Following my escapade to Canada and the realisation that travelling to another continent wasn’t quite so bad, I embarked upon a slightly less crazy adventure to Portugal in November 2021. This also followed the further relaxation of rules for travellers returning to the UK, meaning that a cheaper Lateral Flow test was only required on your return from the vast majority of countries. The rules differ at the time of writing.
I had actually booked this trip with the realisation that my Ryanair voucher, obtained as a result of COVID-19 causing my travel plans to Slovakia in April 2020 to be nothing more than a mere fever dream on an alternate timeline. I was after somewhere warm, somewhere reasonably cheap and somewhere I knew I would love. So, a return flight from Birmingham to Porto for less than a tenner cash had me sorted, with it being around £120 for three nights in the Ibis Mercado Bolhão.
I set out on the Thursday morning, somewhat half asleep from my late shift the night before, in the direction of Manchester, due to it genuinely being the cheapest option to have somewhat of a jolly around the North West and Midlands before reaching Birmingham. I spent the early part of the afternoon gandering at the Christmas Markets, getting lost in Bullring and ending up tipsy after one pint in a Spoons due to my infallible ability to neck half a pint before the food even rocks up.
Birmingham Airport very much gives off the impression that it was put together gradually by a group of random men all named Gav and Steve on a Wednesday afternoon and gradually extended on subsequent Wednesday afternoons with the potential for some heavy drinking in between. As I made my way through the cramped and narrow security queues, I eventually ended up at another queue for my flight which had managed to completely block off an entire corridor. After making it to the front of the queue, having been asked “got yer vaccination proof innit?”, we were all in a bit of a huddle and sat around in this rather flatpack looking departure lounge.
I do pity anybody who actually paid for priority boarding on this flight, considering that half of the lounge had decided to queue down the stairs to the tarmac without even being told to. The eventual call for boarding was a man stood at the other side of the lounge shouting “Uhhh priority boarding please….ahhh uuhhh everyone else go whatever”, to which there was something resembling a stampede, due to everyone’s undying enthusiasm for standing at the bottom of some stairs outside of a plane in the freezing cold.
I took a more leisurely pace, pausing to take a photo of my first Ryanair plane in nearly three years (I think my last flight was from Stansted to Basel-Mulhouse-Freiburg-Istanbul-to-Constantinople in January 2019) before being delighted to see that I had an entire row to myself, which meant that I could have a perfect groggy eyes nap. We were quickly away on time, meaning that I could eye up the last of the sunset over the delightful Brum before that aforementioned very refreshing and not at all disorienting nap.
We landed in Porto slightly early, with the mandatory klaxon and slightly pissed-off sounding Irish woman informing us that over 90% of Ryanair planes landed on time, which in general is the entire purpose of an airline making a schedule in the first place. Passport control was next, with my passport being pushed back at the officer followed by a curt reminder that he needed to stamp it now (glory to Brexit, or something like that).
All that was left for me to reach Porto proper was to have a fight with the ticket machine (which wouldn’t accept my 20 euro note) and dash onto the incredibly busy line E Metro, which was headed for Trindade, one stop short of where I actually wanted to be at Bolhao. How convenient. The Metro itself is more of a heavy-duty tram of sorts, being not the most frequent rapid transit system I’ve ever used but most certainly clean, safe and punctual. Do note though, that tickets are somewhat complicated at first glance, with the price you pay for a day pass being based upon the various zonal rings that surround your starting point and the number of zones you’ll need to pass through to get from your origin. Hence, a two zone ticket covers two zonal rings from the Airport, and so forth.
A thankfully painless change at Trindade later, I was out of the station at Bolhao and face-to-face with the rather majestic Capela das Almas (Chapel of Souls).
It was only a few minutes to my hotel, where I checked in and settled in for the night, planning my moves for the morning, being keen to get myself up to the city of Braga under the cover of darkness in time for sunrise. On that note, it was also time for some well needed bloody sleep.
The morning actually had me feeling rather refreshed, as I took a short stroll down to Porto Sao Bento station, which sees regular “Urbano” trains to the likes of Braga, Guiamares, Aveiro and Marco de Canvases. There’s also a handful of InterRegional trains that’ll take you beyond Marco de Canvases right through to Pocinho, through the beautiful Douro Valley. I was of course heading for Braga this morning, having picked up one of the limited-stop peak services, which provided a…not very thrilling trip north. It was dark, what else can I say?
Braga station is situated a few minutes from the Arco da Porta Nova, which lies at the western entrance of the Medieval city walls. The arch was opened in 1512, though its current design is significantly more recent, being the brainchild of André Soares in the late 18th century. This was certainly a fitting start to my wander around the somewhat chilly and very deserted streets of the old town.
