It took another 12 hours to sail from Vigo down to Porto, and despite being in pea soup fog for about half of it, it was a great day. If my memory serves me correctly we got on just fine though the dog nearly got thrown overboard for being a dick, getting in the way and woofing at the fog horn, which was a lot of woofing.
Arriving in the evening at 1930 hours was lovely, and after finding out that it wasn’t the big marina that I was half expecting (note to self, read the pilot guide rather than hide behind the mahoosive tome drinking wine) we parked up. It’s always interesting when the finger pontoon barely comes to midships but we figured it out and went off for a wander.
It was a short wander as my back was giving me some gip, but we made it to the corner far enough to see that where we were was really quite boring compared to all the good stuff a few miles further down the river. The next morning Lee was up at the crack of sparrow to go for a run with Franco while I stayed in bed planning what we were going to do and downing more drugs than is probably acceptable.
After some breakfast off we went for an explore. We made our way down to the large Dom Louis Bridge that spanned the river Douro and stood there admiring the double deck metal arches that it was made of. It was spectacular. From a distance. Up close there were millions of tourists swarming all over it which was really annoying. Bloody tourists. They really get in the way! We waded through the throngs of people who were coming off the river boats in droves and battled our way to the bridge. There were young guys standing on the side of the bridge drawing big crowds and who looked like they were going to jump in, (not suicidally of course!)but they disappointingly didn’t so we carried on across to the other side where we had an overpriced coffee, looked at where we had just been and made our way back. En route to the boat we saw all the port caves and decided that would be the next day’s trip.
Once we got back to the boat we had some lunch and then realised we needed to do a food shop. I had a look at google maps and decided that a taxi was in order. Lee had a look and decided we could walk it. Now you may not know this about Lee, and it may come as a bit of a surprise considering his old job and all that, but Lee can get lost in an empty room. It appears that unless there is a compass and boat or helicopter and backpack involved, he is stuffed. He once went out to the local Tesco a 5 minute drive from home and returned an hour later. He had missed the turning on the road and had to drive all the way to Chichester, where he got stuck in traffic before he could turn around and get home again. At this point we had lived in Emsworth over 18 years. If I needed him to go anywhere around home I would have to direct him using car showrooms and computer shops as landmarks. He really is that shite. I, on the other hand inherited my Dad’s amazing inner compass and can find my way around pretty much anywhere with little problem. I know. I’m great. I wish I could be you so I can see how great I really am, as I am so modest I am probably under selling myself to myself.
Well, what with me being kind and loving, I agreed to the walk. I deferred to Lee. I said that he was right and that I was wrong and that the supermarket was close enough to walk to. After about 2 hours of hiking up a sodding great hill and wandering around crumbling houses in increasingly dodgy areas with 80 degrees of heat burning down on us I eventually had a minor tantrum. Giving Lee a stern ignoring I found the supermarket myself, did the shop and we got a taxi back with Franco in the boot eyeing up the bags.
The next day off we went to find a cave! A port cave that is. You would have to be a twit to come to Porto and not go to a Port Cellar. We went to Churchills as this is what we drink at home. Well that and it was the closest to the boat and the others were miles further down the road. Added bonus…we were the only ones there! We had a great tour and learned that port does not smell like whisky, whisky smells like port as whisky is aged in old port barrels. To be honest I didn’t really think port and whisky smelled even remotely the same until we came to the tasting. There is such a thing as white port, (I know!! I am SUCH a heathen!) which smells identical to whisky. Or should I say whisky smells identical to white port. By 1030 we were surrounded by wine glasses that the lovely lady was topping up almost to the brim with 6 different kinds of port. After getting totally bladdered on what I am sure is normally a civilised affair we bought 6 bottles and stumbled back to the boat where we slept off our morning session in the port caves of Porto.
That night we went out locally and had sardines cooked on a BBQ in the street down some side alley of houses which were covered in tiles. Washed down with few beers we had change from €20. As we walked home picking the tiny bones out of our teeth we thought how very lucky we were. That and how the hell does John West manage to remove all of the bones from his sardines.
The next day we left at a leisurely 0930 and continued South towards Figueira de Foz.