Portugal 2018
Saturday, January 12, 2019 at 07:49AM There was a time when we selected our hikes for nobler reasons than we do now. Without impugning our reputations, such as they are, let's just say that the Douro Valley in Portugal was the right level of difficulty, did not require us to change hotels every night, featured a complete absence of tents, and held out the prospect of good beer and wine, along with (thanks to some canny Scots with names like “Graham” and “Cockburn” who set up distilleries along the Douro River) a wee dram of port from time to time. The two friends with whom we now travel are not (yet) as fixated on the level of difficulty as we are, but they gallantly went along with the choice of Portugal.
We met our group in Lisbon and headed directly north on a good highway to Lousã. We dropped off luggage at our hotel there, and transferred into two smaller vehicles that would be able to navigate the narrow, winding roads of the area. Our first stop was lunch in the “schist” village of Talasnal. We were to visit several of these medieval villages, now largely deserted as they provide neither livelihood nor interest to the young. We crowded into one of the small buildings and were warmly welcomed by a friendly woman. Once beer and wine had put in their appearance, roast lamb, goat stew (chanfana) and bacalhau (salted cod) began to emerge from the cook's not remotely state-of-the-art kitchen. Putting the final touch on the feast were a wide range of desserts, including several meringue concoctions. The pride and joy of the kitchen, however, was a kind of pudding affectionately known as “camel drool.” Made of condensed milk and eggs, it was far tastier than it sounded, and was just the fortification we needed for what came next. We hiked directly out of Talasnal, at first straight uphill with no switchbacks, and later on a more forgiving traverse of both ups and downs. At one point we found ourselves on a terrace where a festival was in full swing. This was not in itself remarkable: festivals are almost daily occurrences in Portugal, and a reason to hold one can always be drummed up. This particular one was to honor the people who had organized the even more impressive festival that had taken place the day before.
Lousã
Eventually we reconnected with our waiting vans, and were driven back to Lousã. Earlier in its life, our hotel there had been the residence of an aristocratic titled woman, and the current owner gave us drinks on a terrace, along with a brief history of the elegant building and that worthy woman's endless philanthropies and kindnesses. The dinner that followed would have met her high standards: goat empanadas, bacalhao and venison. And this we will say just once: bacalhao is ubiquitous, and Portuguese wine is good and flows freely and inexpensively .
The next morning we drove out to Aigra Nova, another of the largely abandoned villages, but this one supported by European Union financing. This allows it to maintain a small museum, dedicated primarily to showing how things used to be, and how things used to be done. The sole surviving industry is beekeeping; several varieties of honey were for sale at the tiny adjacent gift shop. Villages such as Aigra Nova are known as “schist villages” because schist was the one readily available building material. But schist comes in many shapes and sizes – large and small, round and flat – and assembling those pieces into something that can serve as a wall is like doing a 5000-piece jigsaw puzzle that has no picture on the box. Aigra Nova (population 3) holds little appeal for young people, but the picturesque houses there and in villages like it are being bought up and refurbished as second homes. When a simple schist building sports an impressive wooden front door, and has a mailbox, you can safely assume that gentrification has already occurred.
The villages in the region have no roads connecting them, so we walked to another of the schist villages and visited briefly with the owners of a goat farm. This does not add up to sounding like a taxing day, but it's worth mentioning that we had a different local guide today because the one who accompanied us yesterday (a trainee) was too exhausted to join us today. This was music to our ears, because by the end of the trip we were convinced that the rating (“moderate to strenuous”) was well wide of the mark. Either that or our ages (82 and 79) are starting to catch up with us, but we don't like that theory.
