17 – 20 August 2019 

We navigated our way into Porto in the late afternoon, and made our way with limited fuss to our apartment in the old town – despite the GPS trying to send us down some stairs at one point. Past experience meant that we had come to expect this.

We offloaded all our bags this time, needing to reorganise our stuff yet again in preparation for going onto the boat. Next trip, everyone is getting a bag and full responsibility for their own belongings (we were tempted to try this this time but backed away from it, leaving only Ellie relatively autonomous. The Ellie part was working well, I think it’s fair to say the rest of us were getting tired with the communal living however). 

Once unpacked, we hit the streets, keen to understand more about this city which was seemingly famous for the drink after its name, a strong football team and as a tourist destination. We knew no more of it than that and were keen to find out. 

The city is built on the steep banks for the River Douro, the 2 sides linked by a series of beautiful bridges. The southern side, where the old Port warehouses are located, is a UNESCO world heritage site, the northern side, where we were staying, is peppered with a series of stunning churches, towers and ornate 18th century architecture. 

Our first destination was, it turns out, a bit of a Porto institution, the Pedro dos Frangos BBQ restaurant, where we looked to satiate our increasing desire for Portuguese BBQ chicken (we were still not 100% sure whether this was even a thing, or just a clever marketing campaign from Porto Chicken). In any event, the BBQ (chicken and pork) was excellent, as was the no frills, hurried vibe of the place. 

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The next day we planned to do a bit of a walking tour around the town, get a feel for the place and basically just hang out. There was nothing we felt we *had* to see here, so we were content to just explore a bit.

Ant headed out for an exploratory run first thing in the morning and was really taken with the architecture the city as a whole, but in particular the main Pont Louis I bridge that links the centre of town from north to south across the Douro River. It is a double decker suspension bridge, the top section (85 metres above the river) carries trains and pedestrians, offering a dizzying view (over a fairly low handrail) of the river and cruising boats far below for those who decide to walk across, and a lower deck much closer to the water that links the banks of the river together for general traffic. 

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At 7 in the morning, the only other people on the bridge seemed deep in conversation, something changed hands and then they parted ways, both looking guilty. Either spies or a drug deal. Looking at them, my money was on the latter. 

… and to be fair, this kind of set the tone for our ‘non peak hour’ experience in Porto. The streets (particularly around our apartment, but also more broadly) felt a little dodgy. Not dangerous, just a bit seedy, with more than its fair share of slightly crazy people yelling out at random intervals. On the bright side, there was an awesome little bakery across the road from our apartment which more than made up for any other faults or misgivings we may have had about the place. 

We spent the day wandering the streets (taking full advantage – much to Liz’s shame – of our Lonely Planet Portugal guidebook and its Porto walking tour. Side note here: the days of the guidebook are numbered, and they are obviously nowhere near as ubiquitous as in their heyday before the internet. Their continued usefulness, however, is something of an ongoing discussion around our house – with Ant being in the ‘for’ camp (along with all the other 40+ erstwhile backpackers on the streets) and Liz being in the ‘nay’ camp (along with anyone born after 1980). Anyway, on this particular day, we were being retro, proudly walking the streets with guidebook in hand, thinking that we should be wearing Doc Martins, listening to Pearl Jam and growing our hair long like it was 1994 all over again). 

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The Lonely Planet maps have not improved over time but, with the help of Google Maps as a ‘second pair of eyes’ we navigated the streets of the old town, checking out the various sites in the increasingly warm midday sun (Another side note here: one thing you absolutely can not do with small children in tow is admit that you have taken a wrong turn. Better that you walk 90 minutes out of the way (they won’t notice) than ever, ever turn directly back on yourself (you will get deafened by whinging and subsequently eaten alive). This makes all navigation a rather ‘life or death’ event… particularly in the heat (we are finding that the whinging gene is particularly cold blooded – a bit docile and floppy when its cool, but active and aggressive in the heat). 

Our first stop of the day (unauthorised by the LP Walking Tour) was the Igreja do Carmo, to continue the girls religious education. Again, they were completely enthralled by the symbology of the church – in this case, light on the larger-than-life-sized crucifictions but big on gold leaf decorations … and an artists (very graphic) sculpture/interpretation of what Jesus may have looked like once he’d been taken down from the cross (ie. very graphically dead). The kids were both shocked and fascinated by this; we wondered what time this evening the nightmares would kick in (so far, so good on this). 

(Side note #456: the combination of European History (thank you Big Fat Notebook), the sights we have visited (cathedrals, churches and castles) and the conversations we have having (thank you afternoon apero hour) have increased the girls interest in religion. So much so that we have now downloaded the Bible and started to work our way through it with them, trying to balance our belief that it is a combination of history, belief and stories used to explain and/or justify things that may not have been fully understood when it was written. 

Long conversations have ensued, particularly from Jessie (aged 7). Some of the classic comments have been: 

(unprompted, after kicking off with Genesis) I’m not sure I believe in Adam and Eve. I know we descended from Apes. But who created the Big Bang? I think God did. 

(also unprompted, this time after Matthew) I think the Bible is about controlling people and telling them what to do. 