I proceeded to spend a good hour both shivering (which would soon turn into sweating after the sun broke through) and enjoying getting myself lost in the endless alleys and narrow streets of Braga, all the while doing this in almost complete solitude.
As the sun truly began to break through, I made my way back towards Porto, being hemmed in on the train by throngs of schoolkids and deciding to jump off the train at Nine (that is, Neeenyeh, not NEIN) for an InterRegional service that was soon to join us from Valenca.
Well, I say it was “soon” to join us because come departure time, it was decided that the train was suddenly five then 25 minutes late, then the platform was changed, then the locals started booting off with the Stationmaster, and I was quite frankly wishing I’d just stayed on the Kiddiewinkle Jamboree. Eventually, my luxurious train, consisting of two French-built Corail carriages hauled by a similarly French-esque “broken nose” locomotive screeched into the platform, with there being only a few seconds for me to jump on before we were off again. At least I had two seats to myself.
I jumped off at Porto-Campanha, it now being time for me to get my teeth stuck into both Porto and some fucking food, due to me apparently having an aversion to every shop in existence and progressively starving myself as the morning went on.
I took the Metro to Jardim do Morro, being situated high above the Douro and requiring a trip over the upper level of the Luis I Bridge, there also being a lower deck for cars and other such automobile-esque contraptions. The bridge was inaugurated in 1886, with an earlier single-deck design by Gustave Eiffel in 1879 having been rejected due to the rapidly growing urban population at the time.
It was here that I eventually managed to sit and eat something resembling food, and decided that the cable car down to the banks of the river sounded like a bloody good laugh. In fairness, I was entirely right, as I proceeded to get lost not only within the gift shop but managed to annoy the bloke at the bottom after telling him “eee hey I look like a rabbit in headlights, nee thanks” in reference to the souvenir photo of myself I was offered.
The south bank of the Douro is dominated by throngs of restaurants and winemakers, the city of course being the home of Port wine. I did originally toy with the idea of doing some wine tasting, before deciding that I didn’t fancy falling down the many hills of the city and gravely injuring myself. I did however take great pleasure in accidentally bumping into a tour group and enjoying the sight of Bordalo II’s Half Rabbit.
I took myself back up to some dizzy heights on the cable car, taking a stroll over the bridge and winding my way around the edge of the north bank of the Douro, eventually ending up at the terminus of the old-school tram line.
This was without a doubt very popular indeed, quite the ask for a tiny tramcar. I managed to get myself jammed in at the front, watching behind the driver as the traffic would dodge and weave around us, greeted only by the passive-aggressive bell and some sudden braking. A trip on the tram will set you back 3,50EUR, and it isn’t included with the usual day tickets for the bus and Metro. It’ll drop you at Passeio Allegre, just a short stroll from the beachfront.
Having made my way along the promenade to the Praia do Carneiro, I decided it was time to head back into the city and get myself some more food, though I was begrudged to pay extra for the privilege of the tram. I ended up waiting at the world’s worst bus stop, located just outside of a Newsagent down a narrow alley, whereupon various old men would take pleasure in stopping right in the bus stop to retrieve their Portuguese takes on The Sun or Bild or whatever it is they so fancied. As such, my bus just stopped in the middle of the road and the driver let me do the legwork. This took me to Matosinhos, for a connection to Line A of the Metro.
Of course, the best thing about McDonald’s abroad is the ability to swig back a beer with your food, and that’s exactly what I did next, because hey, when in Rome. Or Porto, as it happens.
Having made the most of the food and charging sockets, I took a stroll back out and onto the Metro towards the town hall (Câmara Municipal) before taking an about turn towards the Douro. There was one thing I’d been told prior to my visit, and that was that sunsets on the Douro are some of the most beautiful in the world.
And how fucking right they were. In the knowledge that not only were temperatures were set to drop, but Covid restrictions would likely soon be creeping back in, throngs of people descended on the Ponte Luis I and Jardim do Morro to watch the sunset.
As a band started playing, I sat myself down to witness the last flames of the November sun extinguish beneath the dusk to the chorus of a bit of what was probably rather romantic-sounding Latin tunes. Unfortunately at this point, I realised that I was evidently the only single person in the vicinity, and took myself to my local branch of Pingo Doce for some wine and supplies.
The next task was planning how the hell I was going to get to Campanha Station for 5:20 in the morning, considering that there was no public transport that early and that the walk was long, a bit dodgy looking and likely rather chilly too.
Still, that was a tomorrow problem. Tonight’s problem was finishing this delicious *hic* Vinho verde.
The Lone Bon Voyager 