|
Before that ... are Spain and Portugal both in the EU? Or are they still at war ... reflections of Mozambique in 1974?  Above: Finally settled for our first night in Portugal with the sunset in the West. Try getting from Santiago de Compostela (SdC) to northern Portugal by train. Whatever one does it falls apart at the border. A 1.5 hour car journey turns into an 18 hour train journey via Kathmandu. Booked seats are abandoned. The interrail pass becomes a brow-sweating nightmare ... "I think we are just going to have to get a bus," I confessed to Shan, hating the humiliation of defeat. The deal with interrail is that the train rides are included in the price of the pass but to travel on certain "superior" trains one has to have booked seats. For these you have to pay extra. Not a lot. But an extra amount nonetheless. Scouring the timetables for trains that might transport us from SdC involved days of frustration. I thought I'd cracked it by booking a train from SdC to Ourense ... a mere 35 minute journey to the south east plus a few € for seats. From there we could get a choofing train westwards to Tui on the Portuguese border, more or less 3.5-4.5 hours with a couple of changes, depending upon who one believed. And then a mere 3.9 km hike dragging a wheelie-case across the bridge over the River Minho into Valença, Portugal . Perfect. Come the day, it turns out there are no trains running on Fridays from Ourense to Tui. We ended up swallowing our pride and catching a bus from SdC train station to Valença bus station. We had to buy new tickets but they weren't too expensive; €10 for both us to be exact; for a 1h 45m journey. The final 0.8 km suitcase drag was almost a pleasure. Especially as we arrived at our destination in time to share a pizza and a bottle of delicious Portuguese white before going off to meet our landlord for our night's accommodation. An excellent accommodation it was, too. We had been a little sceptical because Valença seemed a bit of a dump. What were we going to do with ourselves until the onward journey the following morning? But. Not only did our accommodation have just about everything a tired traveller would need, including clothes washing and drying facilities, our landlord gave us the lowdown on the town. There wasn't that much but there was one of the best forts in the region. The external walls were mostly extant and the internal space was vast ... so much so that it encompassed a small, sympathetically restored town with restaurants, posh shops and bars. Located on a hilltop, the majestic walls looked out over the Minho River and Spain beyond and would have provided the perfect defence lookout for spotting would-be Spanish insurgents looking to invade Northern Portugal. Above [top-bottom, l-r]: walls within walls at Valença castle; looking down from the castle to an ancient farmhouse in the foreground with Tui across the river in the background; castle to distant castle/cathedral, Portugal to Spain; shiny new Audi, weathered houses, setting sun; through the wall with cat-guard to the inner sanctum; shops that have stood the test of time. Come to think of it, it hadn't been entirely seamless getting from France into Northern Spain, either. Superfast express from Paris to Hendaye (where dat) and then a short, slow ride on a local train to San Sebastián. But who's complaining, we're now in Portugal and looking forward to a coastal train ride the next morning. Viana do Castelo (VdC) Our intention with VdC had been to take it easy for a few days and it seemed to be just the place ... there were boulevards and beaches and a rather pleasant hotel to look forward to. Having got the coastal stopping train from Valença (ran every hour or so), we walked around most of the town before lunch (rather a decent one, which was beginning to become a circumferential problem). Above [top-bottom, l-r]: relaxing on the train from Valença to Viano do Castelo with all those lunches and suppers beginning to tell circumferentially; and so to another lunch; we'd debated actually visiting the church[1] but it looked enticing sitting up there on its hill; an emotional memorial to the Carnation Revolution[2]. The Carnation Revolution - a personal link Portugal and Spain were, in some ways, the last of the arguably "Western Countries" to follow Greece into 20th Century democracy. Portugal with an almost bloodless coup on April 25, 1974 that became known as the Carnation Revolution, Spain beginning the process with the death of Franco in November 1975 and taking around 7 years to settle in fully. I had fancied myself as a bit of a Gucci socialist during my early university years of 1969-1972 during which time the Greek film "Z[3]" provided a rallying call for "lefty" students and provided a heightened awareness of remaining fascism. In my case, Portugal was particularly memorable for a number of reasons. Mozambique was a Portuguese colony just to the North of where I lived on the North-East