Parque Campismo Salgueiros and Porto.

Parque Campismo Salgueiros and Porto.

We stopped on a town called Vila Nova de Gaia, which is a town across the river from Porto. We thought it would give us enough distance from Porto, a busy centre, but close enough to be able to get there by bus or taxi...the latter being cheaper with 4 of us.

 As with the last campground, we travel back in time to the 20th century before wifi was invented, and toilet paper was a precious commodity. Our neighbours are preparing a fire on which to cook their dinner and the smell of kerosene, that they are using to start their fire, wafts over to us and surrounds us in place of wifi currents. 

There has to be something to this Portugal that we are missing. One thing that is apparent is the nature of the people. On the surface they appear stern, sometimes almost angry but just under the surface they are warm. The smiles on their faces stay imprinted on the mind for a time after parting. The last 'obrigada' with the shop keeper or cleaner or service station attendant leaves a warm fuzzy feeling that lasts a while.

A walk to the distant toilet block at this camping ground revealed a park full of teenagers camping in tents...reminiscent of Woodford. We were told by the manager that there was a music festival on just down the road. Smashing Pumpkins and all that. 

There were places in the world I would rather be, Maleny for instance. It did strike me though how well behaved and respectful the youngsters were. In Australia, there would have been loud drunken revelling all night with no regard for other campers, but these kids would tip toe back to the campground, and sit around drinking together certainly, but talk in whispers and not smash bottles or vomit. It was so strange.

We took a taxi into Porto to have a look at the ancient town and maybe taste some port. As we neared the main part of the old town, which was centred around the river Douro, we began to wind down through narrow cobblestoned streets, at an alarming speed I might add. We passed old stone buildings with the names of popular port wines on them. This was where the port was stored and aged in barrels. In olden times, the port would be placed in barrels at the place of manufacture...ie. small family owned 'quintas' or farms dotted up the mountains along the Douro river and shipped to Porto in small ships resembling large Venician gondolas where they were stored in the port houses for ageing and then bottling and export.

Nowadays the port is still transported from the quintas but in tanker trucks and transported to the same places, but instead of being family owned, many are now owned by multinationals. This, luckily, hasn't affected the quality of the port too badly and we tasted some lovely liquor. The main area was on the other side of the river and set upon a steep hillside next to it. We found a cute little port tasting shop along the river bank where we sat as the only visitors in a stone room the owner told us was 2000 years old. We tried some Ruby port, 10 year aged, Branco or white port, Rosé port and tawny. The owner's mrs provided us with bread and cheese to put the lining on our stomachs. We all agreed that the older the port the better. It's a no brainer. The manager and his wife were so warm and friendly, that we ended up having a nice conversation with them. Pictures of grand children were brought out and they were eager to advise us on what to see. We tried to ignore Tony's embarrassing questions and statements..such as 'in Australia we are all white'...WTF? He was just trying to tell them our heritage was mainly English and devoid of tradition, but as usual it all comes out so wrong. They reminded me a little of Gian Carlo and Susannah. They advised us to travel up the Douro into the mountain country to see the quintas and towns up there.

We then went for a walk up the narrow stepped cobblestone pathways through the hillside town. The houses were ancient, and as the guide book says, 'Dickensian'. The place oozed charm. It was at this point I fell in love with Portugal. The view from the top was magnificent, with old churches, convents, and the lights of the town reflected on the river. The characteristic sea mist had rolled in and this, along with town lighting and the 3/4 moon gave the sky a purple/pink tie dyed hue that I couldn't quite capture on my camera. There was a beautiful spot where the moon was half visible through a purple haze behind a date palm next to an ancient church. I watched it for some time to imprint it upon my memory as the camera failed me.

The meal of the evening was small as we pigged out at the churrasqueira that day, so with a  gutful of squids, we opted for a light meal of garlic prawns and stuffed mushrooms again washed down with a bottle of Portuguese white. 

That night a mad taxi driver took us the long way home at 200km per hour. Daphne refused to put her seatbelt on which left me in a sour mood. Tony tried to argue with the taxi driver that it cost us 6€ to go into town, and his price of 20€ was a bit steep...but to no avail. Never mind, shit happens.