The next day we drove through an increasingly barren landscape to the highest point in continental Portugal, Serra da Estrela (6538 ft.). It was windswept and cold, and there were patches of snow. From there we drove, switchbacking all the way, to a very pretty picnic area at a lower elevation. Earlier in the day we had stopped at a supermarket to buy our lunches, and each pair in the group had been instructed to purchase a bottle of wine (price range €5 or less) and to be prepared to explain and justify that selection at our picnic. Our particular choice had no redeeming features whatsoever. The price was right and we liked the label. But some in the group did a masterful job of extolling the virtues of otherwise unremarkable bottles; one bottle was said to contain “hints of schist” and another “closely resembled wine.”
Serra da Estrela
From the picnic area it was a long walk down a glacial valley. Our destination, the tiny town of Mantiegas, was always visible at the end of the valley, but never seemed to get much closer. And just when we had reached what appeared to be it, based on the evidence of a paved road, we were told that the hotel was on the far side of the sprawling town. It was a small, well run hotel, with the unlikely name of Hotel Berne, and had fondue and raclette on the menu. We had neither; it was the birthday of one of our guides, and the shrimp and rice with which we celebrated were delicious.
View down valley towards Mantiegas
Near the hotel was the Burel Wool factory, which we visited the next day. Burel is the tightly woven, boiled wool, for which the area is famous. It was originally used for shepherds' garments because of its warmth and impermeability, but only one factory remains today. One of us had to be prevented from parting with a substantial amount of money for a woollen backpack that made no practical sense whatsoever. (She insists that she still regrets not having bought it.) It was a soup-to-nuts visit – featuring gathering, carding, spinning, weaving – and very loud due to the machines that were pumping away, but we now have a better understanding of how wool goes from sheep to garment.
Later we hiked ten miles upwards and had a picnic lunch near a waterfall, finishing off the remains of yesterday's bottles of wine. After that came more very steep uphill, with countless false sightings of what we fervently hoped was the “top.” The downhill was even tougher and entailed skipping from rock to rock. Aging legs find that hard.
Waterfall near Mantiegas
Although Day Five was billed as a sightseeing day with no hiking, it was hardly a day of rest. We drove to Belmonte, famous for several reasons, one of which is being the birthplace of Pedro Alvares Cabral. Cabral is generally credited with having discovered what is now Brazil.
Belmonte: statue of Pedro Alvarez Cabral
It may have been accidental, as he was supposed to be heading to India, but he is celebrated for it just the same. Belmonte is proud of its native son, and of his discovery. The Museu des Descobrimentos (Museum of Discoveries) devotes much space to the story, complete with video renditions of storms at sea realistic enough to leave the viewer reeling and making a beeline for the nearest exit. Belmonte also has an olive oil factory, which we toured, and an imposing fortress, in which Cabral was born.
Medieval fortress in Belmonte
But what may be its trump card is the fact that Belmonte has been home to a Jewish community continuously since the 12thcentury – no small achievement in that part of the world. Despite official policies of discrimination, forced baptisms and conversions, the Jews of Belmonte displayed the necessary outward signs – crosses sometimes temporarily replacing mezuzahs on door frames - and the people of Belmonte are justifiably proud of having lived harmoniously side by side with their Jewish neighbors. Yes, there was Collusion, but of a good kind! The Jewish quarter today is an area of charm and tranquility, of immaculately kept houses and gardens, surrounding a small, modern synagogue.
We had lunch in a restaurant whose staggering selection of coffee options put Starbucks toshame. We had already learned the hard way that simply ordering “coffee” got you a very small, verydark and very strong espresso. To get any other kind took patience and painstaking explanations, andthere was ample room for error if those were not given in Portuguese.
Our next stop that day was to inspect paleolithic rock art in the Côa Valley. Bumping along in 4x4s, we descended to the valley floor, the hitherto pleasant temperature becoming more oppressive by the minute. Plans for a dam in that area were already quite advanced when, in the 1990s, a large number of drawings were discovered – horses, an oryx, a fish – thought to date from 22,000 to 10,000 BC. The dam idea was abandoned and the archaeological treasures preserved.
