Portugal

Thursday 16

With Martyn's big birthday in the offing, we planned a trip to Lisbon and Porto, travelling in-country by public transport, and renting apartments.

We had the usual  poor night's sleep before travelling, alas, so had time to cut some just-in-case sandwiches.  Pretty lousy rush-hour conditions on the way to the airport, plus an unusually relaxed bus from the car park, meant that we were done out of our traditional pre-flight bacon roll.  We'd ordered in plenty of time, but despite numerous reminders, had to leave before they were brought out.  We left the money for the tea on the table, and had I had the right change, that's all they'd have had.

The flight did what it had to do, despite quite a bumpy ride at times.  The plane was pretty full, and TAP's seat pitch seemed if anything less generous than the budget carriers'.  It didn't help that the dame in front of Martyn kept reclining her seat and practically kneecapping him.  Our home-made sandwiches came in handy, given TAP's generous catering, and the under-staffing of Gatwick South Café Rouge.

Lisbon airport played a nasty trick on us: we'd put one bag in the hold, and it hadn't appeared by the time the sign said 'last bag delivered'.  A few anxious minutes later, up it popped, so we were soon on the next part of the route march from the plane to the outside world.  En route, we called at the desk that sells Lisbon cards, a useful device that covers all city public tranport, gives free or discounted access to various museums and stuff, and throws in the train services to Sintra and Cascais.

Taxis are as cheap as ever: welcome, since the alternative was to schlepp the suitcase on and off two metros and a tram, and the day was pretty humid.  The fare came to a paltry 11.15€ before tip for a 15 minute ride.  A couple of phone calls later, the landlady turned up and let us in.  The flat is pretty impressive for 80€ a night.  The bad news is that it's up three tall flights of stairs. 

Outlook from the flat in Graça to thePantheon and the Tagus

The good news just goes on and on, however.  There's a generous L-shaped sitting/dining room, with views over the roofs to the estuary.  There's a very well-equipped (if oddly laid out) kitchen, a twin bedroom and a bathroom.  Upstairs, there's a mezzanine bedroom, another shower room and a roof terrace with even better views.  We're a couple of doors away from a decent little local supermarket, and the local produce market is just across the street: we'll check it out tomorrow.  The upholstery is a bit grubby in places, and the frying pans are somewhat scratched, but these are minor points given the otherwise excellent package.

After tea, snoozes and showers, we decided to head down to the station to sort out our train tickets to Porto on Sunday.  I'd tried to do so on line, but gave up when I couldn't be sure of having two seats together.  We hopped on the legendary 28 tram just down the road from the flat, and ground our way down to the centre.  Parking in these parts is pretty indisciplined, and at times the tram driver had to stop, get out and fold in the door mirrors of badly parked cars.  Others might have been less scrupulous.  Thence by bus to Sta Apolónia station, where I seem to have bought tickets to Porto in the correct specification without recourse to English.  (If you get a plaintive post from Faro on Sunday you'll get the idea that my pride may have been premature.)

The 712 bus up from the station traces a tormented route through the back streets to the foot of our street.  But not till the driver has had his break (I make no assumptions about the adjacent bars) and finished his dose of e-nicotine.

Well, subject to indigestion later, first impressions of the frozen lasagne from the shop next door suggest that the four-star hotel we used in Italy should come here and take lessons: it reached a level of tolerable mediocrity.  The shop provided a decent lettuce and some proprietory dressing, so we're maintaining a veneer of civilisation.

Reflections on gadgetry.  When I left my job in Switzerland back in 1979, my colleagues gave me a leaving present of  a 'wrist-top computer'.  (It's quite bulky, and looks as if it ought to be attached to the left ankle.  Honorable mention, by the way, to anyone who knows why the Peckham Rolex (electronic curfew monitoring tag) is never attached to the right ankle.)  I rarely used it, though it was interesting to note, during one of guru Patrick's more strenuous walks near the Château de Termes, that we climbed 300 metres at an average rate of 5m/min.  I couldn't do that these days, I fear.  Well, eventually the battery pegged out, so I removed it and consigned the gadget to a drawer.  I rediscovered it a few weeks ago, and got our Indian friend in the Mall to replace the battery.  (At the same time, he replaced the battery in Martyn's Swiss railway watch, and all three of us were pretty nervous when he had to resort to a screw clamp to refit the back!).  Just for fun, I brought the contraption with me this time, and it measured the cabin pressure in our A319 at the equivalent of 2010m altitude.  I'll be interested to see what  it makes of the next Boeing machine I have to use: they tend to make me breathless.

