Hosteling in Portugal

---

---

Ascending from the Sao Bento metro station, my first view of Porto was the 12^th century cathedral against the backdrop of a pure blue sky in the glow of early evening. The pre-booked hostel was just around the corner and I checked in quickly so that I could enjoy the views from the cathedral courtyard before nightfall. The cathedral sits on a crowded ridge that tops the slope up from the Douro river. The scramble of buildings from the waterside up the hillside is one of the classic views of Porto.



Back at the hostel, I was the sole participant of the ‘communal’ dinner, though they rounded off the meal with a glass of port, the fortified wine produced exclusively here in the Douro Valley.





The hostel was full of international students, many of whom were competing for oven space as they boiled their pasta and roasted their vegetables.



Over the next few days I pounded the streets of Porto, a city of uncommon beauty. There was much to enjoy along the riverside and in the elevated old city. I got on well with my fellow hostel dwellers, most of whom were doing a route of Porto - Lisbon - Madrid, which I felt was likely to overlook many of the joys of Portugal I anticipated. I was befriended by a posse of Korean girls and we went and watched a sunset from the iconic railway bridge which straddles the river 60 metres above the water.



I was encouraged by my early tastes of Portuguese gastronomy:



- A Francesinha is a 5cm thick sandwich filled with thick slices of various meats, covered in melted cheese and topped with a fried egg. Somewhat overcalorific for my taste.

- Tripe stew was ok. I don’t know why tripe gets such a bad rap, it provides bulk without flavour. The sinuous permutations of the sheep’s stomach wall adds additional interest.



I had an enjoyable day in Vila do Conde, an attractive seaside town 27 km north of Porto. The town is overlooked by the Convento de Santa Clara, which provides a nice view from it’s hilltop position and is the final destination of the Roman aqueduct which passes through the edge of the town.



Portugal has its own Youth Hostel Association, called Pousada de Juventude (henceforth PdJ) and I had my first taste of their facilities in Viana do Castelo. This hostel was situated by the marina and my dorm room had a balcony looking out over the water.



The wealth that built Viana came as a result of it’s position at the mouth of the Rio Lima. Wine from the agricultural lands upriver were sold to wider European destinations (especially England) and cloth and manufactured goods went the other way. In fact, one of the oldest surviving trade alliances in the world, signed in 1386, exists between Portugal and England. A fact well known in Portugal, less so in the UK, I suspect.



I took the funicular railway up the Monte de Santa Luiza which is topped by a namesake church whose belfry is open to the public. This affords a dramatic view across the town and up and down the coast. I spent a while engaging the panorama function on my pocket camera.



The retired hospital ship floating in the dock was Portugal’s first. Saved from the scrapyard, she was renovated and displayed by the town that built her.



Close to the northern border with Spain, Valenca do Minho is an old fortress town. The quaint town centre is surrounded by thick walls built over medieval centuries to protect the citizens from the territorial ambitions of their neighbours. The whole town can be circumnavigated atop the grassy walls in a 90 minute stroll. Looking down I could see the restaurant touts limbering up (it’s quite touristy) so I ventured down the outside of the walls to the modern town, where a menu do dia was easily obtained.



The PdJ in Ponte de Lima was most pleasant. Each room has a large picture window looking across the field towards the nearby river. My dorm-mate was following the Camino de Santiago pilgrimage route. This was the first time I had heard of this, but I subsequently met loads of people doing various parts of this route (from Lisbon to Santiago de Compostela in Spain) over various lengths of time. This particular dorm-mate had multiple allergies and was carrying all the food he would be eating for a 2 week trip. His pack weighed a ton.



The Ponte of Ponte de Lima is a bridge which has crossed the Rio Lima since Roman times. The current version, built in 1368, provides the centre of interest in a lovely little town. This town claims to be the oldest documented in the country, its charter goes back to 1125.

The river appears passive, but evidenced by the notches on the tourist office walls, it has occasionally flooded to first story levels, which must have been devastating.



The PdJ in Braga was the cheapest of the trip at 10 Euros for a dorm B&B. The prices seem to be determined by the condition of the property and the size of the dorm. This hostel was well worn, with a 10 bed dorm that I had to myself.



Braga has long been a religious centre whose energies have been translated into an architectural spree of squares and churches. The city centre is extensively pedestrianised and rewards aimless wanderings as interesting places are found around most turnings. The city was developed in fits and starts since the 10^th century, as the citizens fortunes waxed and waned through the centuries.



The church of Bom Jesus do Monte sits on a hill a short bus ride out of town. The church can be reached by a funicular railway powered by water and gravity, which is quite interesting. At the top of the hill spring water is diverted into a tank below the railway carriage which provides sufficient weight to pull up the lower carriage when the brakes are released.



