Guimaraes and Alcobaca

18 May

Shower, breakfast and pictures with Roberto before we wheel our luggage from the hotel to the car-park and head south for Portugal. We have studied the route out of Santiago carefully and for once it's as simple as it looks. Within a few minutes we are on the motorway.

The Portuguese border is barely an hour away. There's no bureaucracy these days. A sign at the Minho river says you are now entering Portugal and that's it. As we cross the bridge my car clock and my smart-phone lose an hour, as if by divine command. We leave the tollroads and take a winding minor road through the hills towards our destination, Guimaraes.

Guimaraes is a World Heritage Site and is the European City of Culture 2012. We'd heard much about it although we'd never been there. The GPS led us around the outskirts of the city to our hotel. She - she's a she - was spot-on and we were grateful.

The hotel was smart - four stars. I'd booked a suite, which was very nice. Dressing gowns in the bathroom - not that we used them - and all sorts of fancy toiletries. The hotel brochure was in Portuguese and semi-impenetrable English. At least the Portuguese was understandable.

After dropping our bags, we walk 10 minutes down the avenue and past the park to the city's famous old quarter. It's not as big as the old quarters of the last half dozen cities we have visited but it's just as pretty. We make our way through the square and up the narrow roads to the castle and keep at the city's extremities.

In the castle a dozen young Portuguese are cleaning up after some kind of presentation earlier in the day. Actors, dressed in ancient military costume, are passing benches and chairs up the steps to the ramparts for storage.

I follow other tourists up the ramparts and am impressed to find Jones following in my wake. She is fearful of heights.

A German woman remarks in English to her companion that nowhere in Germany would the authorities permit tourists to make their way along castle ramparts with a 40ft drop. Here in Portugal, it is not uncommon. The old castle never featured protective railings and the Portuguese authorities do not see fit to install them now.

We make our way across a narrow wooden bridge into the keep in the centre of the castle.

Two flights of wooden stairs lead us to the upper floor, where a steep narrow wooden stair gives access to the roof of the keep.

Visitors climb and descend it slowly and with great care. We follow. The hardest part is squeezing through the tiny doorway at the top.

The views from the top make it worthwhile. Absolutely brilliant if rather heady.

Then down through the old city - past dozens of noisy students - to a modest kitchen restaurant that feeds us well and inexpensively.

19 May

The day dawns cloudy with a promise of rain. We walk a mile around to the base of the cable car - the Teleferico - that climbs to the summit of the hill overlooking Guimaraes. We arrive at 10, just as it opens. The cable runs 1.7kms, climbing several hundred metres in the process.

Beneath us are vast "eccentrics", great boulders - some the size of small houses - that are presumably relics of the last ice age. We speculate on how the glaciers managed to roll these huge boulders to the top of the mountain. No idea.

At the summit we exit and make our way through eccentric-laden forest glades to a glorious church overlooking the city. It's truly beautiful.

So is the large square over which it looks. We try to capture something of its magic with the camera.

Above the church is a giant illustrated cross that lights up the building at night for miles around.

Then we begin a trek down on foot. The cable car operators said it would take 40 minutes. It takes closer to an hour. The cobbled track and steps soon give way to a steep, unkempt path, interspersed with steep steps. A party of Portuguese comes puffing up the hill. Jones had suggested doing the same but I'd vetoed the idea. It was hard enough getting down.

Eventually we reenter the outskirts of Guimaraes and walk back to the hotel for a shower and snooze. I am soaked with perspiration.

After a bite we set off for the city's archeological museum. The map of the city streets is
poor and we have a hard time finding it. Local people mis-direct us.

There are no other visitors there and the official at the door adopts us when he discovers that we speak Portuguese.

We get a detailed tour of the fabulous collection of stone carvings, dating back thousands of years before the Romans set foot in Iberia. The carvings feature multiple fertility symbols and many variations on the swastika that the Nazis were later to adopt.