coast of South Africa and I, personally, was the Argus Group (Daily News) reporter responsible for what was then known as Zululand. I worked out of a cubby hole in Empangeni, 270 km from the South Africa - Mozambique border (quite close in African terms). On September 7, 1974, the Lusaka Accord was signed in Zambia between the Front for the Liberation of Mozambique (FRELIMO) and the incoming Portuguese government. This precipitated a convoy of Portuguese refugees to make their way over some pretty severe terrain to get into Apartheid South Africa. "Get yourself up to the Mozambique border," my news editor commanded in a very early phone call on that Saturday morning. I had been supposed to be leaving Empangeni that day and heading back to Durban in preparation for my imminent marriage before being transferred to the Argus London office. There had been a humdinger of a party the night before and my then fiancée, Carmela, was with me in Zululand for the celebration, staying with a friend so she could officially be chaperoned. I remember the dusty convoy and having to interview the participants. They were in a pretty miserable state but all appeared to have some idea where in South Africa they were headed. I also remembered resuming smoking that day after having given up and recall Carmela's delight that I was doing so. As far as I am aware, she never succumbed but sucking on a Lucky Strike in those days was evidently a manly pursuit to be noted and commended. So now, in 2024, I was contemplating the monument in the picture above, with its broken chains as a result of the Carnation Revolution, and wondering about those people who had fled Frelimo for Apartheid. I felt the irony that South Africans such as Ruth First[4] had travelled in the opposite direction only to be assassinated in Maputo with a parcel bomb, courtesy of the South African police, on August 17, 1982. A mixed bag (a photographer's dream?) Portugal's links to South Africa aside, small cities, such as Viana do Castelo, had the properties of a curate's egg. Smart historic buildings intermingled with huge shopping malls, closely juxtaposed with distressing dereliction. Shan and I had to admit that the latter added photographic interest (so we took a lot) but also baffled us as to how closely the disparate elements were interspersed with each other. We'll leave it to the photos shall we? Climbing up that hill We decided to grasp the nettle on our first full day and made an assault on the Mount of Santa Luzia. Actually I blame an undiagnosed recurrence of Covid/Long-Covid for rather less of an assault and more of a funicular ride; there are two pedestrian ways up, a gazillion steps in a straight line and the less demanding ride. We started off in rather pleasant weather and reached the top just in time for the swirling mist to blot out the city below. We also discovered, once we were up there, that there was an added attraction: the Citânia de Santa Luzia (CdSL), an Iron Age town that had also been occupied by the Romans Sadly the village is much reduced and a bit of ferreting around revealed that the rather large hotel and luxury accoutrements, such as swimming pool and spacious garden, not to mention the imposing Sanctuary of the Sacred Heart of Jesus (SotSHoJ), had claimed the land from the prehistoric city now reduced to a few hectares. As is her wont, Shan popped into the church as soon as we got there while I stood outside and contemplated the mist swirling in from the Atlantic and enveloping the city below. We grabbed a quick coffee and headed off to the Citânia in the hopes that we could see something. Actually, the mist added a bit of frisson and and made it easier to imagine the expanse of stone structures that would have been there not much more than 100 years previously. Above [top-bottom, l-r]: (2) timing was a teeny bit nail-biting as the summit bound car squeezed past its downward-bound partner; the SotSHoJ has just about disappeared mistily; but not when Shan crept inside during a service for a sneaky shot; a rather disconsolate street photographer wondering how to take pics of tourists with the city and the sea below; Shan in search of coffee; 3,000 year-old structures in the remains of the CdSL; just note the precision in the 1,000s of years old rock cutting in the remains of this tiny dwelling. Of course, you guessed it. Just as soon as we hit terra firma at the base of the sacred mont, the fog began to evaporate! We strode off to the ground-level castle overlooking the port. The approaches should have provided the harbinger that this part of town was not Viana's high point. Above [top-bottom, l-r]: (2) a couple of less than salubrious sights in VdC; (2) the dockside is brightened up a bit by the lighthouse (with Santa Luzia in the background) and a statue celebrating the importance of the sea and maritime trade in the city; (2) things get a bit brighter as one walks upstream along the Limia estuary; loads of fish in the