Three Perfect Days in Porto
Portugal’s second city has it all: architectural marvels, the gorgeous Douro Valley, and excellent restaurants galore
The opulent charm of Portugal’s secondlargest city.
The quaint buildings on the Praça da Ribeira, on Porto's waterfront, are a striking mix of colours
I’m eating eggs on a hotel deck in Porto, looking down on the Douro River and beyond to the tumbling orange rooftops of Vila Nova de Gaia, when a seagull plonks itself five centimetres from my face.
Itoss a bit of bread over the rail, narrowly missing a nun picking cabbages in the garden next door, and the gull follows.
This won’t be the only time I find myself occupying a scenic lookout. Porto and Gaia, Porto’s sister city, rise sharply on either side of the Douro, creating a kind of amphitheatre with each opposing district the star of the show. You can’t go ten minutes without encountering a commanding view of bell towers, palaces and bluetiled row houses – all tilting towards the shimmering River of Gold.
Snaking east into the Douro Valley wine region, the river is the source of Porto’s main contribution to humankind: port. It also played a role in the Voyages of Discovery in the 15th century and the acquisition of wealth that followed.
In recent years, travellers have begun to discover Porto. Named the top city in Europe by the European Best Destinations organisation three times since 2012, it now draws 1.6 million visitors each year. Yes, there’s the exquisite architecture, the stunning views, the winding alleys, the Michelin-starred meals. More than that, though, there’s the communal feeling that befits a city of just over 235,000. In the UNESCO-designated neighbourhood of Ribeira, you can still go into a small family-run café and help yourself to a cheap beer from the fridge – proving that, here at least, you can be the best while still being yourself.
Today I’ll explore Porto’s seats of power – commerce, religion, wine – starting with a tour of the Palácio da Bolsa, built by city merchants in the 19th century. Lavish halls culminate in the Arab Room, a huge, mosque-like chamber embellished with a riot of gold and blue detailing. While the design had less to do with Islam than with the projection of power, it did not go down well with church leaders. “It was meant to be a provocation,” my guide tells me. “They were saying, ‘We are rich, and we do what we want’.”
Compared to the Igreja de São Francisco next door, the Arab Room is a paragon of moderation. The gothic exterior of this church, which dates to the 14th century, does not prepare you for what’s inside. The Voyagers brought a great deal of gold home
with them, and it seems the bulk of it was applied to the interior when it was remodelled in the 18th century. It’s like the Cave of Wonders in Aladdin. In the gloomy crypt, I encounter eerily lifelike effigies, artworks with titles like Our Lady of the Good Death, and a window in the f loor, beyond which are human bones and skulls. Lunch time!
I cross the iron-arched Dom Luís I bridge and enter Gaia, climbing up-up-up to The Blini, a restaurant opened in 2016 by Michelin-starred chef José Cordeiro. Directly across the river are the colourful buildings lining Praça da Ribeira. The waiter asks if I’d like to do the chef’s choice, and I say sure. It’s a parade of courses that includes oysters, tuna tartare with popadam, butterfish soup topped by a huge puff pastry, and baked seabass with pumpkin puree. Between the soup and the seabass, I ask my waiter if I can take a quick breather. He smiles and looks at his watch: “You have two minutes!”
From here, I waddle down to the Porto Cálem port house for a tour and tasting. Along with the musty- smel l ing cel lars and rows of oak barrels are a 5-D cinema and a guess-the-aroma sniffing station (I get one out of 12: vanilla). In the sipping room, my guide says, “A good wine speaks to you. You need to close your eyes to understand the message.” I’m a bit concerned about closing my eyes and not opening them again, so I sip up and head out.
A highlight of any trip to Porto is Ribeira, a squiggle of alleys lined with gorgeous old buildings. This neighbourhood is not glammed-up
– you’re more likely to come across a physiotherapist’s office than you are a fridge-magnet emporium. Riverside Praça da Ribeira is the most picturesque spot, but I get more joy out of roaming the alleys behind. You never know whether a gruelling ascent will lead you to a point of historical interest or someone’s front door, but that’s half the fun.
I march upwards to the 12th century cathedral, the Sé do Porto, a hulking mishmash of Gothic, Baroque, and Romanesque designs whose defining feature is a brooding, muscular solidity, as if it were built to withstand attack. Then I head west, pausing at Armazém, a funky indoor market with stalls selling everything from patterned tiles to a vintage Vespa. There is also a bar, where the friendly bartender warns me not to drink too much: “We’ve had a few people who bought things they didn’t want.”
Dinner is at the Michelin-starred restaurant Antiqvvm, which occupies a lovely old villa with exquisite views. My tasting menu involves a flurry of artfully presented dishes, all washed down with wonderful wines.