There are Celtic crosses, Roman inscriptions and inscriptions in Portuguese dating back to the plagues that devastated much of Europe. We thank our enthusiastic official, tip him for his efforts and exit.

After a coffee break, we head for our final destination, yet another museum.

This one is featuring an exhibition of angels down the centuries. The sound of it doesn't appeal but we find the actual exhibits both beautiful and fascinating. However little sense it makes to paint and sculpt male figures dressed in armour with large wings attached to their backs in the name of the angels, artists did it for centuries.

At the other end of the scale, fat little baby cherubs cluster around the Virgin to lend their support - and presumably God's - to her special status. There are a dozen paintings of Virgin and Child - often a large ugly child squatting on her lap - and an equal number of life-size wood carvings of the same, to say nothing of the multiple renderings of the unpleasant death of St Sebastian, martyred by bowmen.

HERE PORTUGAL WAS BORN


Such art was intended for religious propaganda purposes and to illustrate divine approval of one or other ruler.

Today's leaders use TV ads instead; only the medium has changed.

Strange and unbelievable as we find it, it is also quite moving. And we walk back to the hotel with a sense of satisfaction.

20 May

From Guimaraes we head south again to Alcobaca (pronounced "alcobassa), a modest town located a couple of hours north of Lisbon. It's an easy drive and Milady, as I've come to call the GPS, with her cutglass English accent, leads us directly to our hotel, an olde worlde pile on the edge of the town. It's perfectly comfortable, however, and it overlooks the giant fomer Cisterian monastery that is Alcobaca's pride and glory.

After checking in, we make our way down the hill, across the square - where various folk dressed in traditional costume have set up stalls - to the monastery. This institution occupies a square, with each side some 200 metres long, at the heart of which is a large church.

It's a very large church.

A sign at the entrance says it's the largest church in Portugal and we believe it. Entrance to the church is free. It's huge and inspiringly beautiful. Inside various groups are being conducted around. The construction is of white stone. On either side of the transept are two elaborately carved sepulchres.

One is of King Pedro I of Portugal, the other of the woman he loved, Ines de Castro. She, unfortunately for the pair of them, came from a politically controversial family and was assassinated on the orders of the king's father before the former came to the throne. So it was only in death that their love for each other was acknowledged.

We pay a small fee to enter the adjoining monastery, making our way through a hall covered in blue picture tiles and adorned with the sculpted figures of Portuguese kings. The cloister is immense, the largest I've ever seen. The Portuguese translation, claustro, alerts me to the origins of the English word "claustrophobic". Around the large garden are a dozen rooms and halls where the monks lived out their lives, each with a small printed guide in English and Portuguese.

As a side-show, a choir competition is taking place in one of the halls. The singing sounds most attractive although the melody from the choir on stage is all but drowned out by the clamour from members of the next choir, lining up outside the hall.

Occasional showers rain down on us and on the folk dancers and stall-holders on the square outside. Even so, their spirits do not appear to be dampened. Groups of musicians play their music, dancers dance, skipping rope holders spin the rope for skippers to jump, basket makers, vegetable growers, tile decorators and others all do their best to market their wares.

Jonesy snaps away as a little girl chases pigeons and the party continues around us.

21 May

This wasn't our best day. Although I had carefully downloaded the directions to the Holiday Inn Express near Lisbon airport, and carefully keyed the address into the GPS, circumstances conspired against us.

Let me keep a long day short.

What we discovered after the event was that the hotel had improved its website directions since I had downloaded them several months earlier.

And that although the hotel is just a few kilometres from Lisbon airport, one has to put an adjacent municipality in the GPS as the city destination.

And that the directions given on the website do not work unless one is actually leaving the airport rather than passing it on the freeway.

In short, we spend a frustrating hour driving through Lisbon, able at times to see the hotel without being able to reach it. Eventually we managed to persuade a taxi driver to lead us there. Otherwise, we'd never have found it. What a bugger!

