Portugal the Van
Our fourth week on the road began with a bang as my intrepid partner became slightly older, if not at all wiser. Having been spoiled on my own name day not three weeks prior, I needed to pull out all of the stops and provide Lowri with a truly thrilling gift, a gift that money simply could not buy, a gift she could cherish for years on end. I settled on tepid running water. To realise this grand offering, I booked a functional apartment in Downtown Porto for a couple of nights and prayed that a major drought didn’t strike the city on our way there.
We were in luck. Although, despite the water being plentiful, so were the number of students we had to teach that afternoon. We assembled our mobile teaching office in the room and set about six hours of past participles and the difference between who and whom. As this consumed most of the day (mainly spent Googling the latter), evening tapas and the soothing tones of the matchless Pedro Pinto were all we could manage on day one of Lowri’s birthday spectacular, with day two promising to be far more action-packed.
A sun-drenched tour to Portugal’s dreamy wine-making Douro Valley was what I had envisaged but, regrettably, a rain-drenched excursion to a valley not too dissimilar to the Rhondda was what greeted us (slightly harsh on the Rhondda). Our affable guide, Guy, did his absolute best to enthuse us with his passion for port but even he was taken aback by the sheer volume of H2O that proceeded to plummet from the heavens. However, all was not lost as we grew rather fond of the four other members of our tour group who were all as knowledgeless about wine/port as we were, and all as keen to consume as much of the stuff as humanely possible as we were.
The six of us, two Canadians and four Brits, formed an efficient port-consuming clan, which continued long after our day trip had ended, and we had been thrown off the bus back in Porto. One couple from London even managed to secure us all extra tickets to a highly intimate performance of traditional Portuguese fado music that very evening. This involved entering a dark cavern deep beneath the streets of the old town, plied with yet more alcohol, and incited to observe two stout men with extraordinary guitars provide the impressive accompaniment to an exceedingly dramatic opera singer. Given our blood alcohol levels at that point, it was a highly surreal experience, as well as an enjoyable one.
Following our swift escape from Porto the next morn, we decided some R&R was in order and thus guided the van to the quiet coastal town of Esmoriz, some thirty kilometres south of the city. Quiet though it was, an Irish bar so it had, and we spent a splendid three days and nights teaching, beachside sauntering, and Guinness drinking, all within earshot of the tempestuous Atlantic (and boisterous hoodlums). Having spent the vast majority of our time within various chaotic city limits, a small seaside atmosphere was precisely what we both required, especially given the next stop on our voyage.
Lisbon. Capital of the country and the second oldest capital city in Europe – Google informed us there was a lot to explore. However, not before a terrace beer to celebrate a successful negotiation of yet another major metropolis without driving over a single human, as has become a tradition when arriving in any new city. With Wales playing South Africa that evening, a hastily found sports bar was placed in our crosshairs and we set about making the thirty-minute amble to the centre of the city. Following a narrow, yet predictable, defeat for Wales and a modest, yet edible, vegetarian curry for me, Lowri’s ears pricked up upon hearing the mention of a Neath fish and chip shop across the bar – our kin. After drinking with some Welsh, being scammed by some English (by unwittingly paying for their extravagant drinks), and running away from a South African we thought may or may not kidnap us it was quite an eventful Saturday night. Roll on week five.
J
