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| A Coruna to Sanxenxo to Braga to Guimaraes to Porto - |
Google Maps took us on the "free" route out of town as the twink had modified the settings so the AI avoided toll roads for some strange reason. I found myself driving the same road that I took the previous day to Santiago, which is lovely but when you are motoring with an alert blaring at you on the command centre of the vehicle advising that you are driving on fumes, there is not much enjoyment as you power down the scenic road. As we rolled into the service station that existed on Google Maps but had obviously shut down years prior, I became concerned that the tank would run dry. We did manage to find another service station 5km away and as the motorcar puffed to a grinding halt, I asked the twink to pump the diesel as I was in desperate need to vacate my bladder.
I ran into the shop looking for the fabled door to the toilet and when I couldn't find one, I ran outside and to the rear of the establishment. Being a bloke, I can let loose the excess fluids and thought that the back of the station would be convenient. I was wrong. There was a makeshift carwash and after sighing, I jogged up a small dirt hill into the brush thinking I could relieve myself only to find an older lady pushing herself along on a zimmer frame. Busting, I ran back to the service station. "Donde estan los servicios?" The bloke sensed I was from some other country and took great care to point me in the right direction. I made it just in time before my shorts ended up resembling the ones that the twink pissed on the other night. Joy. I returned to the motorcar and noticed that 25 litres was pumped into the tank. I sprinted to the window of the service station and pounded on the window, gesticluating madly at the twink who was graciously paying for the diesel not to do it as I needed to pump more. It is a 55 litre tank after all. After some argy-bargy with the attendant who insisted that my tank was full, I shoved the nozzle back into the Benz and pumped another 27 litres into into it. She couldn't believe that the tank that was supposedly so full, much like my bladder only minutes before this experience could accept more. I happly paid the bill one again and silenty forgave the twink knowing that he had never pumped a tank of petrol in his life and it must have been confusion being consulted by a station attendant in a language that he didn't know a word of.
Whilst drinking my fair share of the bottles of San Miguel a few nights prior, I came across a list that nominated the beach at Sanxenxo in Spain as the "2nd best" sand beach in Europe. We rambled in and ditched the motorcar on the street avoiding the cost of parking and began to wander around aimlessly. For whatever reason despite knowing that it was going to be warm, I decided to wear my fashionably torn black skinny jeans on this sunny day after feeling at home in them whilst I enjoyed the degustation only 24 hours prior. It didn't take long until I felt beads of sweat following the laws of gravity down my legs and the awkward feeling that my cotton boxer briefs provide when they become saturated with sweat. I would have been the only dickhead within 5km of this glorious beach to be wearing trousers, let alone black skinny jeans. We retreated into a beachside tapas bar and ordered the menu of the day. It consisted of octopus pulpa and one of the largest cuts of steaks that I have had in my life along with a tomato and onion salad. The daily deal also included a "jug" of wine. The server brought out a bottle of white and a bottle of red and told us in broken English to enjoy as much as we want. FML. I sighed knowing I had a few more hours to drive and polished off half the bottle. The twink guzzled his bottle of white and was ready to party as I sadly waved farewell to the amazing Sanxenxo beach, quietly hoping to return next year.
We crossed the border into Portugal after driving the coast road from Sanxenxo which as an aside is a beautiful drive. Curiously once in Portugal, the quality of the highway degraded just a bit and the driving skills of those using it declined in proportion. I found it strange that despite going 20 km/hr over the speed limit in the "slow lane" that other motorists would come within centimetres to tailgate me for a minute before passing in the fast lane. In many cases, after they passed they would slow to the speed limit so I would have to, in turn, pass them again. Madness. If this happened once or twice I wouldn't blink an eye but as you can see, I am writing about it. There are terrible drivers in Portugal and the status quo on the highway seems to be to hog two lanes, even whilst passing another vehicle. Driving here isn't as unnerving as it is in Italy though.
The next stop was Braga in Northern Portugal. It was recommended by a Portuguese colleague that provided a long list of things to do whilst in her native country. We toured the amazing Cathedral after paying 6€ to gain entry and then wandered the city and looked at other edifices that were built in His hame.
Google Maps was showing red across the small area on the outlying roads so I suggested that we drive to Born Jesus Do Monte which was also on the list that was provided. I paid the 1€ entry to get into the car park at the top of the hill and then wandered around the beautiful gardens that provide expansive views over Porto and beyond. Walking down 300 or so steps seemed like a good idea at the time to get a photo of the asymmetry of the grounds; statues and the church, but the walk up was a mare. I realised that I was in much better physical shape a month ago, and felt puffed and was a sweaty mess as we took the last step back at the summit. The church itself on the exterior is beautiful but upon presenting ourselves inside it was under renovation and signs apologised on a Kardashian scale for the inconvenience caused. Beautiful on the outside but rather shit and under renovation internally.
The next stop was Guimaeres which was also on the aforementioned hit list since this is known as the birthplace of Portugal. Again, the 10th-century castle was a recommended stop and we found a gaggle of boys hunting Pokemon at the castle gates. Nearby, the Dukes of Braganca Palace reminded me of a structure that would be found in France and after returning to the castle, the Pokemon hunters had left, allowing me to take a few amazing photographs.