clean water; the remarkable 645 m Ponte Eiffel iron bridge, designed by Gustave Eiffel and commissioned almost 150 years ago[5], is two-tiered with rail traffic on the lower deck and road on the upper. Portugals's oldest village/town? Well, perhaps not, if you believe all the Iron Age stuff further up in this article. But, as a working town, perhaps. For our second full day in VdC, we eschewed the notion of lolling around and asked the lovely guys on reception at the AP Dona Aninhas (our truly comfortable hotel with the most helpful staff) for recommendations. "You could get a bus to Ponte de Lima (PdL)," he suggested, expounding on the Roman bridge that still crossed the River Limia about 30 km upstream from VdC ... apparently it is the oldest town in Portugal. Well we enjoyed it and the bus rides in both directions. Above [top-bottom, l-r]: (3) sundry ancient buildings in PdL; view from the bridge of the market; the Medieval/Roman bridge; van with a wig. Leaving Viana Well, well, seems after pronouncing Viana to be a bit tame, I've found rather a lot to write about and for Shan and me to photograph. And we haven't even been to the beach yet. Actually the scenery from the ocean side of the estuary was the best bit of catching the boat to the beach ... Above l-r]: we'd seen more inspiring beaches; the estuary is kept clear by a dredger that plies back and forth to the sea - omnipresent Sanctuary of the Sacred Heart of Jesus always in the background. So now we're off to the bright lights of Porto After a relaxed breakfast at our hotel we caught our first Interrail long(ish) distance train without having to pay any extra to actually travel (i.e. no need for seat reservations). We were headed for the splendid Porto Sāo Bento station, which is right in the heart of things ... a journey of just under an hour-and-a-half with interesting scenery. Note for anyone doing it soon: there was/is massive improvement work going on around the station which spoils the scenery a bit but doesn't affect the ongoing journey much. Which, in our case, involved lugging our wheelie-bins up a significant hill and then 4 flights of stairs (which, for me, probably also meant competing with a bout of Covid[6]) So 650 m of what felt like an assault on Everest to end up in an environment that was more shabby than chic was a little dispiriting. After an afternoon snooze, however, things looked substantially better. Our actual location was still pretty crap but it was 100 m or so from the beating heart of an area of excellent cafes and restaurants. So we were happy again. Good food and refreshing Portuguese wine. OK, so the noise continued unabated until about 4 am but it was only for a few nights and served as a reminder that we were in the beating heart of the city. Beating with such rhythm that we were a mere few hundred metres from the Livrario Lello[7].  Above: the outlook from our "loft" in the Rua do Almada, possibly the noisiest street in town, where hooting starts before 6 am. What is it about Porto drivers? In our area there were always traffic jams and the people behind the wheel were on their hooters within seconds of a pause in the flow. Often it was more than a pause and the cacophony could go on for some time. It never budged the traffic an inch, either. We had promised ourselves that we would walk across the Dom Luís 1 bridge, with its late 19th century association to Gustav Eiffel, along with a number of other iron bridges in Portugal, including VdC. This stroll is a must for those who are not too affected by vertigo and offers another perspective of Porto and the Douro that flows beneath it. Above [top-bottom, l-r]: a luscious creation at one of Shan's favourite cafés; the Douro with the city behind; Oporto's finest iron bridge carries trains and pedestrians across the river; lost in translation for do Ingleesh; a junk-based sculpture of a hare tarts up a building on the left bank of the Douro; unfortunately one doesn't have to stray far in Oporto find buildings that have lost their former glory; this shop caught us out initially, too, but at least we didn't announce to the street and a tour group that this was the "Harry Potter" bookshop, as did the tour leader; The actual "Livrario Lello" with queue stretching off screen.
Returning from the bridge we found much of the magic had gone from the Livrario Lello, with hour long queues and an up to £9 entrance fee. Open since 1906, it had been a true haven for book lovers and architecture fans alike. In fact I had been looking forward to visiting and probably buying a book, as I often do while travelling, but the link with Harry Potter and possible hints of Hogwarts bringing in the crowds, the gilt had gone off the gingerbread. Coming Next Heading up the Douro for a few nights on a magical wine farm and then down to Coimbra ... [Endnotes]:
0 Comments
Leave a Reply. |
AuthorMark Harrison - making travelling an adventure Archives
September 2024
Categories |
RSS Feed