Portugal 2016

The difference between a tourist and an adventurer? Poor planning!

Friday went like clockwork. Bus to York station and train to Kings Cross. Walk across the road and onto Eurostar and in Paris in time for a crepe with our friend Hakim and a hotel looking across the square to Gare Montparnasse.

Next morning the 7.20am TGV gets us to the Spanish border by lunchtime. So far, so good.

Our plan (plan A) was to get as far as San Sebastian that night and then take the scenic route along the coast to Galicia, turn left to Vigo and into Portugal. At Irun the Spanish train is about to leave so we nip into the ticket office. We have interrail passes but you still have to reserve your seat and be issued with a ticket.  Rule 1 – never assume that the two major cities in the Basque region would have a direct rail link. No. It seems we have to go south, halfway to Madrid, change trains and head north to Bilbao. And the train is leaving from platform 4 under the subway in 2 minutes. If we miss it, we forfeit our booking fee. We make it with seconds to spare and with the booking staff urging us on from the platform.

And so we find ourselves later that afternoon in Miranda, a rather non-descript railway town somewhere in the central plain. We buy our tickets to Bilbao and wait for the next train, due in 30 minutes. But hang on, the ticket guy said platform 4 and this is coming in on 6! We check our tickets back at the desk. Our train is not the next one out. The next two are 'completo' and we have 3 hours to pass in Miranda.

Miraculously, this is the weekend of Miranda’s patron saint. Of course as this is a children's parade in Spain the fun doesn't start until around midnight and we shall be in bed in Bilbao by then but there is an impressive row of floats setting up and a nice park for a beer or two and to watch all the action.

We had warned the hotel in Bilbao we would be late but it's Friday night and the Old Town is still buzzing when we arrive so we dump our bags and head out for beer and tapas and people-watching.

Next morning, after going over to the station to book our next leg to Portugal, we wander along the River towards the Guggenheim. They are setting up for an open water swimming event so we make a note to be back in time to watch. This gives us a couple of hours in the Guggenheim  which is worth it just for the architecture which we get to enjoy in relative peace until the large parties start to arrive about 11.30. After which you can’t see much though we did catch the brilliant temporary exhibition on modernism in Paris.

Back out on the river bank the race had started and we wandered back up the course to watch the finish.

Picking up our bags we had to go back to Miranda to catch the overnight Trenhotel to Lisbon. Amazingly, Miranda had put on another show for us! This time a parade of dancing giant puppets which seemed to attract the entire town’s population.  

We had only booked seats on the Trenhotel so it was an uncomfortable night and Peter for one didn’t get any sleep. We were booked to Lisbon but discovered the train went through Coimbra which was our actual destination so we asked to get off there. Which we did, at 5.45 am, at the station on the edge of town. There followed a trek in the dark towards the town centre. Never been so pleased to see a 24/7 Macdonalds until we discovered that it must have meant a different 24 hours as it was closed.

Eventually we climbed up to the Placa Republica

and sat in the park until the first café opened. It was just up the way from our hostel and near the University so we caught our first glimpse of the students while breakfasting at the Café Universidade. It was registration day and most were dressed formally, many in full black capes. We were told it was not compulsory but it seems most were happy to dress up for the occasion. It was suggested that Harry Potter had made it cool again though originally we were told it was so that poorer students could not be identified by the quality of their clothing.

We were allowed to leave our bags at the guest house – the Duarte - just across the way from the Botanical Gardens. The plan that morning was to try and find the places I stayed as a student some 50 years ago. We worked our way down to the river just to make sure the central station - which lies on a short spur from the one we arrived at – really existed. Then along the riverside park towards what used to be the outskirts of town, looking for something familiar but just following the topography. The city has grown enormously but within the new apartment blocks we would occasionally come across a smallholding or rustic cottage left over from the old days.

 One stretch of houses was populated by vicious dogs who looked and sounded as if they would rip our throats out if only they could find a hole in the fence.  Margot did not expect to get out alive.

We found the location of the football stadium where I had played for the international students’ team against the local professionals - Academico Coimbra. 8-0 down by half-time we managed to keep them out in the second half but maybe they just got bored. Our team did include 3 Americans who had never seen a round ball before. It was the first and only time I ever played in front of a stand full of supporters but the old ground had long been demolished and replaced by a shiny new one with shopping mall and bookshop café where we took a break.

Although the road layout had changed we then actually managed to find the bar where we used to hang out and play pool, completely un-changed including décor and pool table. In 1967 the first American cruise liner docked in Lisbon and the visitors progress was followed every night on the TV news. To our surprise on day 3 the tour bus drew up outside our dingy local bar and disgorged a horde of American matrons desperate for the loo and another glass of lager.

The only other spot I remember clearly was walking into town with my friend Andy meeting a young kid trying to emulate his elders by hawking and spitting (a tradition now sadly lost, it seems) but succeeding only in dribbling down his immaculate shirt-front. Ah, the memories! Thanks to Margot for indulging me on this long nostalgic trek.

