some seemingly wild. The olive trees caused me no real excitement, but the orange trees, well. They were so heavy laden with fruit which looked so ripe and so luscious that it caused me to drool. I reasoned with Beth that the fallen fruit on the ground showed that the oranges were going to waste and waste must be an evil thing. Surely it was my duty to consume some of that good fruit before it fell to the ground and rotted. Beth reasoned back that these were not my oranges to take, and they were all just tantalisingly out of reach for a good reason. I must resist temptation.

I did resist I think for the best part of an hour, whereupon a big ripe orange fell from a tree in the terrace above, then rolled down the embankment to land at my feet. Beth could not argue. This was surely a sign that I must take this orange, which I did. I also clambered up and liberated another couple of oranges which looked very much like they were also about to fall. Beth frowned but the deed was done. This all took me back to my early high school days in Geelong, when I would walk home from school through the lanes which in another era had been used by the nightman. On the way, if I saw a fruit tree in a back yard, I would quickly jump the fence, grab the nicest piece of fruit, stuff it in my school bag and be on my way, oftentimes with an angry gardener in hot pursuit, rake in hand and hell bent on giving me a whack. We called it fruit-flogging, and I guess it was bad, but it did give me an enduring love of fruit. The greater the adrenaline rush, the sweeter the fruit seemed. No adrenaline with the oranges, but when we (yes, we) ate them later that night they were delicious.

While we were out walking, our airbnb host sent me a text to say that they were opening a wine bar in the shop just below our apartment that evening, and that we were welcome to come down and join in the festivities. Perhaps 40 Years ago, that would have sounded great, but now it just sounded like our sleep was going to be disturbed, which indeed it was. The rowdiness didn’t subside until after 2:00 am. The airbnb review was not a positive one.

From Pinhão we caught our little train a little further down the river to Peso de Regua where we were to stay another two nights. Peso de Regua is huge by comparison with Pinhão, but just a small regional city which looked a little sad and had nothing much obvious to cause us any excitement. Our hotel room was a beautifully presented and well equipped room over a bar and pastelaria (pastry shop) which was jam packed full of patrons when we arrived to collect our key. We still had plenty of the day left to wander around town, and of course once we had acquainted ourselves a little more with the place it grew on us. We visited their excellent wine museum which helped to answer a lot of questions we had about the Douro valley winemaking industry. We also managed to find the fresh food market and buy some provisions for our stay. Bread, fruit and cheese. Our staples. I found sourdough bread, which was the first I had seen in Portugal, so I latched onto it. Apples, oranges of course, some mandarins, strawberries and bananas and we were set for a feast. And then, the piece de resistance, a magnificent looking portion of soft cheese. The vendor chopped of a lump and gave us a taste before we bought. It was very good, but the portion was quite large. We looked at each other and decided, we can do this. So €10 later we were the proud owners of half a kilo of Regua’s finest soft rinded cheese. Lunch at a nice little brunch place which didn’t even have codfish on the menu and served half decent coffee, then a little more wandering rounded out the day nicely.

Whilst we wandered I had been scoping out the possibilities for a run. There was a path along the river, which meant it was reasonably flat, there was a footbridge across the river, which was also flat, and it seemed there was enough length of pathway to ensure a safe 8km run where I would not need google to come to my rescue. So at my usual run time of 5:30am, armed with my headlamp I set off, but 2km up the river I encountered my Lisbon nemesis, a detour. It appears that the path and the adjacent road had recently been swallowed by the river, so I am glad I didn’t ignore the flimsy barriers saying do not enter, otherwise I might have gone for a swim as well. For all of 2 seconds I considered following the detours, but they took me up the hill and away from the river which I knew was playing with fire, so I turned around and went down the river as far as I could, then crossed the bridge a couple of times and arrived back at our room just as my watch ticked over 8km. A very satisfactory outcome with google not summoned once.

Breakfast at Régua was to be served in the little pastelaria below our room. Something which caused me a little bit of anxiety, because I had seen the place bursting at the seams the day before. But my need for breakfast outdid the anxiety hands down, and we bravely made our way downstairs. As I feared, there were people clamouring at the door to get in for their morning coffee and pastry. We joined the clamour expecting breakfast would be an awful espresso and a croissant flung across the bar. But no. We were spotted by the barmaid and whisked to a corner of the room to a reserved table. A little sanctuary within the maelstrom of the pastelaria, where we were served a sumptuous breakfast. A wonderful experience. We had intended skipping breakfast the following morning to make an early start heading for Porto, but that was no longer an option, a breakfast experience such as this one is not to be missed. Porto could wait.

We still had a full day in Regua, and much as we were now quite fond of this little city, there really wasn’t much left there for us to do, so we resolved to head out to a historic town away from the river. Our first choice was Mateus to the north, but it was Sunday, and there were really no viable public transport options, so we settled on Lamego, about 12 km south. Lamego has an old (once upon a time walled) city centre, a castle and a cathedral, so plenty to keep us busy for the day, and there seemed also to be quite a few buses running, so Lamego it was. We headed down to the bus stop straight after breakfast to catch the 9:00 bus. But 9:00 came and went without a bus to be seen. A closer inspection of the timetable, including a more thorough translation reduced quite a few down to a handful. The first real bus was at 11:00am so we entertained ourselves with aimless wandering until then. When we did board the bus, we only bought one-way tickets, because Beth had a plan. We could spend a couple of hours in Lamego, then save the €0.95 return fare by walking the 12km back to Regua. Her all trails walking app had told her that it was possible to do this walk largely avoiding busy roads.

