Perigord and pinxtos: 2008

Sunday, July 13, 2008

Route of Portugal trip, 2008

'Tis the wintery season of discontent

Evidently England has had an entire Spring of solid rain, and it is supposed not to be stopping any time soon. Except when we want to walk, do a town tour, or visit a National Trust site. So far, in several days, we have not been inconvenienced once. The rain has done its thing and we have done ours – and never the twain do meet. And yet it is around us all day.

The gods really have been smiling on us this year. Perhaps because we’ve been traipsing the pilgrimage routes and they see this as a Good Thing. Cross fingers the luck continues.

We have been roaming little smugglers’ fishing villagers, like Looe and Polperro, falling in love with Cornwall again, eating our fill of hot crusty cornish pasties, thick dollops of clotted cream, local potted crab, and finding tales of ghosts of yesteryear that haunt cob cottages with untidy, ready-to-repair, thatches.

I’m sure I lived here in another life: it is all so completely and utterly familiar.

Tonight we are slightly inland, after spending most of the day in a fabulous National Trust Stately home: Lanhydrock: very Upstairs-Downstairs: where we were even privy to the Victorian servants’ quarters.

We’re now on a fabulous farm, at the top of Bodmoor, with sun on one side of the camper and raindrops glinting on the other. We have tidy verges, mowed green grass for miles, fat postcard cows munching in nearby fields, clothes in a hot washer, home-made bacon and corn chowder in the illicit pressure cooker, and fresh hot crusty baguettes to accompany.

And views for miles.

I will, again, sleep smiling.

Today we visited Coverack, one of the prettiest tiny harbour villages in all of Cornwall, with wheeling white gulls, bright blue sea, red boats, and small stone harbour walls curling inwards, almost as if hugging itself protectively from the winds of the east and the south. The South West Coastal Footpath winds its enticing way up and out of both sides of the Coverack valley, and a few of the lazier tourists lean against the warm stone harbour walls, absorbing its heat, like summer lizards.

We are now on a dairy farm on the Lizard Peninsula. The field smells of newly mowed grass, freshly milked cows and immaculately clean facilities. The farmer and his wife have a son who has just moved to Perth. They are very dear, but terrified their boy may never return, and have been telling us about the upturn in dairy farming and the downturn in diesel and dollars. As ever, with one hand they receive, but with the other they give.

Cornwall is now a'gale. Wind gusts and wet chill around every corner, sweeping chips of icy air right up into the high moors. It is midsummer, yet we are zipped into polar fleece: the coldest we’ve been our entire trip.

We’ve managed a brisk but wonderful walk out to remote Lizard Point along the coastal path (Lizard is the most southerly point in England), then whipped down to St Michael’s Mount (we visited the French coast version: beautiful Mont Saint Michel just weeks ago as we trundled south in France). The tides and tempest would not allow us to cross the causeway so we brewed a hot pot of tea in the camper while we watched mad young Englishmen brave the wild weather as they slid deftly across chopped up waves using embattled kites and surf skis. Skilled. Brave. Energetic. Crazy.

We whipped around St Ives with many a damp blink as the gusts were becoming vile, then headed back inland to Bodmoor, which is the only thing to do in truly filthy weather: embrace the beast. Bodmoor is all mood, moor and maelstrom, and tonight we’ll likely hear Baskerville hounds baying from atop rocky tors into the wild windswept spaces as we roll over snugly in our safe comfy beds, curling closer to the warmth.

Totally by chance, we found another folk festival in Bodmin on a Sunday. Councillors, parishioners and townsfolk, led by the cheery Town Crier, were all out in medieval garb with brilliant banners and band, processing from the Town Hall to Saint Petroc’s church honouring their medieval tradesfolk ancestors who had banded together to rebuild their church after it had been destroyed.

Then we went to Warleggan.

The roads from Bodmin to Warleggan get narrower and narrower the further you go. We started from Bodmin with our motorhome in its usual regalia, but were forced to tuck in the first side view mirror after only a few kilometres; the second after just a few more, then, driving blind, we could hear the thorny blackberry branches of the hedgerows scratch our baby’s body paintwork as driving was reduced to the narrowest lanes we’ve likely ever driven, until finally, we reached the end of the road.

After Warleggan there is no more road.

Only footpaths really cross Bodmin Moor from here.

We came to Warleggan because we’d heard stories of the vicars. Warleggan is on record as being the loneliest village in all of England and nothing we saw would refute that. It is on record, too, that many of the rectors or vicars holding tenure at St Bartholomew have become quite batty the longer they’ve stayed in the village.

One 14th century rector had a son who was a heretic and a known witch (or is a male, by definition, a wizard?). Anyway, an 18th century curate is said to haunt the road around Warleggan still, his carriage wheels said to rattle on lonely eerie nights. Frederick Densham, the priest at St Barts from 1931, until his body was found crumpled in a heap in the rectory in 1953, alienated all his parishioners early until not a single one chose to turn out for service. Frederick didn’t need them. He set about putting cardboard cutouts of human forms into his church pews during service, bearing the name cards of the previous rectors of St Barts.