22 May

I woke to find that Jones had been ill for much of the night, seemingly as a result of food poisoning. Between her visits to the bathroom we packed - and then followed the hotel minibus to the airport where we parked the car. Jones was ill again as she got out. Our first visit in the airport was to the pharmacy. The medication we acquired gradually restored her although it was only towards the end of the day that she was able to take any food.

More Notes from Spain

13 May 2012

We pack our bags and walk to the Arenal car park. It's €50 for three days parking. Out along the route suggested by the tourist office. For once we get it right. On to the freeway to Santander and then west along the north coast of Spain before we turn south into the Picos mountains. The scenery is stunning. Great cliffs arise on both sides of the road. Canoeists tackle the rushing river that runs beside the road.

We have told our hosts to expect us at 4 and it's just lunchtime. So we kill three hours in the bustling resort town of Potes, lined with tourist shops. It's like a snow-free ski resort.

At 3.30 we head on to our destination village where our host greets us. His apartments are similar in concept to those we had at the Quinta but far more luxuriously fitted and furnished. We pay him the balance of what we owe and are given the house rules to study. It's a smoke free zone. Don't even dream of lighting up. Walk up the next village for exercise.

We sup at the most amazing little restaurant in the hills ten minutes away. Our seats on the patio look out on to the mountains. And the food is brilliant - all four courses. An elderly English couple, Evonne and John, arrive and join us in conversation, mainly about art.

"Are you an art historian?" asks Evonne.

"No," I reply, "but I am complimented that you should mistake me for one."

"Actually," she says, "I was referring to your wife".

I am more amused than offended.

Later, when the conversation turns to dogs, Evonne asks:

"Do you breed dogs?"

"No, they breed themselves," I explain helpfully;"we just adopt them."

It makes me feel better.

When we get back I spend an hour assisting Evonne on the computer.

14 May

A SMART FATIMA-HAND KNOCKER
We drive 15 kms through the hills to Potes. It's market day and the town is full of people and coaches. We hear lots of French conversations. At a table of second hand objects I buy a Fatima-hand knocker and later a walking stick. We wander around and then return to base for lunch and a snooze.

Then we walk 2kms down the twisting road to a rough bar at the crossroads. Inside half a dozen locals are playing cards. A large woman detaches herself from the group and comes to serve us. I have a brandy and Jones a glass of wine. The woman charges us tourist prices. It's 40 minutes back up the road to home and supper.

After each stay along our route I have uploaded a brief assessment of our lodgings to Trip Advisor. So far Jones has found my descriptions fair and useful. I show her what I plan to write this time:

"Guests may expect to be welcomed in the manner of new pupils being admitted to an exclusive school by a firm but kindly headmaster. Outstanding fees are payable immediately in cash and the rule book is presented for prompt attention."

And more in the same vein.

Jones doesn't approve and urges me not to upload the comments. Reluctantly, I take her advice.

15 May 2012

We drive across a mountain pass to the town of Cervera. The views and scenery are stunning. At the top of the mountain we park and take a 30 minute walk along a mountain track. A bus is parked at a look-out point.

It has presumably deposited a group of hikers who are making their way to a distant lake. We carry on, driving carefully through a group of tinkling-bell cows that are making their way to a pasture further up the road. The tinkling fills the valleys around here day and night.

Cervera is a working town. We park outside an attractive cafe where we take coffee. The loos are upstairs. A sliding door reveals the men's loo in its glory, for the ladies to pass by en route to their own toilet. Our more prudish North American visitors must be shocked.

Explosions rock the cafe. Not from the toilets fortunately.

We go out to explore. It's some kind of feastday. Behind the church a fellow is settling off rockets every couple of minutes from a wooden shield that he grasps on his left wrist. The rockets whoosh into the sky and explode with a great noise.

