Europe
Peripatetic Perceptions of Portugal
Dateline: Portugal.
(A 30-minute read)
I finally reached the Portuguese border. The steep climb out of Spain through the Sierra de Aracena had been narrow and at times tortuous but at last the road straightened out and leveled off as I approached the border control just beyond Rosal de la Frontera. I had arrived at the edge of the Alentejo, Portugal's largest province that stretches from the Atlantic to the Spanish border, south of Lisbon but north of the Algarve.
A careful check of the car's papers and I was through. Much of the Alentejo is devoted to large plantations of cork forests. As I drove along, I could see that each tree was numbered; the bark is allowed to be stripped only once every nine years. I wondered if there could ever be enough. Portugal is quite a contrast from Spain; everything seems so much neater. I passed women scrubbing their front door sills and actually sweeping the main road in front of their whitewashed houses. I'd heard that the people of this region were independent and self-sufficient, but this was almost too much. But the biggest difference was the roads. Spain's had been narrow, hardly ever more than two lanes even between major cities down on the flats. Here the "yellow" roads were twice as good and the "reds" virtual motorways, amazing when you realize that Portugal is the poorest nation in Western Europe. Planning my trip on the map, I had figured that the route from Beja to Evora would be even worse than that through the Sierra de Aracena (which had been marked in red). Driving west from the border, I turned north at Beja only to find that the road was wide and straight and I arrived in Evora just before lunch instead of after tea.
Evora's walls encircle a town which seems to encapsulate the history of Portugal in one extraordinary package. If you're a history buff or a student of architecture, Evora is a "must." On the other hand, if you enjoy relaxing in a typical, peaceful town which reflects the habits and temperament of a people, Evora is also for you. And for me, it houses one of Portugal's outstanding pousadas that, like the paradors of Spain, are hostelries operated under the guidance of the government and usually located in buildings of considerable architectural merit.
The Pousada dos Lóios sits in the very center of Evora.
Right outside its nearly perfect, Moorish-Portuguese, 16th-century portal is the stark, Corinthian-columned Temple of Diana that dates from the second century.
Many say that this town, from an historical point of view, is one of the most important in the world. Obviously it was an important Roman city, then Moorish, but to the Burgundian kings, it was too isolated and was forgotten. In the 14th-century, however, the king moved court to Evora from Lisbon and everyone rushed to build palaces and important convents.
The Convent of the Lóios Friars is perfectly preserved and is bounded by the palace of the Counts of Baston, on one side, and by the house of the Dukes of Cadaval, on the other. And here is where I spent the night in an extraordinary Indo-Portuguese, four-poster bed with red velvet hangings and turned mahogany and brass filigrees!
My accommodations, the only suite, had magnificent, eighteenth-century, hand-painted walls and ceiling, but the bathroom was as modern as one could ask with gray onyx everywhere.
The bedroom looked out on a small private square which protected a vine from which grapes might very well have been plucked for hundreds of years.
The cloisters have been sensitively glassed-in to make the restaurant, and even though it was 2:30, I thought I'd see if I could have some lunch.
I was surprised to see so many people still eating and when still more arrived after I had been most graciously seated, I felt no qualms about having arrived late. I was served a delicious traditional lunch of Alentejo garlic soup, a charred brochette of squid, and chicken in a Moscadet de Fonseca-based sauce accompanied by a heavy red Daó. I went upstairs and read heavily myself until woken by the bells of the famous cathedral, The Sé, built in 1186.
There are 18 important sights well-marked on the walking guide which I picked up at the front desk. I wandered the town for several hours before dinner, enjoying the atmosphere of a town full of animated people chatting in ancient squares, and tending their shops as if unaware of the fantastic beauty around them.
Dinner was well-served and delicious; the pousada charming and comfortable. As I edit my photos in the folder, I know I will remember this spot more clearly than many.