Friday 17

Dawn at Graça, with Signals Regiment microwave kit

No nasty surprises at the flat: we both slept pretty well (by our dismal standards).  All the kitchen equipment we've used so far seems to do what it's meant to, and the crockery, cutlery and glassware are of good quality.  This afternoon we sat out on the roof terrace drinking tea and enjoying the extensive view across the estuary to the south-east.  The gadget reported a temperature of 22C, which is welcome in the second half of October.  We do hear the departing traffic from the airport, but not to a disruptive extent.  In any case, thanks to the excellent wifie at the flat, we can check whose they are and where they're going.  (It's slightly startling to learn that the TAP A320 up there is flying to Ghana, which makes one realise how close we are to Africa.)  

I should mention transport links.  We're a hop and a skip from the Sapadores bus and tram stops, which offer connections to more destinations than we're likely to need.  Some of the routes are distinctly tortuous, however, so you need to reckon on a good quarter of an hour to reach the centre, plus waiting time for the bus or tram.  There is, however, a taxi rank less than five minutes's walk away.

So, to turn to today's adventures, what have we been up to?  We set out earlyish for a bus ride across the bridge.  A bus took us from the flat to the Pombal rotunda, via winding back streets, one area of which was full of police.  Doubt if I'll find out why.  At Pombal, our bus connected almost instantly with another over the bridge to Almada.  First time I'd been over what started life as the Salazar bridge back in the days of the dictatorship, and it's an impressive experience.  Congestion on the way north to the bridge ruled out a return by bus.  Fortunately, the bus connects with the tram network that serves the south bank of the Tagus, offering the choice of connections either to the railway back over the lower deck of the bridge to Lisbon, or down to Cacilhas and the ferry to the Cais do Sodré.  We opted for the latter, and next had to decide whether to go to Cascáis for lunch, or to do Belém visits.  Lunch in Cascáis won, and we eventually plumped for the Flamingo Café, garlic prawns and calamares alla romana.  BIG portions - be warned, and hungry.  Quite a lot of native Portuguese spoken at the tables, which has to be a good sign.

After all that, I dozed for a fair bit of the way back to Lisbon.  Shame, because the sea was pretty lively, and the railway line follows the coast quite closely for much of the way.  We'd briefly debated doing the sights of Belém and Ajuda on the way home, but the call of tea on the terrace and and afternoon naps was altogether stronger. Modest supper of salad with baked bashed-out chicken breasts, cut into strips and dished up with a few croutons.

Saturday 18

Not without its moments, this Saturday.  We decided to do Belém stuff, the wet weather programme, since it was dull and drizzly first thing.  By the time we got to Belém, much delayed by traffic diversions, the weather had improved greatly, bringing us tourists out in hordes.  We shuffled our way round the church and the lower level of the cloister: fortunately the upper level was less lousy, so we had a good chance to take in the wonderful stonework.  Last time we were there, the restoration had only recently been completed, and the carving was unmistakably new.  Ten years or so later, it has begun to mellow nicely.  And this time the gargoyles weren't gushing.

While we were at that end of town, we took a look at a modern art collection in the Belém cultural centre.  Quite a rich collection, with household names like Hockney, Liechtenstein, Warhol, Henry Moore and Mondrian well represented.  But I struggle to find merit in a canvas painted entirely in uniform, flat black, in a frame proudly painted black by the artist, whose name I instantly forgot.

Back to the Baixa for lunch: pork steaks for Martyn, bacalhau na brás for me.  We decided then to head out to the new Oriente station, intending to visit Portugal's tallest building, the Vasco da Gama tower (we'd seen said explorer's tomb in the morning).  After a long and sweaty journey in the Metro and an unlovely shuffle through the shopping mall, we found that we were still a long walk from the tower.  We gave up and headed home for showers, tea and pasteis de nata. 

Back to the Baixa for supper.  The traffic had eased a lot so we were a bit too early to sit down to dinner, and so went for what would have been a pleasant stroll had it not been for waiters touting for business.  We eventually settled for a place with clean linen and no touts.  One of their offerings was a small steak served with chips and a fried egg.  We both ordered it, on the strict condition that my egg was done over well, as the colonials would say.  We had almost finished the wine by the time the food arrived, and of course mine came garnished with a runny egg.  Back it went, while Martyn tucked in.  Back came mine with a egg that was a shade less than raw.  Back it went, while I picked at his chips.  When the third attempt arrived, the meat was cremated, the egg was about right and the chips were underdone.  Hotel and restaurant Santa Justa, corner of rua Sta Justa and Rua dos Correeiros.  Good wine, polite and in due course apologetic waiters, nice linen.  Otherwise, forget it.

Things went from bloody awful to plain laughable on the way home.  The diversions required the bus to make a right turn into a narrow busy street, so when the light went to green, there were two lanes of cars looking to turn out of it.  Our driver eventually issued a passenger with a high-vis waistcoat and sent her to stop the traffic three cars back from the traffic light to allow the bus to turn.