The church is situated in park-like grounds and is fronted by an impressive 116 metre granite staircase down the hill decorated with engaging statues and Stations of the Cross.



Guimaraes was the birthplace of the country’s first monarch, Dom Afonso Henriques, in 1110, and the first capital, before Portugal was actually defined as a country. It holds a special place in the hearts of the people, as many Portuguese I spoke to expressed their admiration for Guimaraes. There is a pleasant jumble of cobbled streets and squares, a renovated castle and that’s about it. The PdJ occupying a former mansion house, provided a pleasant base, though I had booked in for 2 nights when 1 would have done.



I took the train south to Aviero where I stayed in a nice private hostel with single (ie. not bunk) beds.

This is a mildly attractive town differentiated by the presence of a small canal network and hence, touristic boat trips. I was prepared to cringe should I hear anyone describe it as the ‘Venice of Portugal’, but that didn’t happen ‘til later in the trip (with a straight face).

Opposite the shopping centre, a restaurant offered a menu do dia for 5 Euros including soup, main, pudding, soft drink & expresso. That’s about as cheap as it comes.



I carried on own the coast to Figueira da Foz as a storm approached, and then got drenched as I hunted for the hostel. Fig da Foz claims the widest beach in Europe (from prom to waves) though it turned out that this was man made as a result of the building of a lengthy harbour wall out into the sea. I braved the gale force winds and streaming rain to get to the end of the wall. Turns out that it’s quite difficult to get photos that demonstrate the width of a beach from prom to waves. The town looks well prepared for summer hoards of beach lovers, but is not the place to be on a wet Sunday in March.



The weather improved as I went inland to Coimbra. Here the hill is big enough to hold a university, two cathedrals, a botanical garden and a characterful old town of alleys and cobbles. The old town spreads down towards the river, where it merges into more modern elements.

I stayed in an impressive hostel overlooking the older, smaller cathedral. Oversleeping was impossible as the church bells rang out regularly from 7am onwards.

It took me a couple of days to complete my mental map of the topography. I am sure it did my calf muscles a world of good as I traversed from the hilltop to the lower town in search of nourishment. There was also a lift from bottom to top which I tried once but found unentertaining. No doubt it is appreciated by the pensioner population.

Whilst here I met the renowned Senegalese hip-hop artiste Dufee Chimer who had jetted over for a jamming session. A very nice guy he is too (check out his videos on Youtube).



Tomar is a very agreeable town on the banks of the Rio Nabao. In the hostel I was befriended by a jovial, disorganised Londoner named Anthony, who seemed to have found his way around much of the world.



On the first Sunday of every month, many Portuguese attractions dispense with their entry charges, so we saved a few Euros when we visited the Convento do Christo. Ths impressive World Heritage Site was the HQ of the Order Of The Knights Templar in the 1100’s and 1300’s. The grounds and buildings took a few hours to take in and then we met our hostel landlady at the orange spring festival taking place in the courtyard. She was hoping to sell us some cakes, but we had already had our fill of quiche.



Tomar is also home to a museum claiming the world’s largest collection of matchboxes. I am not a great one for museums these days, but I probably won’t come across 60,000 matchboxes in one place again.



The next day we caught the bus to Lieria. I took the first bus after breakfast. Anthony caught the last bus by the skin of his teeth, along with his 16 additional carrier bags of accumulated stuff.



As I checked into the hostel in Leiria, they gave me a pair of ear plugs. Oh dear. The basic dormitory was directly above the towns most popular bar. I wasn’t too keen on this, but it could be the reason that the hostel gets such high ratings. When Anthony turned up I suggested that he choose the 1 Euro extra dorm further down the hall.



Anthony volunteered for kitchen duty so I had some home-made fayre for a change, brightened up by many of the ingredients he had purloined along the way.



We took a day trip to the Mosterio da Batalha, a monumental abbey and now another World Heritage site. Construction started in 1386 after victory in a battle against the Castillian forces was credited to the Virgin Mary. She was not a pacifist in those days.



That night a bed in the dorm was occupied by an 18 year old German girl, Alina. She was heading my way the next morning, while Anthony was heading north. It seemed like a fair swap.



We went to the seaside town of Nazare. When we arrived at the hostel door it required a phone call to summon the owner. It was lucky my new friend was with me as my own smartphone remains in the future.



