The streets of Porto were washed for us once again as we searched for a special cafe. We walked in and out of our first one, but soon returned after failing to find a decent croissant in another. The barista in the ‘rejected cafe’ seemed to be waiting for us, as he gave us a ‘what took you so long’ look. Corrie was also getting her share of rejections. After getting into trouble asking for coffee in Spanish last week, she learnt it in Portuguese, and asked him for a ‘cafe com leite’. “Sorry we don’t have omelettes”, he said in perfect English.

I’ve seen the sit or stand cafes, but this was something else. There was:  1) standing at the bar – ‘no time to wait coffee’;  2) sitting at the bar – ‘can’t stand but no time’  3) sitting at a table alongside the first two – ‘wanting a relaxed coffee’;  and 4) tables and chairs down the back – ‘settling in with luggage, snacks and ipad coffee’.  We chose (3) because we wanted to relax and they had no omelettes. 

There was time left in the day however for more cultural pursuits. As we tried to keep on the right side, dodging people lightly washing their umbrellas, we had our camino passports stamped at the Cathedral, a necessity if you want pilgrim privileges along the way. This done, we had a short walk through the cathedral, with the highlight being some delightful paintings on the ceiling of the notary chamber.

From here we continued our cobblestone slide to the home of Guerra Junqueiro, one of Europe’s  greatest poets. His poetry was highly satiric and he used this medium, backed by his journalistic background and his time as a member of the lower house, to criticise conservatism, the Catholic church and the Portuguese monarchy contributing greatly to the Portuguese Revolution of 1910.

Back on the narrow winding streets that were getting older, as we stepped carefully down past Porto’s oldest house built in the 13th century and eventually reaching the shores of the wonderful Douru river. The rivers of rainfall today join the waters from the Spanish mountains to form this superb waterway that creates a natural border between Spain and Portugal for over 100 kms, eventually becoming the spectacle that is the Douro Valley.

We retrace our steps back up the steep hillside of Porto finding now even more cobbled streets with their ancient walls framing their now modern interiors. There is no time left to visit my Porto bookshop which I am sure would have had a lot more to add to my short story, but there will be time to pursue this in another town somewhere on the Iberian peninsular.