The Northerly wind bloweth.

Sao Martinho do Porto

After a near week of heavy hot skies and fat rain, thunderstorms and lightening the wind has finally edged North, giving us a fine day for savouring the sun and drying everything out again.

We have become very fond of Sao Martinhoa, with its womblike bay, the Atlantic crashing just beyond its mouth. The sand here, once whetted by the whispering waves, sparkles brilliantly silver and graphite. Once a day the tide leaves the shore rimmed with jewels: shells of all sorts, the vacant remains of urchins, perfect like tiny skulls, paper thin and fragile. Most of all the people here are a delight, infinitely patient as we blunder on with our nascent Portuguese. My achievements in this domain continue to be severely limited – after much preparation I asked the lady in the corner shop if it would be sunny tomorrow. Smiling broadly she replied “yes, yes, we are open all day”.

Obidos

Weather bound, we decided to explore inland and take the autocarro (bus) to Obidos (pronounced, we discovered, ‘obidj’). This hilltop cluster of whitewashed houses enclosed within 14th century castellated walls is straight out of a fairytale. It was apparently Isabel of Aragon’s wedding present from her husband King Dinis (not bad I say). We walked the length of the castle wall peering down at the painterly scenes. The white houses framed with bright colours: blue, yellow and red. Brilliant purple bougainvillia and delicate eggshell blue plumbago growing in drifts over balconies and rooftops.

Bougainvillia and cobbles - oh and a tourist looking gormless

The following day we hired a car and drove to meet our St Just friends Anne Marie, Martin and their little one, Alina, in Ericeira. This old fishing village perched high above the Atlantic holds a significant place in history because it was from its harbour that the last King of Portugal (Manuel II – not Alfonso) sailed into exile as the Republic was declared in Lisbon in 1910. Strangely, with all the places he could have gone to, the banished king settled in Twickenham. There are many links we have noticed between the Portuguese and the British that punctuate history. We were told by an old friend of mine that the oldest treaty in Europe was signed between both nations and this perhaps explains why, for example, at Torres Vedras, another town we drove through, Wellington assisted the Portuguese in resisting Napoleon’s army by building lines of fortified defences after which the town is named.

A door

We sped through Mafra but, overwhelmed at the sight of its massive baroque palace and monastery, white and majestic, made a U turn to take a better look. Inside, the amount of creamy pink marble beggars belief. Clearly no expense was spared by King Joao V, who commissioned it (initially just the monastery) apparently to assuage his guilt at being a naughty boy. This was also where, later, Manuel II had lived before emigrating to Twickers.

Then there was Sintra, which was another royal haunt though just for the summer because it is high up a very windy road in the cool hills. It’s a strange place owing to the fact that it looks very un-portuguese. Standing in the middle of old Sintra feels like being in a Swiss mountain town. This may have something to do with the fact that, at some stage, a German Architect was appointed by the royal family to do a makeover but who knows…

And on to Cascais the ‘trendy and cosmopolitan’ suburb of Lisbon where we were taught (by means of a delicious practical) how the trendy and cosmopolitan Portuguese eat by Fernando and Rita. In a restaurant hovering above the crashing surf, in a minimalist modern surround we ate juicy prawns and buttery clams, meaty grilled fish in garlic oil, honey coloured bread made of maize flour and, best of all, we drank the crisp white wine that has been produced by Rita’s family for four generations – how brilliant is that?



Now it’s back to bread and cheese (in a bowl) for we are on passage again tomorrow – to the Portuguese island of Madeira. We will send news from there. Until then: Impulse out.

Walk over the dunes at Sao Martinho