Coa Valley
A short train ride to the small town of Pinhão gave us our first sight of the fabled Douro River Valley, along the sides of which the train traveled. It did not disappoint: a broad ribbon of water flowing serenely between the banks that separated the terraced hills on either side. There were immaculately kept vines as far as the eye could see, and here and there a manorial building, the headquarters of that particular vineyard.
The Douro River at Pinhão
There are two versions of what happened the next day. One of us, the one with British roots, discovered to her horror and disappointment that “toe bang” had set in on one of her ten toes. There was nothing to do but take a day off from hiking and soak the offending digit in a pail of water. Who is to say that toe bang, left untreated, won't progress from being mildly painful to full blown gangrene, with amputation not far behind? It was a chance she didn't want to take. Either by sheer serendipity or skillful timing, the misfortune struck on the same day and at more or less the same time as a royal wedding near Windsor Castle. And there was soup-to-nuts television coverage of it in the hotel, where she sat soaking her toe...
Her friend, who had come to hike and had her priorities lined up correctly, went to visit one of the vineyards high up on the hillside. Her reports of the day featured views down the valley, a fabulous buffet lunch, an infinity swimming pool, and multiple tastings of the very thing that made the property so successful. She had not, however, seen nearly as many extraordinary royal “fascinators.”
That evening we had dinner on our own, on a balcony overlooking the river. Occasionally a boat would appear, dock, and disgorge its complement of happy, noisy passengers. They disappeared quickly into the small town of Pinhão, and stillness returned. The river appeared motionless as it progressed slowly towards what has always been a magnet for Portuguese seamen: the Atlantic Ocean, and whatever may lie beyond it.
The next day we visited Portugal's only national park, Peneda-Gerês. The park offered a wild and barren landscape and spectacular panoramas, herds of goats, flocks of sheep, and the occasional goatherd or shepherd. We dealt manfully with the disappointment of not seeing any of the wild boars and wolves that live in the area, according to the trip notes.
Shepherd with sheep in Arcos de Valdevez
The drive to the trailhead the next day took us briefly into and back out of Spain, with nothing to see in the way of a border crossing. We then set in on a long, steep, hot climb to the place where we were to have a picnic lunch near a church. Unsurprisingly, it happened to be a saint's day, and although the traditional procession to the church had happened the day before, the festivities were still in full swing. We were told that the crowds were nothing compared to what they used to be in years past, but those who were there welcomed us like family, eager to share whatever they had in the way of picnic food, and politely accepting anything we offered in return. There was a loud speaker attached to the church, beaming music for dancing across the countryside for miles around, and we were urged to join in. The sound reverberated around us for the remainder of the day.
Setting out from the picturesque village of Soajo, we proceeded on an ancient pilgrimage route to the Santuario da Nossa Senhora da Peneda. We walked through villages thick with granaries, or espigueiros. These extraordinary looking structures are also found in Spain and Scandinavia, and efficiently do what granaries are supposed to do: the slits in the side walls allow ventilation and the mushroom-shaped supports underneath them confound hungry rodents. They are impressively large, stone structures, often shared by one or more families.
Epigueiros (granaries) near Soajo
The next morning our group had been joined by a new member: a friendly dog had attached himself to us, and was not to be detached, despite our guides' best efforts. He coped with the 6.5 mile, 2200 foot ascent better than some of us, and was looking so spry and chipper when we reached our lunch spot at the summit that someone there immediately volunteered to adopt it. Promises were made that the dog would be given a happy home, thereby sparing one soft-hearted dog lover in our group the logistical nightmare and red tape of trying to adopt and introduce a stray dog into the United States.
After lunch some in our group chose to walk down to where our bus would meet them; others, footsore but still able to think coherently, figured out that if those walkers were going to meet the bus at a certain spot, they could also meet those who happened to be inside the bus at the same spot. We were in the latter group, and within minutes we were questioning our choice. The bus was wide, the road was narrow, and there was a sheer drop on one side. Despite those compelling disincentives, our driver felt the need to make one U-turn. While attempting this manoeuver he mustered up enough English to call out repeatedlly “Do not worry! Please do not worry!” But we did.