We had a lovely time in Lamego. It had a beautiful old city centre, a wonderful long plaza where a vibrant Sunday market was happening when we arrived, a castle, and of course a monastery on top of the hill with 677 steps to get there, and then the bell tower to climb after that. A nice little warm up for our leisurely walk home. All trails did mislead us a little. It kept us off the busier roads and took us through some old lanes and backstreets which were very interesting, But it did also expose us to some interesting times on narrow country roads which seemed to attract fast cars intent on using as much of the road as possible. A few cling to the wall and breathe in moments, But it was fun and we lived to tell the tale, so all good.

Sumptuous breakfast again in the morning, then sad farewells to Regua and back on the train to Porto where we were to catch up with our friends C & S to spend a couple of days exploring Porto before heading off on the coastal Camiño to Santiago de Compostela.

We arrived in Porto around 11:00am, but our room was not available until 4:00pm, so we left our bags at the hotel and headed out to look around. Our hotel was in the middle of the old town, so there were plenty of old buildings to look at and narrow steep laneways to explore. We made our way over to the wonderful Parque das Virtudes, a delightfully unkempt but beautiful park on top of the hill overlooking the river, then walked down to the river via the ancient terraces of the Passeio das Virtudes. A walk through the hustle and bustle of the Ribiera waterfront district with its colourful shops and cafes and across the lower level of the beautiful Ponte Luis 1 bridge to Vila Nova de Gaia on the other side of the river. We checked out the splendid view of Porto from the Igreja do Mosteiro de Santo Agostinho da Serra do Pilar (the church on top of the hill), then wandered the streets of Vila Nova a bit. Just for something to do, we went looking for the house of Teixeira Lopes, a well known Porto sculptor, whose house, gardens and art collection are now a museum. Unfortunately Monday is Tex’s day off and the doors were locked and windows shuttered. Oh well, it was a nice walk. A bit of fruit lunch on a park bench and then back over the river, on the top deck of the Ponte Luis 1 bridge this time, sharing space with the light rail. Because we had bought a three day transport pass, we took a bus out to the beach, just for a bit of fun, Then back to the hotel to organise ourselves and arrange to meet up with S & C, who had also arrived in Porto that day and were staying at an airbnb a little further up the hill away from the river.

The poor old Da Bolsa hotel wore its two stars fairly forlornly. Everything was clean enough, but just a little old, a little shabby and a lot out of fashion. But no mind, the bed seemed comfortable enough and there were enough amenities to meet our humble needs. There was no fridge however, and we still had some of that magnificent soft cheese and sourdough bread left. So rather than let it go off, and particularly given we were a little peckish, we decided to polish it off there and then. A big chunk of cheese served at room temperature on crusty sourdough. Yum.

We caught up with C & S for dinner and loosely planned some more Porto touristing to fill in the next couple of days. There were palaces to visit, churches to admire, funiculars and cable cars to ride on, trams to catch, bookshops to browse in, museums to learn in, towers to climb, views to gaze upon, and most importantly, food to be eaten.

After a workaday breakfast at the workaday da Bolsa, we set off to meet C&S at the magnificent Porto Cathedral, where we get our first stamp in our Camino passport. The theory is that you visit churches along the way on the Camino, and have your “passport” booklet stamped with that churches mark. Upon reaching Santiago de Compostela, you then use that souvenir passport as evidence of your pilgrimage so you can be awarded a certificate. We got our stamp and had wandered through the cathedral emiting the mandatory oohs and ahhs, and had just started climbing the bell tower when Beth complained about a bit of an unsettled stomach. I too was feeling a little seedy. But not being known for letting a little bit of discomfort get in the way of something we needed to do, we soldiered on. For about another 30 minutes. Half way through the. Bishop’s palace, I suggested to Beth that we had best repair to the Da Bolsa, where I think the rudimentary facilities might be put to the test. We bid a hasty farewell to C&S and bolted for our room, where we did all those ghastly things you do when you have food poisoning. Sadly we didn’t emerge from our rooms for another 2 days. Our Porto visit ended there.

Of course we were very quick to apportion blame to the Da Bolsa breakfast. After all, The yogurt did taste funny. We were not too sure of the hygiene around the pastries. The coffee machine was grubby. The waitress looked at us sideways. Yes, it was the Da Bolsa breakfast. When I thought about it though, I wondered whether our Regua cheese, very probably unpasteurised and left unrefrigerated for the whole day, might be a more likely culprit. We did, in our hearts, apologise to the Da Bolsa, which had given us shelter for two horrid days, and which we had wrongfully accused of poisoning us. We did however also steer clear of breakfast.

So now, in our weakened state, and neither of us feeling brilliant, we set off for a 27km day walk. The first leg in our 280km Camino to Santiago de Compostela. Wish us luck…