The jaunt into Porto was met with traffic and it was only after a few pints at the hotel bar at Mercure Gaio that I was able to take the edge off and relax after a very long day which also included doing my day job if you can believe it.
A midday start the following day found us parking the motorcar near the beguiling Duoro River. We found a tapas restaurant where the owner was happy to pour port in anticipation of our custom, which we enjoyed along with the suggested tasting menu. It was a lovely experience until the bill came and I was told that their credit card machine was broken. "Perhaps you should put a sign on the door saying so," I suggested. The lady mumbled in broken English that a sign had been affixed but it must have fallen off. Normally, this wouldn't be a big deal, but Porto is situated on a hill and it was hot outside. I took to the streets and walked up the steep the hill to where Google advised me an ATM existed, but it was not part of my network and would not spit out Euro. I walked back down the hill to the river, found another ATM, removed money and was charged -7% of the live exchange rate and returned to pay the bill. The lesson learned is always to ask if the establishment not only accepts a card, but it is working before settling in. I was deceived by the sticker on the door saying they accept Mastercard (or Visa) so alas...
We staggered to the funicular which in theory would take us back up the hill but called in at some riverside wine bar to quench our thirst. The sun was shining and we were thirsty after walking 500m. One round of 20-year old port turned into many bottles and all sorts of tomfoolery that lasted for six hours. I stripped down to my underwear and was about to run down the promenade to the Luis I bridge to jump into the river with the other boys when I was advised that my general intoxication may lead to my drowning and was talked out of the foolish leap into the Duoro. We did somehow get the Benz out of the underground carpark and back to the Mercure just in time for the twink to heave the beautiful Port he consumed into the toilet.
The next day neither of us were feeling very energetic and I was happy to work nearly naked with the air conditioning blasting on me as I yelled at the laptop on WebEx to verify that our colleagues who work in the subcontinent were executing the approved change control that I diligently chase all week for approvals. Again, wanting to follow the list of suggested places to visit for lunch, we bathed and got down the perpetual road to Leixoes which I discovered is an industrial seaside town. We walked into the restaurant A Cozinha da Maria by chance after everything else was closed on a Monday afternoon. I was pleasantly surprised to find that it is locally owned and operated for longer than my father has been alive. We were treated to some amazing service, great seafood soup and the fish of the day. I was concerned when I chomped on some fish bones and also the pit of an olive but my teeth were intact after the meal thankfully and engorged, we left and decided that I would postpone our extravagant dinner plans that night because of exhaustion and just from being spent. The Mercure hotel concierge was happy to ring the restaurant and in fluent Portuguese, thankfully rebooked our dinner reservation for the following night which allowed us to languish in the hotel bar and mercifully relax; consuming a few bottles of white Port, which enabled us to chat with fellow travellers of the night.
Feeling like a normal human being once again after sleeping in the frigid conditions overnight, I was enthusiastic about delivering my daily tasks at work. We once again drove into the centre of Porto and abandoned the vehicle. After a brisk walk down the hill, we found a shop that was advertising chocolate and port tastings. Who could say no? Three morsels of chocolate and then three glasses of Port (paired of course) was a substitute for lunch before finding our way finally to the funicular. Thankfully we were not sucked into the open arms of the wine shop where we drank for six hours only two days prior. We were delivered to the top of the city for 5€ all up, only to meander down the hill once again. We happened upon yet another wine shop where the Brazilian owner was happy to ply us with Port, cheese and meats free from the nonsense of fellow tourists and we had a chat which was utterly delightful about drugs, politics and everything Porto. We spent a few hours at his shop before liberating the motorcar from its tomb and returning to the Mercure for a needed nap.
After regenerating, we both dressed in casual black colours, with me pulling on the ripped skinny jeans once again and we drove across the bridge. We presented ourselves at Antiqvvm, which is the best restaurant highlighted in the Michelin guide and the 'the must-do' destination in Porto. We were looked at suspiciously as we presented ourselves as other tourists took photos with their Fendi bags and Americans spoke with business jargon in one corner. We were after the extended degustation, which the restaurant was happy to deliver along with three bottles of wine instead of the matching option. Although the restaurant had a great view and garden, I found it rather generic. Unlike the meal last Sunday which I talk about to this day, where all the elements were sourced from Galacia and the staff struggled to speak English equally as I struggled with Spanish, it provided a sense of regional authenticity, At Antiqvvm, I felt like I was in a restaurant in Melbourne. Don't get me wrong, it was a great meal, but after dropping 444€ I wanted more of a memorable regional experience and not a destination restaurant where the tourists are taking selfies and acting like dickheads with polished services that is tailored for those with the tourist dollars. Great food and wine, but it was nothing special that I want to return to. It did provide some Instagramable food moments though #foodporn.
After a few glasses of port at the Mercure Gaio bar to finish the night, it was time to retire feeling bloated and happy. I didn't spend enough time in Porto and hoped to do more but the one day of required downtime after the mammoth day of drinking Port in the sun disappointed me in the end. I can do better. I can manage time better. My liver can work better. The road trip is only 28 days into it after all.
Next stop: Lisbon, Portugal