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Copyright 2008
Driving from Evora to Lisbon, one might think one was in Georgia in the USA: lots of scrub pines, trucks carrying logs to pulp mills, sandy verges, even a Ford assembly plant; happily, I was still in Portugal. After only 2 ½ hours, I was on the Portuguese equivalent of the Golden Gate Bridge—the bridge that had been built by the Americans in 1966 over the River Tagus. My Hertz map got me to the door of The Ritz without a wrong turn and I entered one of the best-known hotels in Europe. My parents knew it as The Ritz; today it is the Four Seasons Hotel Ritz Lisbon.
I was shown into the center suite on the fourth floor. Paneled like the QE 1 in matched-grain, bleached mahogany, the enormous rooms were delightful. A large foyer opened into a pale sky-blue living-room with a long balcony overlooking the Edward VII Park, the statue of Pombal (who rebuilt the city after the devastating earthquake of 1755), and the Champs-Elyseés-like Avenida da Liberdade. The bedroom was filled with art nouveau furniture, and the bath was all black granite and heavy chrome with a tub large enough to float any one of Vasco da Gama's ships (that, sponsored by Henry the Navigator, returned to Lisbon in 1498 having discovered the route to India and the route to Lisbon's fortunes). The profits from these epic voyages built the fabulous palaces and churches that can be seen all over Lisbon.
My itinerary for Portugal was still a bit up in the air but as I had decided that morning to spend my last night in Lisbon before heading home, I needed to make reservations. It turned out that darn near every hotel in Lisbon was booked. After two hours of telephoning, I finally secured rooms in the Avenida Palace with a back-up at York House; I'd have a look at both before deciding which to cancel.
Eager for the sights and sounds, I walked down the Avenida da Liberdade, poking in galleries and small shops until I found myself in the district known as Restauradores near the Rossio railroad station above which was the Avenida Palace. I asked to see the rooms I had booked and was shown a two-bedroomed suite that felt like it hadn't seen the light of day since 1930. This was Lisbon's first hotel and still maintains all its original, gilded public rooms, velvet over-stuffed furniture, and crystal chandeliers. Oh well, it was better than nothing; I'd check out York House after lunch.
Walking across the street, I found myself in a rabbit warren of streets jammed with the lunch crowd—Restauradores: every corner a cafe, skewered chickens turning in every window, and a queue at nearly every doorway (some led to peep shows—it's that part of town). I climbed the stairs in Bonjardim (Travessa de Santo Antão 12), sat at a paper-covered, rickety table, and devoured papas fritas (French fries) and a delicious chicken which had been spit-roasted over glowing oak embers. I lingered over a rough red wine, amused at being the only foreigner in the place.
After lunch I walked through the Rossio, the shopping section of old Lisbon, made note of several places I would return to after our trip up north and took a taxi to York House. I loved its garden courtyard and confirmed my reservations. (I'll tell you all about it later.)
Back at The Ritz, I canceled the rooms at the Avenida Palace and called the Casa da Comida (Travessa das Amoreiras 1; tel: 68 53 76) and booked a table for 9:00 pm. It was near the hotel and highly recommended.
A guidebook had warned that the entrance was hard to find but it turned out that all I had to do was keep an eye out for Michelin-toting, well-dressed folk; and as I turned a corner, a snappy-looking couple were consulting the Guide right outside the door. I guess they decided to go somewhere else for a drink; I went in. The place was empty. I sat on the only piece of furniture in the entrance, an ugly Victorian settee with bolstered arms, and went over the menu. The anteroom/bar was darkly paneled and opened into a room with a glassed-in atrium filled with Phoenix palms and tropical plants. It rather reminded me of the cloister at Evora except that the walls were hung with a series of wonderfully frivolous paintings of scenes of camp kitchen staff, half dressed as Pierrot, half hardly-dressed at all.
I really didn't want to be the only person dining, so I made my drink last nearly an hour. Finally, a rather chic-looking crowd had gathered—a few tourists including the Michelin-clutching couple, but mainly Lisbon society. I had an excellent dinner: caldo verde (a creamy herb soup), a gratinée of salt cod, and a tender lamb stew that was imaginative and elegantly served by knowledgeable, polite waiters. But while Portugal is known for its low cost of living, the prices here are what you would expect to pay in New York!