Lake in Arcos de Valdevez
The next two nights were spent at the Paço de Calheiros, a large baronial manor house that has been for centuries the family seat of the counts of Calheiros. More impressive from the outside than inside, our room in the attic on the first night had no water pressure whatsoever, and our complaints about that got us moved for the second night to what had once been part of the stables. Other than the improved water pressure, it was definitely downward mobility.
Palace of Calheiros, near Ponte de Lima
Nearby was the charming town of Ponte de Lima. Founded in 1125, it is said to be one of the oldest towns in Portugal, and the center is a quaint warren of narrow streets, small shops, and purveyors of the vinho verde (“green wine”) for which the area is known. The town grew up on the site of a Roman settlement on the banks of the Lima River. Spanning the river is the “ponte,” the city's greatest landmark. The bridge began life as part of an important Roman road in the Iberian peninsula, and was extended in the 14thCentury. Walking across it was a lovely way to approach the old city, and to glimpse all manner of boating and water activities taking place on the broad, placid river below.
But we had not come to Portugal to glimpse the activities of others! The Count in whose manor house we were staying had presented each of us with a clam-shell which would identify us as pilgrims walking the Camino de Santiago de Compostela - or in our case a pitifully small section of the Camino. We completed only six miles, passing small shrines where pilgrims had left offerings of all kinds. We crossed small Roman bridges, skirted fields of crops, and walked among immaculately kept houses. We were pikers, perhaps, compared to many who walk the entire pilgrimage from points all over Europe, but it was a very hot day, and we were unabashedly happy to see our bus and driver waiting for us near a small cafe where we fell upon the cold drinks.
Pilgrims’ offerings on the Camino de Santiago de Compostela, near Ponte de Lima
That night we ate in the old part of Ponte de Lima, right next to a section of the still standing city wall. The same guide, who earlier that day in hiking gear had shown herself to be so well versed in the history and significance of the Camino, now appeared in the colorful costume of the region and proved herself to be equally proficient on the accordion. And as a dancer. The setting was unforgettable and the dinner was superb. There was not even the slightest hint of bacalhao.
View of Porto from across the Douro River and our guide-turned-dancer in Ponte de Lima
By now we had come to our last full day in Portugal. We were to spend the night in Porto before flying home. The British, who for centuries maintained a strong alliance with Portugal, took it upon themselves to rename the city “Oporto,” creating quite unnecessary confusion that continues to this day. To everyone except the British the city is - correctly - Porto. Our first stop was a port distillery, where we walked among the enormous barrels below ground and took care of a little tasting and shopping above ground. Emerging from that we encountered another first for our time in Portugal: a drenching downpour. It was a dampener for the city tour that had been arranged, and despite the best efforts of a very able and enthusiastic local guide, we stayed with her only long enough to admire some beautiful tiles in the main train station before excusing ourselves to make our way to the hotel to dry out. The weather was bad luck, and left us regretting that we did not have more time in the city that played such an important role during the Age of Discovery.
We were genuinely sad when the time came for our farewell dinner. It was held in a restaurant that featured guitars and a singer of the soulful fado music for which Portugal is known. Along with cod casserole and cod cakes.
Our reasons for choosing to hike in the Douro River Valley may have been rooted in hedonism and acceptance of our own physical limitations, but one needs no excuse to explore that part of Portugal. Yes, the language is challenging, and assuming that a working knowledge of Spanish will be useful in Portugal is altogether wrong. One might be able to tease some sense out of the written word, but the spoken word is guaranteed to defeat. However, the people who speak it are unfailingly friendly and respectful. The villages nestled among the wooded hillsides are charming to look at and immaculate to walk through. Some countries wear their soul on their sleeve; Portugal is more discreet than that. But soul it has. And when you walk in Portugal some of that soul will rub off and accompany you for the rest of your life.