Early night and positive thoughts for our journey next day to Porto.

Sunday 19

Birthday presents at breakfast: birthday cake was the last remaining pastel de nata. Sad to be leaving our very comfortable flat with its terrific views over the estuary.  Once we'd packed and tidied up, I spent a while sitting on the roof terrace enjoying a last hour or so of morning Lisbon sun. 

Easy bus ride down to the station.  We're constantly reminded of the skill snd panache of the local bus drivers.  They wind their way round narrow streets and 120 degree corners, missing parked cars by a hair's breadth.  They also have great confidence in their brakes: Lisbon is very hilly, and they go hurtling down them at breakneck speed.  (They wouldn't have the faintest hope of missing an errant child, dog or cat.  Must check on the stats some time.)

The train is rather elderly, but whips along briskly on the straights, hauled by a rather younger German engine.  Alternate trains between Lisbon and Porto use tilting trains, but we prefer the slower and more spacious carriages, given that there's no more than 25 minutes to be saved.  The landscape is quite varied: the flood plain of the upper Tagus is scrubby and arid-lookng, but one slowly moves into more cultivated land, with a lot of maize, a few vines and a lot of forestry.  Closer to the cities, the railway embankments are  mass of morning glory.

The day was warm, and the air conditioning was not up to the job.  Add a 20 minute delay, and we were rather frazzled by the time we crawled into Campanhã.  Our landlord arrived at the flat a minute or two after us, and showed us round.  This is a very different kettle of fish from our Lisbon flat.  On the plus side, it is central, and it involves one fewer flight of stairs.  On the minus side, it is much, much smaller (despite costing more per night), and there is no escape from snoring: there's a big bed on the entrance floor, with four single beds up a ladder in a mezzanine beneath perilous beams and sloping roofs.  The shower and lavatory are in little cubicles: as Martyn put it, it's like going for a pee in the cupboard.

We took a stroll down to the river last night, admiring the pompous architecture of the Avenida dos Aliados, and enjoying the fantastic ajulezos in the São Bento station.  Near there we bought a bus route map, which will come in handy.  Although the centre is very compact, it's an uphill journey back to the flat, and in weather as humid as we're experiencing, transport is welcome.

We stopped for dinner at one of the pavement cafés at the foot of the Avenida.  The meal was decent if unremarkable.  Scots accents at the next table.  Turned out he was from Perth and she from Dundee.  Martyn asked what school she went to: Hawkhill Primary and, of course, Harris Academy, where she was taught French in first year by a certain Mrs Smith.

Monday 20

Poorish night, given late meal and high humidity.  Off pronto nevertheless.  Tram across one of the Eiffel bridges, cable car to Gaia waterfront.  Boat ride under the various bridges.  The Ponte Dona Maria Pia is virtually the twin of our old friend, the Viaduc de Garabit.  The commentary on the boat had nothing to say about the Ponte Arrábida, a 1960s construction in reinforced concrete, its architecture paying subtle tribute to the Eiffel jobs upstream, both in the elegant single span and in some lattice work and suggestions of steel girders in the concrete underpinnings of the road deck.  The Salazar era was almost universally contemptible, but some of the architecture it generated was worthy of debate at least.

Stupendous grilled fish lunch at the restaurant do Molhe, at the western end of Foz do Douro.  We sat watching the Atlantic breakers on the rocks, enjoying the glittering sunlight on the waves.  Nice bottle of Monte Velho from the Alentejo.  Mistake was to ask for a Bagaceira afterwards; M was persuaded to order a Maciera.  Waiter returned: 'Bagaço nāo tem', so we each had enough Maciera to stun a horse.

Ever the keen eavesdropper, I heard some German dialect from the seat alongside ours on the bus back.  It had some characteristice of Swiss German, so I leaned over and asked where they were from.  My ear can't be that far out of tune: they live close to the Swiss border, and are big Porto fans.

Back at the ranch, one of us is sleeping off lunch.  I've been dealing with the iced-up fridge.  When we got here yesterday, we found the fridge really frosted up.  This morning, the butter was running away, and the jam was warm.  The fridge wasn't closing properly, hence running constantly, the hot air from the heat exchanger rolling over the top and into the door.  I've defrosted the ice box, dumped the five bath towels required for the purpose in the laundry room, thrown out the perishables, refitted the fridge so the door closes properly, and served a snotty text message on the management.  Watch this space.

After our afternoon naps, we went along to the Casa da Música, the architecture of which is based on the shape of a rock crystal.  Odd.  Also very crowded and with little public space.  So it was in and out and back to the supermarket to find a suitable snack for supper, and resumption of the nap.