The next morning I called British Airways just before 9:30 to check on the arrival time of Richard Shepherd's flight. Now while I realize that Lisbon shuts up very late at night and it is often hard to find anything open much before 10:00 am, I did not expect the British Airways office to have an answering machine saying that the office wasn't yet open at 9:30. Annoyed, I called the head administrative office; a gent politely explained that the reservation and information office didn't open until 9:30. I said, "That's what I figured but it's now nearly 10:30!" He calmly explained that Portugal was not on the same time as Spain but the same as London, an hour earlier!
Here I was, world traveler, and I'd been an hour off since arriving at the border yesterday! I was laughing at myself so hard that the chambermaid thought I was nuts. I let her in with my breakfast that I had thought was running nearly an hour late; it was right on time — 9:30 on the dot. No wonder I had been so pleasantly received at lunch in Evora yesterday; it was 1:30 not 2:30. And of course the restaurant was empty when I arrived last night; who goes out to dinner at 8:00 pm on the Iberian peninsula?
It turned out I needed that extra hour for, while Lisbon's airport is closer to the center of town than any other airport I can think of in Europe, the traffic is horrific.
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Copyright 2008
Like all members of Parliament, Richard Shepherd maintains an amazingly busy schedule. Unlike representatives in the United States, M.P.s have weekly "clinics" in their constituencies so that they are available to listen to problems and suggestions on a regular basis. On top of that, Richard owns London's equivalent of Balducci's or Zabar's — Partridge's on Sloane Street and a chain of supermarkets aimed further down market. It is rare when he can get away.
The flight arrived on time, and opening his Michelin Green Guide, Richard urged me on to Queluz without delay. Asking no questions, I joined the traffic and headed toward Sintra. He said he'd tell me when to turn.
The Palácio National de Queluz was less than a half-hour from the airport and I wouldn't have thought to stop if Richard hadn't been reading about it out loud as I tried to follow the signs.
The royal residence at Queluz has always been enjoyed by the king's younger sons. Started in 1758, this miniature Versailles wasn't finished until 1794, and consists primarily of a one-storey, U-shaped pavilion enclosing meticulously-groomed gardens of box and yew. There is a series of restored, elegantly-gilded rooms which, at second glance, are really rather simply constructed.
I was surprised that the ornate ceilings consisted of nothing more than embellished, canvas-covered, wooden planking. This country-casualness belied the terrifically-grand cathedrals we were to visit in the days ahead, many of which had been decorated at the same time. Of course, none of the guidebooks admit to this rusticity and you will be amused by it.
The palace is still in use; HRH Queen Elizabeth II has stayed here as have many other heads of state, and the chapel is used for society weddings. Happily for us, Cozinha Velha, once the old palace kitchen and now a delightful restaurant, was open and we enjoyed a sumptuous lunch surrounded by antiques in the tall, elegant, mansard-ceilinged room.
As the car was full of luggage, we asked a policeman where might be the safest place to park during lunch. In what we came to learn was typical of the friendliness of the northern Portuguese, he offered to keep an eye on it for us. As we came out, he nodded and walked away; solving the question of whether or not to tip a member of the constabulary.
We were in Sintra in no time. Sintra has always been the bastion of the grandest country houses of Portugal. Here one can see the ruins of the 7th-century Castelo dos Mouros perched high above the valley kept verdant by the moist sea breezes.
Here too is the Paço da Vila dating from the 12th century with its huge chimneys each looking for all the world like an English oast house. One should also visit the Palácio da Pena which started out in life as a monastery built by Manuel I in the early 1500's but which was transformed by a relative of Ludwig of Bavaria into a faux medieval palace; I guess it runs in the family.
With great anticipation, we crunched in the graveled drive of the Palácio dos Seteais, one of the most famous hotels in Portugal, and our home from home for tonight.
Built at the end of the 18th century, the palace consists of twin buildings attached by a triumphal arch. The public rooms are grand but not imposing. There is a reading room on the left as you enter, with a long refectory table covered with newspapers and magazines in at least four languages; a long corridor leads to the double drawing-room that looks out over the beautiful boxwood garden and the valley to the sea. Its opposite walls are hand-painted with trees whose branches intertwine on the ceiling.