As seaside towns go, Nazare was pleasant enough. The main attraction was along the headland by the lighthouse, where you can watch the evolution and collapse of very big waves from on high. In the autumn Nazare is said to have the biggest waves in the world, 30 metres in height. This obviously attracts the planets most daring surfers. We found our way to the pizza shop where we watched rolling videos of these waves over vegetarian slices.



Finally, we paddled on the town beach as sunset approached.

I was sorry to see Alina go. I am sure she was great for my kudos.



The hostel in Peniche was easy to find. I haggled with the owner for a free upgrade to the nicer dorm and then, noticing that she had her sewing machine out, persuaded her to stitch the hole in my jeans pocket.



Peniche used to be an island, but at some point in geological time became joined to the mainland as a peninsular.

It takes a few hours to walk around the peninsular. There are a few hidden beaches, rocky crags and men fishing from cliff tops far above the angry waves. At one point there is a site of scientific interest where the succession between rocks from 2 consecutive geological ages in the Lower Jurassic period can be clearly observed. 200 million years ago this land mass was close to North America.



There is a long beach between Peniche and the surfers resort of Baleia, 5 km away. The waves were waist high, with a long run in, so it’s a great place to learn to surf.



Peniche castle has had a long and varied existence. In the 1960’s it was used by the fascist state as a prison for communist agitators. It has now been turned into a museum to show the lives experienced by those in custody. This was probably my only exposure to modern Portuguese history, but some how it also felt like a different world. There was a mild mannered revolution in 1974, followed by democratic elections in 1975.



A short bus ride out from Peniche, Obidos is a characterful old town completely enclosed by it’s city walls. The whitewashed buildings encased within the stone walls look intriguing from across the valley. These days it exists almost entirely as a tourist destination and was busy enough this early in the season.



I booked into the main PdJ in Lisbon for Easter. It was a bit rubbish compared to the others that I had stayed in, but I had paid upfront and of course, it was the busiest time.



I was checking in at the same time as a dusky Brazilian lady and we got to talking. It was clear that we had something in common when she asked if I was a fan of Napoleon Hill, so we teamed up the next day to go to Sintra.



Sintra is the must-do excursion out of Lisbon. presenting a powerhouse of history, culture and architecture. It has a castle. palaces, a convent, elaborate estates and gardens, all with chunky entrance fees. Camille & I opted to walk up to the hilltop castle, where the views were most nourishing. In the days before Easter, the crowds were shoulder to shoulder and the queues for everywhere lengthy, so we satisfied ourselves with a nice lunch before Camille went into tourist mode by buying trinkets and drinking ginger liquor from a chocolate cup. Normally I would not be averse to drinking ginger liquor from a chocolate cup, but I had not eaten any chocolate, biscuits, cakes for almost 6 weeks, and it did not feel like the right time to cave.



So I spent the Easter period yomping around various parts of Lisbon, a city of extensive allure. Despite existing on this site since the 700’s AD, Lisbon lacks the medieval sights of the places visited so far because of Europe’s biggest ever earthquake in 1755, which was immediately followed by a Tsunami and then engulfed by fire. This laid waste to the city and the economic prosperity of the country as a whole, but a new ornate and thoughtfully planned city eventually emerged.



A short walk from the hostel, the Parque Eduardo VII commands a great view over the city and was my favourite place to eat my tea as the sun set.



A Vietnamese girl sat next to me on the bus to Evora and said her name was Harry.

‘Really’, I said, ‘All my Vietnamese friends have got names like Hien, Nga and Tram.’

It turned out that her true name was Nga, from Danang. After I explained that I had lived for much of the last couple of years in Vietnam we had a good old chat. The Vietnamese government was sponsoring her to spend a couple of years studying advanced computing at Evora university, which she was enjoying immensely.

When we arrived in Evora she showed me the way to the hostel, gave me a big hug and ran off to lectures.



Evora is yet another medieval town that has continued as a thriving centre into the present day. It was occupied in Roman times and has experienced a few waves of conquest over the centuries. Most of the present day town was built in the 1400’s and 1500’s and appears largely unchanged. Modern innovations like supermarkets and hospitals are outside the town walls.



I noticed one restaurant named ‘O Rato Bicho’. It didn’t look hugely popular.



From this point it was going to be a bit of a jump to get to the South. I took the bus to Beja and asked for an onward connection to Alcoutim.



‘That bus only runs on Mondays and Fridays’, said the ticket office man. It was Thursday. Fortunately the ticket office man was very helpful and suggested that I go to Mertola and pick up the bus to Alcoutim the next day.



After a bit of internet work I found that there is a highly rated hostel in Mertola, so I booked it and rearranged my other reservations.



Mertola turned out to be most pleasant; another castle and another cathedral on a hill overlooking another river.