Tuesday 21

Our last day in Porto, so we mopped up a few of the many sights we hadn't seen.  First was the Bolhão market.  It was a little disappointing, really: we were expectitng something similar to the workers' market in Funchal.  Much of the market floor was cordoned off, and an awful lot of the stalls catered in tourist tat, and other rubbish like plastic orchids.

Thence to the transport and communications museum in the old customs house.  It's a grim pile on the quayside, and its conversion to a museum hasn't exactly filled it with life.  The transport section is all road transport, with a couple of exhibitions: one of presidential vehicles and one on the Macau Grand Prix.  The GP started life as a kind of treasure hunt for idle colonial types in Austin A40 flying meringues and side-valve Hillman Minxes, but developed into something more serious after a few entrants turned up in E-type Jags.  The presidential vehicles ranged from horse-drawn broughams to S-Class Mercedes, via all sorts of interesting types: a Silver Wraith Royce,  a Phantom V and a few less expected types like a Citroën CX, which struck me as far too low for a gracious presidential exit.  Perhaps they pumped up the suspension to the wheel-changing setting before inviting His Excellency to get out.  The main section had a number of funnies, like a Fiat Topolino badged as a Simca, and some utterly ordinary cars, very well restored, like a Morris 8 and a 4CV.

The communications section was too noisy for comfort, so we can't say anything more about that.  The cafeteria didn't appear to be operating, but a glimpse through the door as a member of staff went in suggested it had about as much charm as the staff restaurant at Manor Gardens in the 1970s.

So, it was a good old 500 bus back to the centre and a 901 over to Gaia for lunch.  We pointedly ignored all the restaurants that were touting for business, choosing the  Ribeira Rio.  Having avoided the main delicacy of Porto - tripe - we opted for the other one, the Francesinha, a sandwich of steak, ham and chouriço, topped with cheese and with a sort of extra salty gravy poured over it.  Tasty, but gravely (gravily?) indigestible. 

The city was jumping with Bilbao Athletic football supporters in red and white vertical striped polo and T-shirts, in town for tonight's fixture with FC Porto.  Most were pretty well-behaved save for a bit of chanting: we could hear them across the river in Porto.  They were getting pretty well stuck in to the beer at lunch time, however, so things could be different by the evening kick-off!  [Later: home win, 2:1.]

From there we knitted ourselves a couple of bus rides back to Porto, including a  scenic drive over the Arrábida bridge.  When we got back to Trindade, we were rather too early to early to collect our bags, so carried on down to the Majestic Café, a fine art nouveau institution near the Bolhão market.  On a street corner nearby in a building now occupied by the fnac, a carillon was playing the hour, but someone nearby pointed out to me that it was out of order: the various puppets that were shuffling around beneath the clock ought to have been putting on more of a show.  The café is quite something: all bevelled glass mirrors, tooled leather benches and exuberant nymphs and cherubs.  The waitresses are done up in white tunics with chrome buttons, each with her hair tied back in a plait or a pony tail.  The head waiter was in black suit and black bow tie.  The tea was excellent, but the lack of air conditioning led us to wonder whether hot tea had been the right choice.

As we sit waiting to board, I can report that the airport experience has been pretty painless.  The metro swished us from close by the flat directly to the airport in about half an hour, and check in was prompt and painless.  No nasty surprises at security, no queue at passport control.  The only hiccup was after we'd installed ourselves at the gate: we were asked to step out and then file back in to have our passports and boarding cards checked.  No big deal.  The airport is probably over-dimensioned for the traffic it carries: a good fault, though it does mean that there is a fair distance to walk to the non-Schengen pariahs' gate.

The flight was much more comfortable by virtue of our asking for emergency exit row seats.  The catering was as dismal as before.  The strong winds we'd been expecting didn't materialise: we were thrown about a little on the approach, but nothing alarming, and the landing was good.  Dry roads for the drive home, thank goodness, and by the time we were on our way, the traffic was quiet.  Just as well: I seem to have acquired a cold, and was not feeling on the top of my mediocre form.   This is the price one pays for six days' intensive use of public transport, I suppose, plus constant change from sweating to chilling.

Good experience all round, though.  What would we do differently another time?  Maybe get the faster train from Lisbon to Porto, or fly.  We were interested to see the countryside and towns on the way, but don't really feel the need to do so again.  We'd use the Graça Light apartment again without hesitation so long as we're still capable of climbing all those stairs.  We'd look elsewhere in Porto, however.  Though central and compact, our flat was cramped and basic.  I can't imagine how a group of six, still less its theoretical max capax of eight, would cope there.  We were rather taken with Foz do Douro, which is a quarter of an hour from the centre of Porto, with glorious light and fresh air from the Atlantic.  Another thing I'd do is bone up a bit on my Portuguese.  Listening comprehension, always my weak spot, really let me down this time.  I think there are still some CDs gathering dust on a shelf upstairs...