Richard had a bright, but dormered, single, two floors up on the front; I was in Suite 2 (the only one) on the piano nobilé that had 14-foot ceilings and looked out on the swimming pool, tennis courts, and the sea beyond. Both of our accommodations were elegantly-furnished with a mixture of Portuguese antiques and superior marquetry reproductions; I especially appreciated the hand-embroidered sheets, pillowcases, and mattress covers.
I went to the front desk to see if a chauffeur could be hired for the evening as we wanted to go to the casino at Estoril (doesn't everyone?) and perhaps a place to hear fado. It turned out that Augustus, the charming man behind the desk (who had been there for 22 years), "would be honored to show us around." We learned later that the chef had been there even longer—fifty-seven years! That says a lot for an hotel.
I met a very nice English woman, for whom I had mistakenly opened the lift door thinking she was the valet arriving, and asked her and her husband to join us for cocktails before dinner. My room was ideal for entertaining. I opened the door from my foyer onto the main hall and the music from the grand piano downstairs was the perfect accompaniment to our candle-lit cocktail party. A grand but small hotel encourages grand but small gestures.
After a perfectly respectable but uninspiring Franco-Portuguese dinner in a dining room too empty of patrons and too full of light, we found Augustus in front with our car. What followed was, in retrospect, the funniest evening of sightseeing one could imagine. As we drove along, Augustus, growing rapidly into his new rôle of Guide, kept up a non-stop narrative of all the fascinating, beautiful, horrific, famous, and infamous places we passed; except in the pitch-dark, moonless night, we couldn't see a thing.
Arriving at Estoril, he deposited us at the door of the Casino, and for an hour I used my favorite "martingale" (a system involving bets which, ignoring the double zero, offer approximately 50/50 odds e.g. rouge et noir, pair et impair) to keep up the appearance of a serious international roué. I won enough to cover the entrance fee and a couple of drinks but we never saw Humphrey Bogart, let alone George Raft. And actually, the Casino was rather too new and at the same time too shabby to be remembered with anything other than a shrug of the shoulders.
Augustus then took us through Cascais to the smartest place to hear fado in the region. Fado is native, plaintive, narrative singing to the accompaniment of guitars. Unforgettable and slightly spooky, it is unique to Portugal. We arrived at what looked like (what could we see anyway?) a farm house. We knocked, the little grill-covered hatch opened and we were ushered in. This was Forte Dom Rodrigo (Casa Santa Isabel, Estrata de Birre; tel: 28 51 373) and the joint was jammed. Rodrigo has produced over 30 albums, and people flock from Lisbon and around the world to hear him. I don't know how good the food is but for an atmospheric after-dinner drink, it's a fascinating experience, at least once.
While we wanted to get back to the hotel, Augustus had something else in mind, and we bounced and shuddered and lurched through the blackness until finally a lighthouse appeared, far ahead. Rounding a bend we slithered to a stop alongside a car that obviously wasn't empty, sorry fella, and got out. Blinded by the great light and with the wind whipping our jackets round our heads, we stood dumbstruck not knowing what we were supposed to be seeing. Augustus was yelling something but the words were snatched from his mouth by the gale, and all we could do was to cling to a low wall to keep from wading into the sea.
Back in the car, Augustus explained that we had just been to the western-most point of the European continent — Cabo da Roca. And, by the way, the sea had been 350 feet below us over that little wall!
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Copyright 2008
Even though we weren't to bed until 2:30 a.m., we got off by 9:30 and headed north beginning one of the most fascinating days of the trip. We had planned some serious sightseeing and, this evening, we were to be paying guests in the private home of one of Portugal's best known families
A friend of ours in London has a company which specializes in arranging, with the help of the Portuguese government, visits, as a house guest, to a handful of Portugal's most important manor houses. Having pioneered the concept in the United States at The Point, I knew it could be great fun and I asked her to pick the best; we could modify our itinerary accordingly. She called back to say that we were to be welcomed at the home of the family that founded and still owns Portugal's historic porcelain works, Vista Alegre. I received the brochure the next day which raved about the house, Quinto do Paça da Ermida, and its charming staff (including one of the country's best cooks)! Quite frankly, this arrangement was critical to the whole trip—I wanted to have something really special about which to write you.