After lunch we walked up the stone steps reminiscent of the Battleship Potemkin (though without the pram) and into the centre of the University, perched on the hill. Hundreds of students were gathered organising themselves into faculties for the coming year.

We meandered down through the old town, narrow alleyways and tiny shops mixing expensive tourist boutiques and anarchist squats. We had considered a meal with Fado – the local folk music – but it was still early and we had been up 13 hours already so we had a coffee and booked into a small Fado centre run by students and alumni committed to keeping the ‘pure’ form alive. This form, in Coimbra, is only for men featuring romantic entreaties traditionally sung under balconies (every room in Portugal has a balcony which is particularly galling s the planners in York won’t let us have one) to serenade the young ladies. If impressed the young ladies would flick their lights on and off three times. It was not made clear what happened then.

Impressed, and fortified with a glass of Port we climbed back up to our guest house, ate next door at pavement tables at ‘Steel’ and early to bed with sleep helped by the sangria with the meal.

Next morning, booked on the train to Porto, we had a late breakfast at Universidade and wandered back down to the river and along to Coimbra Central station. The self-styled suburban train took us to Aveiro first where we changed for another to Porto. Here you arrive at another out of town station, Porto-Campanha, and then reverse into the central station of Sao Bento– an impressive building  with tiled murals to the ceiling.

 Having had our problems with fully booked trains, we booked our train back to Lisboa before dragging our bags up the hills and over the tiled cobbles to our guest house. The Portfolio was a beautifully decorated house full of artefacts and with – as we found everywhere in Portugal – helpful and friendly staff with a good command of English. Which is good as my Portuguese is rusty to the point of not-fit-for-purpose. I find I can read quite a lot but speaking is tough. I would need a couple of weeks for it to come back but with English so readily available I rarely get the chance to practice. I must look a bit English.

In the morning, after breakfast in a café at the end of our road, we headed down to the river. People-watching, of course, but then taking the ‘6-bridges’ boat tour in one of the iconic Porto boats. We shared our boat with a large group of day-trippers with learning difficulties including one guy in a wheelchair who was lifted into the boat that was obviously built some centuries before access for the ‘incapacitados’ was an issue. I am sure there is an EU regulation that should have prevented this but maybe next Paralympics there will be a ’manhandling wheelchairs in and out of ancient boats’ discipline. Another gold for Portugal.

I must have taken dozens of photos – Porto is a most photogenic city, fortunately saved from too many inappropriate modern intrusions. As in Spain, endless beautiful balconies so we will be going back to the planners in York and submitting an appeal. We were also lucky to see the arrival of a Dutch tall ship though, unlike in Cuba, we were not invited aboard and allowed to take selfies with the crew.

In the afternoon we crossed on the lower bridge to the south bank where all the Port warehouses are and walked to the far end of the cable car that takes you up to the top level of the bridge. The high-level bridge carries the metro, walkers and cyclists all at the same time!  Crossing back into the city you go through the cathedral grounds and down through endless narrow alleyways back to the quay. Here we sat in a rather fancy bar as the rain started and Margot had a coffee while I had a 6-grape reserve port to support the local economy.

It continued to rain even harder as we worked our way back uphill looking for a restaurant, ducking into a bit of a dive just to stay dry, I had bacalhau – the local staple of smoked cod - but it was incredibly rich and I don’t think I will bother again.  Margot had salmon – a better choice.

Before going into our guest house, we stopped to dry off at the corner café full of locals watching the football. Porto FC were playing Copenhagen – the town had been full of Danish football fans – but there seemed to be more interest in Sporting Lisboa who were playing Real Madrid. Both matches running simultaneously on different screens. The sole waiter was run off his feet.

Friday morning, we went back to the same, now much quieter, café for breakfast and then wandered back down into town, needing to catch the local train about midday back out to the main line station. As the rain started again, we nipped into the Peixe Mercado, now converted into an event venue and this time showing an exhibition of photographs taken by students of a  photographic course. Some were very good and inspired me to take a bit more care with my photos.

We arrived in good time at Porto Campana to buy some of the tasty local rolls to go with some cheese we had plus a coffee and orange juice – always freshly squeezed so something we always have for breakfast. The train was a high-speed Pendolino tilting train so it used the same track as the suburban train we came up on but at speeds of up to 190 kph. A bit like riding a motor bike. These trains were to be introduced on the West Coast main line in UK but apparently made everyone sea-sick or anxious and were abandoned before really being given a chance.

More adventures

Passing once again at Coimbra we continued south to Lisbon, arriving at Estacion Santa Apolonia. After booking our train to Faro for Saturday we once again dragged our cases up steep cobbled streets to our lodging, a little house on a back street with its own front door – firmly shut. As we sat on the kerb I phoned the contact and was told in uncertain English that Clara would phone me back. As we waited a young Irish guy with a self-confessed hangover came out of the next identical door and a young Italian couple arrived and sat on the kerb opposite. We seemed to be in AirBnB territory.

