RECESSION-PROOF TRAVEL BREAKS FOR THE BORED AND BELEAGUERED

(for Mam, who loved a bargain holiday, and Dad, who loved Yugoslavia)

Wednesday, January 13, 2010

Oh Porto!



Porto is straight out of a Shakespearean play. In strictly visual terms the Merchant of Venice comes to mind, because of the gondolas and barges and the colourful trafficking on and in and around the banks of the River Douro. Especially if the bard’s mobile character, Falstaff, were to drop in on the drama. The city is piled steep on both sides, rickety buildings on the Ribeira side - with lines of washing on the front balconies – sitting above and just behind one another so that everyone has a view, like a well designed theatre. Excuse me, I have to take that right back, because Porto and the Ribeira are just one side of the river, the north side. The opposite bank, hardly more than an arm’s reach across the waterway, is not Porto but rather Gaia, another city altogether and the home of the great port lodges. Linking the two are a couple of very dramatic rail and road bridges.  

Getting there
Michael (RyanAir) will get you there for as little as a fiver if you have your prepaid Mastercard and cabin luggage. I came in by coach from Santiago de Compostella in Spain with a couple of friends, after walking the walk of the demented through some lovely countryside in a pilgrimage of shared pain.  We went out the first night looking for something to eat. We weren’t fussy, just starving, but we were prepared to dine in elegance. Nothing stood out. Nothing much seemed open, or bright, so we ended up in a sloping alley off the main square where a cheerful Brazilian band was playing outdoors to three adjacent eateries, as well as an assortment of uninhibited passersby who just put down their handbags and briefcases and plunged into the samba. One or two of the men were dressed like accountants and a very large lady had some powerful moves. It was more intense than jolly, a little strange, like the reception we got on arrival, when the bus dumped us on a corner with no sign of a bus station, taxi rank or tourist booth lighting up the melancholic urban landscape. In the alley, we asked for burgers and they came with fried eggs and easy singles and lettuce and a scatter of other niblet items and the glass of red wine was sweet port. So we had another and then went down the steep hill to what turned out to be the penny stalls in the theatre of the Ribeira Douro.  

My oh my. What a place! I could not imagine any demi-monde deal that might not be going on down there. True, it was the eve of the Red Bull Air Race, or of the finals of the Air Race, so the dishevelled appearance of the place could have been because of that. But it was colourful in a Moll Flanders kind of way and you could sit there all day and half the night without seeing the same thing happen twice.

The following day, a Sunday, planes were swooping up and down the river and crowds converged on the banks and hung over the bridge railings, high pavements and roof perches to get a look. It reminded me of the air shows and spring shows and horse fairs that would sometimes come to town when we were kids and all the townspeople would turn up out of gratitude that someone had put something on for us. It didn’t matter what. Could have been the mayor’s funeral. Grown up and abroad I was even less interested in this event, but the crowds were impressive. They had hats and sunglasses and little folding chairs and things to hawk and they were buying and selling and sharing and eating for Portugal.  You could see the tide coming in and going out on the river. The Atlantic was just a couple of miles out west and the Portuguese used to think this was the end of the world, before brave men set out to test that old conviction. The riverside in Porto has the look of the last hurray, like Vasco de Gama was leaving again tomorrow.

The Port Houses
Someone said that someone said that Taylor’s was the place to go to, where the port-tasting was free. Unfortunately Taylor’s was closed on Sunday and I would have to come back (my foot-weary friends were gone on to Lisbon and home), but the Taylor’s people were nice enough to tell me Croft’s was open and the port-tasting was free there too and probably is everywhere else as well. After you have exhausted their generosity you can buy another shot for something less than a Euro and sit outside and look down at the river from your sunny perch. They had just launched a novelty in the form of port on ice, which they were very excited about, and that innocent claim reminded me of the stories about explorers who discovered the Amazon or the Gobi Desert. I got to Taylor’s the next day and by then I had tried the sweet and the tawny and the ice version and knew everything about the English families who took over the industry here and the shale and the terraces and the mixing and blending. There is a big frisson about drink-tasting in a holiday or recreational setting. The staff of the port lodges were gracious and pleasant and did not seem at all put upon by the crowds who trailed in hour after hour to test their port and their patience.

Sights
All my photos disappeared into the internal memory of the camera, which didn’t seem to have much on it but would accept no more (wrong size setting I found out later). That was an awful pity, because the place is massively photogenic. Gondolas, painted balconies, narrow alleys, splendid blue and white tile clad churches, the sumptuous tiled interior of the Sao Bento railway station. When I fixed the problem later I thought they would re-emerge, but they were gone from memory, just like the name of the hotel I stayed in had gone from mine, of the square it was in, of the fantastic internet café, of the bridges, the number of the bus I took out to the Atlantic. No matter. I can google them, and I have to come back here anyway, maybe with company for a boat trip up the Douro.  

The bus goes west along the northern river bank out to the Atlantic shore, but when I went, a heavy mist was rolling in, giving the place a silently spooky appearance. These wouldn’t be the finest beaches of Portugal by any means, but a short train ride on the opposite bank accesses fine sandy beaches in less than half an hour.

Internet
I don’t mind emailing or googling or skyping from internet cafes, but I don’t like doing my day’s work in the full public glare. The internet café almost directly across the public square from the downtown Residencial Chique  where I stayed,  was absolutely terrific. It was huge and every station had an executive desk, comfortable chair and a whole private corner of the room to settle in to. It was cheap, and they served coffee and didn’t mind you having it at the desk.

Accommodation
Two nights in the Residencial Chique, which is bookable via Hostelbookers, a 2nd floor pension overlooking the av. dos Aliados, the city’s dominant central square, cost €70 and that included breakfast. I think I had a double bed, which is always a plus if you are paying a bit more for single accommodation anyway, and the reception staff greeted me like the prodigal guest, even though the place appeared to be full. Breakfast was unremarkably fine. I can’t remember what I ate exactly but I don’t recall complaining. The receptionists/ management looked worried and asked me to tell people about the place and so there you go. I should probably send them a link.

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