We kept the coast in sight for about two hours, driving past wide beaches on one side and rolling green hills spotted with whitewashed hamlets on the other. Richard knew what we ought to see and I was just enjoying the view when up ahead we spied a medieval village surrounded by castellated walls.
It almost looked like a contrived tourist attraction but, quickly consulting our maps, we figured it had to be Obidos. Richard flipped back a few pages and read: "Dom Dinis, passing through with his young bride, made her a present of the town because she had admired the ramparts twining like a ribbon around a bouquet of shining white houses. From then on, Obidos was known as the wedding present given to Portugal's queens."
We parked outside the walls and walked along the narrow streets. I peeked into several small galleries and craft shops along what is really the only commercial street in the village.
Climbing the stone steps at the end of the street we came upon the Pousada do Castelo.
If we hadn't been heading for the highlight of the trip later that day, I would have loved to have stayed here. It was the ancient castle of the governor of Obidos and has been carefully and casually restored. The village itself was charming and a perfect place to pause for a day of tranquil strolls and pauses in a spot time has yet to touch.
But the Green Guide called and, far beyond, our hostess was waiting. We drove through Caldas da Rainha which at one time was the most popular hot springs resort in Portugal. The waters had been given royal promotion by Queen Leonor in 1485 when she built a hospital there and personally administered its healing waters.
A few miles further on, we came to the first objective of the day, Alcobaça, the site of the royal abbey, Santa Maria de Alcobaça. Founded in 1153, Cistercian monks moved into Alcobaça 25 years later and started to build what became Portugal's largest church. The abbey became one of the most powerful in the country and at one time as many as 4000 monks lived here.
While the church is festooned and filigreed, its façade contains a beautifully simple Gothic portal above which a magnificent rose window rainbows the honey-colored columns within.
In stark contrast, the dormitory's vastness — twenty pillars support the great Gothic vaulted arches — hushes conversation; in an instant you are transported back through 800 years of history and start imagining how it all really must have been.
The perfectly-restored abbey tells it all. In the kitchen, whose ceiling must soar at least 30 feet to accommodate the chimney of the central stove, a stream slips through a marble gutter to the dishwashing area. Through a doorway is the larder. It must be 100 yards by 50 and its tiers were arranged to store meat, vegetables, fruit (the orchards planted by the original monks continue to supply the country's finest today) and firewood—the forests of 13 surrounding towns were ravaged to keep up the supply of hundreds of cords per month. While we were there for only about two hours, one could easily spend twice as long without taking it all in. Go, it's breathtaking.
Three miles beyond we found a roadside restaurant and had a nice lunch of pasta and grilled pork which was good and cost nothing. It seems to me that in Portugal one can find the most dependable food at such roadside stops…the uglier, the better.
A half an hour later, we entered Batalha and the site of another monastery, equally spectacular and almost identical in layout to the abbey of Santa Maria but very different in style — Santa Maria da Vitoria.
In 1385, João I, twenty years old, defeated the invasion by the King of Castile, and to celebrate this miracle, vowed to build the most beautiful church imaginable. The plans were modeled after Alcobaça but as the king had just married Phillippe of Lancaster who wanted her husband to use the English architect, Huguette, the style was changed to Gothic Perpendicular. What resulted is a serenity of design in which the soaring church melds perfectly with the two adjacent cloisters. The only bizarrity is now its most famous attraction—the Unfinished Chapels.
Never, anywhere have I seen such truly extraordinary stone carving. An enormous doorway—an amazing example of ornate Manueline architecture of lace-like intricacy—leads into the chapels which stand open to the elements; while one king after another dreamed of finishing them, the money ran out before the roofs went on. Inside the church there are several equally heavily-reliefed sarcophagi of interest. One holds the remains of Henry the Navigator. Although he was responsible for the era of exploration, it's remarkable that he never navigated one himself.