Due to the bus situation, I knew I would arrive in Alcoutim on Friday and could not leave until Monday. The reason I had heard of it was because there is a PdJ, which might once have been holiday camp. It was the first one I had seen with a swimming pool.



I was informed that the only mini-mart in town would close for the weekend by Saturday lunchtime, so I stocked up on spuds and sardines.



The town itself is quite modest. It has a castle and a church (maybe two).

Across the river lies the Spanish town of Sanlucar, who appeared to be having a party this weekend. A zipline, set up from a hilltop by Sanlucar to a pasture in Alcoutim was proving fairly popular.



There were a fair number of yachts moored in the river, which seemed to be owned mainly by British pensioners, judging by the occupants of the pavement cafés.



Outside the town there was an older abandoned castle which was an archaeological site, providing strategic views up and down the river.



I was up early to catch the 7.30am bus to Vila Real de Santo Antonio. When I arrived at the hostel just after 9am I was told that check in was not until 3pm and, no, I could not leave my bag there for the day. There followed a short argument in the street about this idiotic policy before the girl relented if I paid upfront (which you always do anyway).



VRSA (as it is generally known) is on the southern coast, separated from Spain by the Rio Guadiana, which flows down from Alcoutim. I took the ferry across to Ayamonte, which was pleasant enough. In the park there was a sad zoo housing a pacing tiger and unkempt bears. I had hoped that these sort of collections had disappeared from the developed world. I reckon virtual technology will obviate the desire for any non-conservation zoos before too long.



So now I was in The Algarve. I passed a week checking out a number of nice but unremarkable towns along the coast, which are handily linked by a local train line.



Just for the record I visited VRSA, Tavira, Olhao, Fuseta, Lagos, Silves and Faro, in that order.



They were all filling up with early season holidaymakers, attracted by the sun and beaches, and serviced by pavement restaurants.



I saw my first Revolution laundry station in a supermarket car park in Olhao. These were developed as a second income stream by Photo-Me International and can take washing loads up to 18 kilograms. They are particularly useful for washing duvets.



I stayed in the PdJ’s in Tavira and Lagos.



The Lagos PdJ is popular with an older crowd. For the first time (ever?), I was the youngest person in the dorm. An Irish man, Feargal, demonstrated the stereotypical gift of the gab as he expounded upon the hidden truths behind the twin towers and Kennedy’s assassination. In the courtyard an eclectic group of European 40 and 50 somethings shared their wine and weed and were most welcoming to me despite my non-participation. One of them introduced me to the music of Sivert Høyem. His song ‘Prisoner Of The Road’ seemed to resonate with this audience.



There was an American lady in her late 70’s or early 80’s ( I was too polite to ask), staying in a dorm. She was doing some independent travel around Portugal and joined in the courtyard chit chat with a few anecdotes, to general admiration.





Walking out of Lagos leads to cliff tops in one direction and a lengthy beach in the other.



My visit coincided with an annual festival to celebrate the seafaring history of the town. Many people, adults and children alike, dressed up in medieval garb, musicians played pipes and drums and stalls sold food and products of a medieval bent.



I already knew that Lagos was the location of the oldest recorded sale of an African slave, in 1444. Lagos has a well regarded museum covering this dark aspect of their past, which I had researched prior to my visit. So I was a bit surprised a few days later when I realised that I hadn’t given it a thought while I was there.



By then I was in Silves, a town in the more typical mould of hill, castle, cathedral. The hostel was set in a small estate containing a wealth of fruit trees and bushes. The owner kept the kitchen well stocked with the latest produce and prepared a citrus plate for the guests each day I was there.



A young guy in the hostel had arranged to go to the workshop of a local artist, and invited me along. I immediately saw that this artist, Antonio Villares Pires, was involved with the sculptures on display in the castle in town, and he explained how he had organised the exhibition in 2015. His workshop occupied the space of an old church and he was clearly a very talented painter and sculptor. He was very pleased to have visitors and happily spent a couple of hours discussing his work, explaining why he is a figurative artist and educating us about some of the great Portuguese artists of the past.



Back at the hostel an American guy from Rhode Island had checked in.

‘I don’t suppose you’ve heard of it’ he said.

‘Sure’, I replied, ‘It’s the smallest American state’.

Purely by coincidence, I had just been reading about American Indians.

‘Are you familiar with Ninigret?’ I asked. ’ He was the chief of the Niantic tribe on Rhode Island in the 1600’s. Ran guns against the British.’

‘Wow’ he said, wide eyed, ‘that’s just my field. How do you know about him?’



A man who does not read has no advantage over a man who cannot read - Mark Twain



‘

---