Gulp. 

Anyway, back on to our walking tour. From our highly successful, but LP unauthorised, trip to the Ingreja, we made our way down to the Torre dos Clerigos, to find several hundred other tourists eagerly waitng to climb up. No thank you. 

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From there, it was across to the Livraria Lello bookstore, with its line winding its way down the street and along the next one, waiting patiently for a chance to gaze on what is purported to be the second most beautiful bookstore in the world, and also the inspiration for the Hogwarts staircase (having seen pictures, we wouldn’t disagree with either of these comments). 

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So Porto was busy. And, probably due to its smaller size, did not hold its tourists quite as well as some of the other places we had visited this trip. Lucky we didn’t have a strict itinerary in mind. 

We swung through the beautiful Sao Bento railway and its hand-painted tiles of Portugal’s glory days in the 1600s (is anyone creating painted tiles of Portugal in 2019?) before making our way down to the riverside for a wander. All very pleasant if not jaw droppingly amazing, and pretty much what we were after. 

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From there, it was up the many, many stairs back to the centre of town, the Jessie and Sena surprising us again with how much their strength has increased (particularly when the mood takes them) through this trip, before we found ourselves a pleasant little cafe for a very late lunch. And continued discussions on history, religion and where we all came from. This wasn’t what we were talking about 2 months ago. Perhaps we should have been? 

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Lunch kind of kept rolling and it was mid afternoon by the time we got back to our apartment for some reading and homework (Sena’s favourite thing at the moment; however Jessie was resisting our continued attempts to get her into and through Charlotte’s Web). Rather than heading out again, we had a quiet night of home cooking and movies in the apartment – the kids choosing ‘Pitch Perfect’ as the movie of choice, thus balancing out their education for the day. 

The next day we decided to head out of Porto and explore the vineyards of the Douro (probably the largest and highest regarded of Portugal’s wine growing regions) and the mountains of the Parque Natural do Alvao. Whilst there was still more to see in Porto, we were keen to get into the mountains for a bit of a change of pace, and the thought of finding some good Portuguese wine was also appealing (aside from in the wine bar in Lisbon, where 2.5 euros bought some excellent options, we had largely struck out on the local wines to date). According to our trusty Lonely Planet, there was also fun to be had in the Parque Natural do Alvao, in particular the Fisgas de Ermelo, which was meant to have lovely rock pools to swim in. 

We headed out of the city and headed west, stopping only to pay homage at the local Decathlon store (ostensibly to purchase some extra fleeces for our upcoming boat trip, but actually because we hadn’t been to a Decathlon since we arrived in Portugal and we missed it). We researched wineries on the way towards the Douro, about an hour inland from Porto. As we drove through the increasingly hilly and quite beautiful landscape, we consulted with the masses and quickly realised that we had no consensus to go wine tasting. 

Instead we agreed on a quick trip to visit the Casa de Mateus, a beautiful mansion and gardens in the area because, well, there’s always an excuse to Mateus. Even driving into the area caused memories of 1980s style adverts that carpet bombed Australian homes and fancy looking bottles of Rose (that we’ve personally never tried – we will rectify this shortly – but were the stalwart of Liz’s parents ‘date night’ for many years). 

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As for the actual sight, we didn’t see very much. It turns out that it costs 9.50 euros to park the car and 12 euros per person to go in (no concessions). We decided that it wasn’t worth 80 euros (or approximately 22 bottles of Mateus) to go in. Instead, we took photos of the outside of the chateau (which was quite beautiful), noted that this wasn’t even where they made the wine anymore, and decided we would instead spend the 3.85 to try a bottle of the stuff when we got to France. Job done. 

From there, we climbed into the Parque Natural de Alvaro, in search of the Fisgas (waterfall) de Ermelo. The drive was stunning, the road cutting a line across the incredibly steep and spectacular hillsides, the peacefulness of the place punctuated only by Liz’s screaming as made our way around the sharp curves (noting that Portugal seem sporadic in their investment of safety barriers in their national parks). 

En route, we discussed what we would when we got to the rock pools under the waterfall. Deals were made, much of it coming from recent memories of swimming in the frigid Atlantic Ocean. (Some context here – the girls will be starting school in 2 weeks and have been working their way through their ‘summer reading lists’ of (english) books. For Jessie – heading into year 2 but coming out of only 6 months in year 1 – this has been a bit of a slog, and so we’ve been trying to encourage, cajole, bribe and beg her to get through her current oeuvre, Charlotte’s Web). 

“If Daddy jumps into the rockpool, I’ll read 5 pages!” 

“If Daddy jumps in twice I’ll read 10 pages” 

Liz: “What about if Daddy jumps in naked?” 

Jessie: “If Daddy jumps in twice naked I’ll read twenty pages!” 

(20 pages, however unlikely, would be an epiphany) 

Ellie: “If Daddy jumps in twice naked, I”ll clean the house and pack the bags whilst Jessie reads” 

Sena: “If Daddy jumps in naked, I’ll watch TV (much laughing)” 

We should all, of course, note how Liz cunningly instigated this, but without requiring any actual involvement from herself. Genius. 