Exploring these two magnificent edifices on the same day is rewarding but exhausting, and it was at this point that I realized that our itinerary was over-stretched. Hot and tired, we headed northeast to pick up the motorway realizing that our goal was still hours away. What we should have done, (oh boy, should we have!) was to have gone straight to Buçaco and stayed at The Palace Hotel. This 17th-century monastery, surrounded by a botanical forest, was turned into a royal residence by King-consort Ferdinand who built the Palácio da Pena at Sintra and later, after much extraordinary architectural tweaking, became what is considered by some to be one of Europe's great, idiosyncratic hotels. But you can't do everything and, anyway, I was looking forward to a wonderful dinner party and scintillating conversation at Quinta do Paça da Ermida.
"Oh, you can't get there from here!" he mumbled; the third person we had asked in the last five miles. Our friend in London had instructed us to go to Ilhavo and ask. I guess it wasn't her fault that the road was being torn up and the traffic sent 'round Robin Hood's barn in directions we couldn't judge, to towns that weren't on the map. We kept driving and asking. Every time we saw a grand house in the distance or a large stand of trees, Richard said, "That must be it." It never was. Finally we came upon some women washing their laundry by the side of the road in concrete basins obviously designed for the job. Once again, Portuguese being an impossibility, I got out with my maps and most forlorn look to ask the way. (I mean this had to be the largest and most important estate within miles, why was this getting so difficult?) Nodding their heads and pointing first at their feet, then across the way, they told us we had arrived. At last!
We drove the 50 yards around the bend; that couldn't be it. A rusted gate was open to a small dirt yard surrounded by a U-shaped house of plain proportions. Weeds edged everything and there wasn't a soul in sight. We climbed the steps to the front door and rang the bell; nothing. Richard was half-way back to the car muttering under his breath and shaking his head, I rang again. I heard a door open and close; footsteps approached and the door was opened, a crack. A maid-like person meekly peered out and asked what we wanted. At least I guess that's what she said. Richard bounded the stairs and empirically demanded to be let in; we were expected, invited in fact, and this performance was nonsense. The maid slammed the door in our faces.
Richard rang the bell again. This time the maid returned with a piece of paper in her hand—the confirmation from London that Dr. Edward Carter and Mr. Richard Shepherd, M.P. were indeed expected and arriving today. I gave the door a shove, grabbed our bags and we were in. The front hall was dim and dingy. There was a guest book on the table; the last entry had been a year ago. All the doors from the hall were shut; I put down my bags and sat on them. I wanted to know the form: where were our rooms, when was dinner, were we to wear black tie, and when was breakfast?
How Richard learned Portuguese in the next three minutes, I'll never know, but somehow he gleaned that the lady of the house would be home in 30 minutes and that our rooms were just through that door and down the hall. Things were looking up; the rooms were quite nice. Mine had two four-poster singles and his had the same, but the posters were on the walls. As he headed for a look around the garden, I grabbed my camera to join him.
Seconds later he rushed in saying, "Shut the windows and don't dare go out, I've already been bitten three times."
What we had failed to realize was that this area of Portugal is one huge marshland; ever heard of "Mosquito Coast?" He also said that he had seen, through the basement windows, a woman talking with the maid; we wondered if the lady of the house had been there all along? (It turned out she had.)
Just then Madame appeared, and appeared rather put out. Speaking better French than English, she explained that she did not "do" dinner; didn't care what we wore; perhaps we could find something to eat in a nearby village (if we could find it)...she didn't have any recommendations; that she locked the front door at midnight, and no, we couldn't have a key in case we got lost returning (let alone going). Not even offering us a welcome drink, this hard-as-porcelain, dynastic dame told us breakfast would be served in the dining room at 8:30 a.m., turned on her heel, went through into the pantry, and shut the door in our faces.
I turned to Richard, "Are you sure that gal in London is our friend? Don't you think she would have checked before printing that expensive color brochure? And I gave her the choice of which place to send us. In any case, how could anyone willing to let P.G.'s into her house have manners like our hostess, which is hardly the word I'd pick to describe her?"