After a while Clara phoned back. Problem. AirBnB had booked the place seconds before we did on Booking.com. She said she had immediately messaged me to tell me but I had received nothing. She said she had a friend with a room but for one night only. That seemed to solve the immediate problem so she gave us the address and we headed back down to the station where Google Maps told us the Metro line to take. (We rely on Google maps to navigate around the cities.  It’s amazing as long as the batteries last but people must think I’m hunting Pokemon).  As we played with a row of ticket machines that were unable to issue tickets, the phone rang. It was Clara to tell us her friends room was not ready but she could recommend us a hostel instead. Fortunately, it was in the same neighbourhood so, once we got a ticket, we jumped on the Metro emerging in Baixa Chiada - a totally different Lisbon of fancy shops and massed tourists.

The street the hostel was on was winding up to some kind of party with a sound system blasting away and groups of elegant fashionistas being photographed by paparazzi. It turned out to be some kind of Vogue attempt to extend the tourist season with clothes shops open until midnight and corporate functions outside every major shop (with elegant bouncers who kept people like us out – no free drinks or nibbles and not even a selfie with some celebrity) The hostel was worse with its own sound system and a lobby full of beautiful young people getting ready to party. Never have I felt so old!

Un(?)fortunately Clara hadn’t actually booked us in but had just looked on Airbnb. There were in fact no rooms – or was it just that they felt we would bring the vibe down?

So we called Clara again. Back to Plan B or was that C? Fortunately, her friend at the Casa Pessoa was only a block away so up we trundled. It always seems ‘up’ in Lisbon!  It turned out to be a fascinating place, once home to Lisbon’s favourite writer/poet, Fernando Pessoa and refurbished in an eclectic mix of memorabilia and artwork. The host Enrique was still not entirely convinced he wanted to let the room but softened under our tale of woe. The whole apartment with 6 rooms, had mixed showers and two toilets – one for men (with moustache on door) and one for women (lipstick red mouth!) and maybe they didn’t want to overcrowd it but we got the impression they found having the place full was rather stressful and they wanted to take it a bit easy.

It was on a square just behind the Elevador giving great views across to the castle, and, that evening, down onto the street party going strong some way below. We could even see into ‘our’ hostel across the way with residents hanging out of the balconies watching the fun.

With the shops open till midnight and corporate gazebos littering the pavements there was  plenty to watch as we ate on the terrace of  one of the less pricey restaurants. Nevertheless really good food, washed down with a vinho verde. But still nobody invited us in for a free drink or a selfie.

Next day, leaving our luggage, we went down to the square for breakfast and checked out a couple of book shops for Ferdinand Pessoa books, but books here are incredibly expensive – we will have to wait for something to come into Amnesty bookshop.

We decided we would feel more relaxed if we were sure our next booking was genuine. It was near to the railway station so we caught the Metro back down, buying a 24 hour ticket that covered buses metro and trams all for 6 euros. Great value as we hopped on and off all day. The studio apartment was back up a cobbled hill (don’t come to Portugal if this is a problem for you) but located in a very nicely designed small modern complex mixing permanent homes with places like ours but with a large shared terrace. 

Kevin met us and although the room was not yet ready he gave us a key so we could come back any time. With our day pass we caught a minibus that climbed up the narrow winding streets to the Sao Vicente monastery. We went into the courtyard to admire the

bougainvillea and then on the iconic No. 28 tram – standing room only but good fun -  to the mirador Portas do Sol where we got off to  take in the view. We were accosted by a young guy from Senegal selling crafts. He was so impressed that Margot had been there and seen Youssou N’Dour he gave us two bracelets as a gift (it was the thought that counted so we gave him some money anyway). More climbing up cobbled streets to the Castelo Sao Jorge, stopping at a little café for filled rolls and orange and mango juice, as always freshly made.

Having reached the castle, it seemed churlish not to go in even though there was a charge. Great views all over the city and the Tagos basin

 Back on the 28 we made it back to last night’s hotel where we picked up our bags and caught the metro back to the station and the minibus up to our new stay. We picked up a couple of beers on the way and rested on the terrace as the sun went down. 

There was a restaurant down the hill advertising Fado and dinner at 25 euros but in the end we just went in for a meal. It was a nice atmosphere and good food and the Fado seeping through from the cellar didn’t sound as good as we had heard in Coimbra so will spend the money on a CD of Amalia Rodriguez or Mariza (or both). Didn’t want to carry the remaining two beers so finished them out on the terrace before turning in.

Walked down to the station (down is so much easier) and got the train out to Oriente, changed onto the express to Faro and then, with just time for a snack, the little local train along the coast to Tavira. The key to our flat was at a ‘nearby’ restaurant, which wasn’t quite where we expected it to be but after some scouting around and a kerbside trawl of my old emails we found the address and Lia, the restaurant owner, took us round and let us in. It’s a lovely apartment with a balcony off every room. The kids are due to arrive some time after midnight so we popped down to Aldi to get some food for supper for us and for tomorrow’s breakfast.

So the first part of the adventure is over – we made it on time too! This week on the Algarve will be very different with all 6 of us here. We set off on Saturday on the final leg home, and perhaps more adentures.

A selection of photos on Pinterest  - 

-and the whole bloomng lot on Picassa -