At the hotel, I have a nightcap on the balcony. It’s a moonless night, and I have trouble distinguishing the river from the hillside from the sky. A cluster of lights dance on the water, but before long these, too, are gone.
The next morning, I meet Miguel, the guide who will drive me to the Douro Valley, a UNESCO World Heritage region. “Get ready,” he says with a smile. “You’re about to see one of the most beautiful things in your life.”
We make our way along evernarrowing roads, emerging into a landscape that doesn’t quite seem real. The lines of the terraced slopes meet at odd angles, and the vines, lit by the morning sun, appear as a Pointillist fluorescence of red, gold and green. Even Miguel, who has been delivering a running commentary on historical treaties and grape varieties, falls silent.
A half hour later we arrive at Amarante, a pretty town on the banks of the Tâmega River. The 16th-century Igreja de São Gonçalo is named after the town’s patron saint. As a miracle worker, Gonçalo is said to have had a knack for fertility and virility. The hands and feet of an effigy in the church have been worn smooth by hopeful rubbing. Outside, an old lady presides over a stall selling the town’s signature confection: doces fálicos, anatomical cakes that, according to Miguel, “are given by young men to young women to signal their intent.”
Another drive brings us to the Alves de Sousa vineyard. We are greeted by a young man named Tiago, a fourth-generation winemaker. We climb into a four-wheel-drive and head along a narrow, rutted
path. To our right is a steep drop, but Tiago seems unconcerned, pointing this way and that while discussing soil acidity, sun variation and olive trees. “They were planted to mark the boundaries between vineyards,” he says. “But people now argue over who owns the olives.” It’s a good line, but I’m too concerned with staying alive to laugh.
Finally, we stop at a high rocky patch they call Abandonado because the family long ago gave up trying to grow anything on it. In 2004, Tiago badgered his dad into letting him plant a variety of grapes there that has produced some of the winery’s best bottles. “It has so much character, full of love,” he says.
After lunch on a riverside dock in nearby Folgosa, we take an hourlong boat trip along the Douro past fiery red terraces and small wine houses, interspersed with the green puf fs of olive trees.
That night in a hotel lounge, I am serenaded by a woman singing fado, the mournful Portuguese folk music whose themes are love and loss. She clutches her hands before her chest, crooning about souls who sailed away, but otherwise she seems happy. I suppose you’d have to be: As Miguel put it earlier, “This is where we live.”
On my last day I head into Porto for breakfast at the Majestic Café, which opened in 1921. Beyond its Art Nouveau doorway you enter a beguiling world of carved wood, burnished mirrors, and white-coated waiters. I sit at a marble-topped table and order rabanadas, a rich and creamy spin on French toast, and a super-sweet bombón coffee.
Buzzing with sugar, I hop on a rickety old tram, which judders towards the Livraria Lello. Dating back to 1906, the Lello is still the heart of the city’s cultural scene. It routinely makes ‘most beautiful’ lists, with its stained-glass roof, elaborate carvings and swirling double-sided stairway. A young J.K. Rowling is said to have spent time here, and it’s impossible not to see Hogwarts at every turn.
It’s a short walk to the Museu
Nacional Soares dos Reis, with a collection ranging from 17th-century ceramics to 20th-century portraits to a life-size sculpture of a horse made out of silver tape.
Lunch at Restaurante Tripeiro is a bowl of tripas à moda do Porto,
the city’s signature dish. The tradition is said to date back to the Age of Discovery, when explorers sailed away with the choice cuts of meat and those who stayed behind got everything else. Ever since, locals have been known throughout Portugal as tripeiros, or ‘tripe eaters’ – although the name doesn’t begin to capture the meal I receive at my alfresco table.
At one point the chef comes out and I ask him what’s in the bowl. “White beans, chorizo, chicken, tripe and the end of the cow.” I ask him which end, and he looks at me: “Both.” As I chew, an old guy walking by looks at my bowl, smiles, and says, “Bon appetit!”
I decide to burn off the offal with a stroll along the Atlantic coast. At
Matosinhos, a fishing town a few kilometres from the city, I walk south, dodging the massive waves battering the sea wall. At Foz do Douro, I join locals watching as the waves engulf a nearby lighthouse. “Nature has put on a show for you,” one of them says.
Dinner tonight is at the fashionable Mini Bar. The menu lists a starter called Ferrero Rocher (like the chocolate). I ask the waiter about it, and he says, “Nothing is as it seems.” I order it, along with several small plates. Everything – even the chocolate starter, which is actually made of foie gras – is delicious.
I end the night at Bonaparte Downtown, a lively, quirky bar filled to the rafters with bric-a-brac: cowbells, creepy dolls, vintage walkie-talkies. It’s a fantastic place, but it’s late. Just as I stand to leave, I hear the opening beats of The Clash’s punk anthem, ‘Should I Stay or Should I Go’.
The rest is a bit of a blur.