Things only got worse. We drove off in search of dinner. We must have crossed the same bridge ten times as we looked for the main road. We weren't much better off when we did. Finally, in what looked like a backwater of Blackpool or Jones Beach, we staggered into a masqueteria (seafood restaurant) only to find at the next table, a cowboy-booted, turquoise-encrusted couple from Texas! No wonder our two portions of grilled langoustine came to nearly $150 and we didn't dare drink—we needed all our wits to find our way back!
I won't bore you with the details of that wild goose chase. Suffice it to say that after to-ing and fro-ing up and down what was probably the same lane all the time, we found that we had stopped in frustration right in front of the gate.
Breakfast came all too soon and we were too angry to even notice what we'd been left. Madame came out to collect her money; it would have cost us exactly the same at The Palace Hotel in Buçaco!
My mother had a funny saying: "She was OK as cooks go, and as cooks go, she went." So did we.
_________________________________________________________________
Please note: The email address in the box below does not always seem to work. A better one to use is eglcarter@yahoo.com
Copyright 2008
We'd been cultured-out the day before so we drove straight on through Porto and up the Costa Verde to Viana do Castelo. We'd decided that it was just too much trouble packing and unpacking every day and that we'd base ourselves at the Hotel Santa Luzia for two days and nights.
This is the Minho, Portugal's greenest province and I had heard so many wonderful things about this region of Portugal that I wished we had two more weeks instead of two more days. Viano do Castelo is on the River Lima. Its current is so slow that it used to be called "the river of forgetfulness"; it still seems to have a great influence — the Santa Luzia had forgotten our reservations; someone else had forgotten to put out chaise-longues and towels at the pool; the telephone operator had forgotten the dialing code for Lisbon; and whoever suggested that we could eat on the terrace had forgotten that the hotel's rules forbid it. We learned later that the manager was on vacation and perhaps had forgotten to appoint anyone to be in charge while he was away.
However, we did have two very nice rooms with huge balconies that looked over the town and the miles of deserted beaches that stretched to the horizon. We had lunch in the hotel one day and dinner the next. The food and the service were perfectly adequate but nothing to write home about. We went into the town for dinner one evening but as the locals take in the sidewalks after 9:00 pm, there was little choice in restaurants. We finally found something kitsched as a Swiss tavern and had a fun evening downing steak and chips with two bottles of red.
The next morning we were off at dawn to follow the Lima to Ponte de Lima. The town was celebrating its annual New Fair (that has been held on the 2nd and 3rd weekends of September since the 12th century) and we wandered through the cobbled streets to the bandstand in the main square where a uniformed group, ranging from 11 to 77, were having as much fun playing as we had listening. Stretching from this square, spans the multi-arched, Roman bridge, after which the town was named, and that is still in use today. There are a number of attractive sidewalk cafés but we had planned to lunch in Guimarães.
As soon as we saw Guimarães (pronounced ge•mar•esh), we knew we should have checked out of the hotel this morning and based ourselves here. The town is a jewel. Its museums are filled with treasures of stone carvings and silver and its streets and flowered squares are pure throwbacks to the middle ages. We lunched at the Pousada de Santa Maria da Oliveira.
The dining room is a study of sophisticated subtlety and we enjoyed a delicious lunch elegantly served by a very professional staff.
The upstairs rooms are equally attractive and comfortable; I'd stay in suite 24 that overlooks the church and square.
Then we drove 2 miles up the hill to have a quick peek at the other pousada. The Pousada de Santa Marinha occupies an ancient convent founded in 1154 by Alfonso Henriques, the first King of Portugal.
As the hotel was full, we couldn't see what the bedrooms looked like but the public spaces are remarkable. Everywhere you turn there is some architectural detail to delight the eye; it's certainly a spot to keep in mind for another trip.
We drove back to Viana by route 103 through beautiful pine and eucalyptus forests. This was the Portugal I was looking for.
The second highlight of our trip (the first turned out to be the disastrous “Paying Guest” experience) was to be the train ride from Porto to Lisbon in overstuffed comfort aboard one of the last truly luxurious trains in Europe. Richard had friends who had done the trip a couple of years ago, so I had arranged to turn in the car in Porto (only foreigners call it Oporto).