The bet was placed. 

All we needed now was a waterfall, some rock pools and, hopefully, some privacy. 

The drive, whilst stunning, took longer than expected, and energy levels in the back (and, to be fair, in the front passenger side) of the car were low when we pulled up to the waterfalls, only to be greeted by a lethargic stream of water lazily dribbling down the barren hillside some 800m away across a gorge. Beautiful, but no sign of a rockpool; only grumpy Australians generally looking at watches and mumbling about needing to head back to pack. 

Damn those Lonely Planet maps! 

Some hiking trail maps at the lookout gave us an indication of where we thought we needed to head for the rockpools. Going mainly by sense of smell, we made our way through more amazing scenery and mostly abandoned hillside towns before climbing again and, eventually, spying a ricketing sign that seemed to indicate that we were close. We pulled up alongside a French campervan and confirmed that we had, at last, stumbled upon our target. 

We had a quickc picnic lunch from the back of the car and scoped out the unmarked route down to the falls. From there, it was a small matter of making our way down a steep, rocky trail through pine forests and scrub to access the seemingly isolated rock pools below. 

Flip flops? No problem. 4 year old? Why not.

We made our way slowly down the path, taking care not to lose our footing more than absolutely necessary, and generally carrying either Sena, or Liz, or both through the steepest parts. The going was not fast and spirits not particularly high, but were generally on an upward ebb from the low point of the lookout. 

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As we slid a particularly precarious part of the descent, Sena announced that she was absolutely bursting to go to the toilet, so grass/rock wees were quickly arranged. As this was happening, a Portuguese couple approached us from behind, taking good natured note of how we were making ourselves at home in their national parks. A great way to make friends and build relations between our two great countries. 

From there, we made our way slowly but safely down to the beautiful rock pools. Above us, the falls bubbled down like a brook into a series of rocky pools at our level, before falling more steeply into larger pools beneath us and hitting the cascade that we had seen from the lookout. The whole place was reminiscent of both Semuc Champay in Guatamala or Krka National Park in Croatia, not as big but without the crowds – and we had loved both places. What we had in front of us was, effectively, our own private waterfall (well, at least us and our new found Portguese friends). We could see another, larger group in the distance coming from a different direction, making their way to the larger pools beneath us. 

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So, we had a window of (relative) privacy befor the larger group arrived. Just us and our friends the (would be romantic) Portuguese couple. We had already dashed their hopes of spending a quiet few minutes enjoying each others’ company by the pools, and had ruined any credibility we may have had by defiling their national park. 

Time to see how much lower we could take that credibility. 20 pages was 20 pages after all. 

As Daddy approched the pool, the girls squealed with laughter. The romantic couple looked up, distracted from each other, not expecting the sight that greeted them. Mild suprise and amusment (this is the country of nudist beaches after all), no-one expects (or wants really) to see that in such a lovely place. More squeals as Daddy slipped into the water to cover his modesty. 

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Within minutes, the girls decided that that looked like fun. Clothes were rapidly removed and nude bathing was suddently de rigeur for those under 10. Our would be romantic couple, realising this wasn’t going to be their day, turned and trudged back up the rocks, disappointed. 

We floated, sunbaked and enjoyed the gurgling of the stream as it made its was past and through us and down the mountain below. It was a lovely couple of hours, and, by the time we resurfaced, we felt refreshed and invigorated, the girls almost skipping up the steep rocky terrain. 

Mildly surprised and pleased, as always, to find our car where we left it (even more so that our frustrated Portuguese friends hadn’t slashed our tyres in disgust), we headed out, back down the hill, back past the beautiful scenery and small towns, on our way back to Porto. 

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The mood was palpally different this time. Everyone was relaxed and happy, a feeling not even a stop at the local hypermarché for supplies, or the lateness of the hour of our return to Porto could puncture. 

We packed, conscious that this was our second last time (and we were getting so good at it, with everyone knowing exactly what to do by now), organised our food for the boat (enough for a small village for a month, not just a family of 5 for 2 days) and prepared ourselves for departure in the morning. 

To be fair, we didn’t love Porto, we didn’t hate it; in some respects we hardly gave it a chance. 

We had somewhat cursorily explored some of the sights, noting the architecture and the impresisive position atop the cliffs of the Douro. We had not pushed ourselves with the sightseeing, preferring rather to hang out, chat, learn and enjoy each others’ company. This was great, but also a sign that we were reaching out natural limits of ‘touristing’ and it was time to settle in one place for a while. Conversation regularly turned to ‘how many days until B-day’ (when we would pick up Bonnie from Barcelona, currently 5 days away), which could basically be interpreted as ‘how many days before we get some sense of normality back?’ 6 weeks travelling, of moving about every couple of days, is a long time, whether you’re 4 or 43. 

The mountains had been a welcome break from the recent run of time in cities. Tomorrow we would be on a boat in the Cies Islands and we couldn’t wait. From there, we would hit Bilbao for Aste Nagusia (Great Week), a 9 day long festival, before B day would be on us an we would be on our way back to France.

It was all going way too quickly.