A four person band - two drummers and two brass players - lead a small procession up the road. Two priests go outside to meet and bless the group and the statue the latter is carrying. Then they all process into the church for a ceremony.

We leave them to it and drive up the road to take a look at the fancy parador. It's very smart but not for us. We head back home, park in a nearby village and take a long walk to another village higher up the hill. Where's the bar, we ask an elderly villager as we arrive, using our hands to imitate someone drinking from a cup.

There's none, he tells us, so we tramp back down again.

That night we sup again at the amazing restaurant high in the hills. The restaurant dog makes ut clear that he's delighted to see us back. It's much colder this time and the waiter lights a gas heater to keep us warm. We are the only guests.

16 May

We arise early, creeping around the apartment to avoid disturbing the people below us. We're away by seven. It's going to be a long day. The first 60 kms is over a mountain pass that winds endlessly up through the hills. It's slow going but beautiful. We climb steadily higher, entering the clouds and then rising above them, like a plane. Jonesy takes numerous pictures, trying to capture the magic.

It's two hours to the other side of the mountain and then another five hours by roads wide and narrow to distant Santiago. Along the way we pass hundreds of pilgrims, some on cycles, most on foot, making their slow way to the city. Spain is huge, with scenery reminiscent of the American west. No wonder they shoot cowboy films here.

Just after three we enter the outskirts of Santiago. Luck has brought us in on a road that leads directly to the historic centre. We park in a garage close to our hotel and walk. We are welcomed by Roberto. He's remarkable, a body of energy, attending to half a dozen people and tasks simultaneously and making them all feel special.

As I later write on Trip Advisor, he runs the little hotel the way that Basil Fawlty should have run Fawlty Towers, and it's fabulous. Like most people in Galicia, the north-western part of Spain, Roberto speaks both Spanish and Galego. The latter is close enough to Portuguese for us to communicate easily. What a relief it is to be able to speak to people once again.

After dropping off our bags we make our way down into Santiago's historical quarter. It's large, noisy, full of narrow roads and people. Tourist shops and bars are everywhere between the churches, museums and palaces.

The cathedral is vast and full of noisy visitors speaking a dozen languages and more. At open confessionals along the walls, priests wait for sinners to confess their sins. One or two penitents whisper their misdeeds to the clerics. We pass them by.

A woman at Tourist Information explains that according to legend, the body of the apostle, James, was found and buried in the city. (Santiago means St James.) It's this legend that has given rise to the pilgrimage culture - lucky for Santiago, for it brings commerce on which thousands depend for a living.

There are half a dozen pilgrimage routes, from Portugal, Spain, France and the UK, clearly marked on signposts along the way.

The night is noisy and it's hard to sleep. Raising the window brings us fresh air but a lot more clamour. We leave it shut.

17 May 2012

We wake to bangs. It's Ascension Thursday, a great feastday and holiday in the city. In the streets dancers and musicians in colourful costumes make their way to the squares. We join the crowds watching in fascination. The bagpipe is much in evidence. Indeed, we see the instrument carved into ancient stones in museums.

The Galego history museum gives us a good picture of traditional life in Galicia. It's a hard one, mainly fishing and agriculture, with widespread emigration to new worlds and a better life. For once it's easy to read the explanations.

From the base of a wide circular tower, three sets of stairs ascend the walls, one above another. We've never seen the likes.

In the old city our way is blocked by a huge crowd of demonstrators - men, women and children bearing banners of every description.

For half an hour they parade past us, chanting and chatting, with intermittent bands to keep up their spirits. It's clear that they are all in favour of more autonomy for Galicia but they seem to be associated with every kind of political and social movement.

I stop to buy a small painting from a young woman artist who is displaying her wares. With her is her young cousin. It's good to have something original to remember the city, rather than a mass produced item from a tourist shop.

After supper at a small restaurant we return to the hotel for drinks in the garden and to check the route out of the city. There's no noise tonight. We sleep well.