The front desk clerk at our hotel had forgotten how to make reservations so we drove back down the hill and went to the train station. The ticket window was closed so I went to the Tourist Information window. The girl said that she couldn't make a reservation for us; that we had to buy it from the other window; that the man would arrive to open the window about half an hour before the next train; that the next train wasn't due for two hours, and by then it would be after closing time. We went to the Tourist Bureau in the center of town. An English girl was on-the-job-training. She didn't know about trains or training. Richard said we weren't faring very well; I added "at least not chemin de fer-ing."
It was that kind of day. We went to a travel agent on an adjacent street. He understood what we wanted and asked where we were staying. I told him the Santa Luzia. He said, "It used to be so good, but it recently lost a star and is now down to three. What did I think of it?" I told him to take a swim in the river so he could forget it.
As he was writing up the tickets and making out the reservations for the special first class section, he proudly said that they had finally retired all those old cars with the armchairs and replaced them with Amtrak/Inter-city replicas. Richard and I just looked at one another.
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Copyright 2008
Up at the crack of dawn, we were in Porto by 10:00 and, following Hertz's instructions, left the car in front of the railroad station and the keys with the girl behind the counter at the corner café! That's Portugal.
While we were sorry that the old cars had been replaced, the new ones were much more modern and cleaner than either Amtrak or British Rail. We had a good three-course lunch that was professionally served by attractive and friendly staff. We agreed that the railway companies in the U.K. and the U.S. would benefit from making this trip themselves.
There was a huge queue at the taxi rank in Lisbon but it moved very quickly and soon we were on our way to York House. Granted it's a bit out of the way, but you have to take a taxi to the center of things whether you're at The Ritz or York House. Both, by the way, are the only hotels in the Michelin marked in red (their way of saying that they are more pleasant than the others).
Up two flights of vine-covered stairs from the street, we entered a delightful, leafy courtyard set with café tables and chairs.
The hotel and its annex up and across the street really were full; we had been very lucky to get rooms. Mine was charming — an airy, eclectic collection of country antiques, glazed tiles and hand-woven fabrics — and looked out on the courtyard; Richard's, on the other hand, was smaller than a hat box and looked out on nothing. So be careful when booking; make certain to request rooms 40-48, 12 & 14 or suites 303 and 307.
The attractive, blue & white restaurant opens onto the courtyard where, weather permitting, breakfast and lunch are also served.
I'd promised myself to try and find some hand-embroidered linens, so off we went to Rossio. In no time I found some really extraordinary sheets and pillowcases at Lavores Femininos, 179 Rua do Ouro; Louisa speaks perfect English and if she doesn't have what you're looking for, she'll know where to find it. We didn't dine at the hotel that evening but went out with a nutty couple that Richard knew. We pub crawled, ate in a restaurant in the red light district (not our idea), and ended up in a private disco whose entrance was so hidden I'd never find it again. It probably wouldn't be there anyway.
We checked out of York House the next morning.
So "as the sun sets," what about Portugal? Most of it is cheap, most of the folks are very friendly and helpful, the pousadas are fascinating and, as long as you stick to simple places, the food is good. Except for the Vila Joya and perhaps La Reserve, you can have the Algarve — the south of France is much more beautiful, attracts a nicer crowd, and offers a terrific selection of places to stay, great food to eat, and things to do; and it's not that much more costly. For me the best of Portugal is Evora, Sintra, and the Costa Verde. When I go back, I'm going to base myself at Guimarães and spend a week or two driving north and northeast into and around the national parks near Montalegre and Brangança. Then perhaps I'll venture over the border and explore the ragged northern coast of Spain and on to...well, I'll write you all about it later.
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DID YOU FIND THIS FREE ARTICLE INTERESTING AND/OR VALUABLE? Please note: The email address in the box below does not always seem to work. A better one to use is eglcarter@yahoo.com Copyright 2008
Please email me your travel tales, "postcards," and questions. I'll publish the most interesting, appropriate or outrageous in Correspondence - All the best, Ted (short for Edward)
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