He reported regularly to his bishop that the parishioners, it was true, while not inclined to attend Sunday service, eventually came to him in the end, in their black carriages (on their deaths). Not a well boy, our Frederick. It would be interesting to know when they cleaned out St Bart’s rectory, after all those lonely and alone years, exactly what they found. And what that said about the man.

In patches of fine weather today we have been driving Dartmoor. We love the moors in moody weather and come as often as we can, though long for fine weather to stabilise so we might walk bits of them.

Today we visited Tavistock which would make a really great walking base for a long stay on Dartmoor. It was once home to some ruined stone walls that formed part of an ancient abbey as well as some remnants of old mill buildings. These bits were pieced together differently in an 18th century redesign by a bountiful Duke of Bedford, who completely rejuvenated the old town, giving it great solidity as an renovated historic centre, and adding an excellent pannier market which now characterises the town (Tavistock is considered one of the great market towns of England) as does its reputation for fine food. We ate thick hot chunky home-made potato and leek soup with freshly made granary bread in the market square today, and rate this simple fare as one of the most delicious meals on this entire trip.

Lydford village (nearby Lydford Gorge is a great walking venue which was all sludge underfoot today) has such great history we couldn’t miss a visit. In Saxon days there was a fortified castle here, called a burh, which, along with other burhs, were built to protect southern England from the Vikings.

Lydford must have been a pretty important place back then as it was one of four sites in England where silver was minted for coin-making. So many of these Lydford Saxon coins have been found in the northlands (and are now available for viewing in the Stockholm Museum) it is believed they were given to Viking invaders in order to entice them to return home, a kind of get-out-of-our-hair bribe.

There were actually two castles in Lydford in ages past: the second (which is the one viewable these days) became a stannary court and a jail during the Middle Ages. The tin miners were judge, jury and hangmen in those days and regularly designed their own harsh justice. Lydford law became feared far and wide for its ‘hang-today, talk-tomorrow’ approach.

At Sourton there is a delightful ancient pub on the main road called The Highwayman, which has been embellished with fantasy and fairytale themes on each of its tiny medieval external walls until it looks more like a child’s lavish play house or theatre set, than any pub.

And a Highwayman came riding, riding… and launched himself boldly high atop the front pub wall in dark longcoat outline with his pistol outthrust. While on an opposing inn wall, writ large, is the motto of the house: We Stand and Deliver. Cute. Kids, being driven by enroute to Cornish beaches, must beg to stop and explore the inn, while their parents couldn’t help but be charmed by this enforced stop.

It is so refreshing to see these little spots of individuality enroute, even if they are a trifle weird and don’t much cohere in a strict storybook sense, as much of the rest of the world appears to be colouring itself quickly a whiter shade of nondescript in its suicidal bent to become more and more homogenised.

We continue, this trip, to explore tiny villages which are pretty, or which have a great history, or, preferably, both. Samford Courtney is a quiet little village with a history of blood and guts. The townsfolk, virtually to a man, rose up against the King Edward during the Prayer Book Rebellion, but were very easily quelled by the King’s army in a field just behind the village church. The church, that was then the centre of the fight over whether there would be a Latin mass or not, is still interesting: it has a wonderful little half-hinged wooden entrance door that is quite unique and really catches the eye. Ancient, wood craft, tiny.

The rain decided not to stop in Devon so we hit the high road and headed for the sun. We ended up following the route of one of the walks we would dearly love to do before too much more time passes: the Cotswold’s Way. Glorious scenery. Walking it would give the time to truly absorb and enjoy it.

We landed in Tewkesbury, camped in a beautiful field right in its centre just behind the Abbey, and in patches of fine spells in the early evening walked this delightful half-timbered town. In long sunny spells the next morning we visited the Abbey. We spent most of the morning there.

What a fine, fine place: one of my absolute favourite stops this trip.

By Abbey standards Tewkesbury was ever a tiny Abbey. At capacity it probably had but 80 monkish men who conducted Latin classes for the local boys, tended the sick and cared for the poor, so that when Henry VIII decided that the occupants of the two hundred Abbeys throughout the land were earning money he would have preferred in his coffers, he sent his bully boys in to destroy them all, and not only was valuable property irretrievably massacred, but when the monks were driven out schooling was stopped, hospital care was no longer available, and social services of the day, once run completely by the monks, no longer operated.

You’d think decision-makers would have a thought or two about the fallout of their actions before they take action, ah! but not Henry. Sure and he had beheadings to order, a wedding to arrange, and feasts to plan before the days grew too tedious, no doubt.

The Abbey itself is, quite literally, a gem. An expensive gem, I might add. It costs (it says at the door) £3.00 per minute to maintain. Unlike Leon and Burgos, this church does not require an entrance fee, although there are drop boxes for offers everywhere. And, when it is like this, when it is not rude, not commercial, not fully in-your-face-ugly, a fee request is not at all offensive.

Even the flower ladies were out in droves filling the church with perfumed stems for a Medieval Festival coming up this weekend. Another festival, believe it or not! And each shop in town is hung prettily with different medieval family banners along with a full explanation of the history of each.

I talked with the flower ladies, checked where the flowers came from, mindful of the shockingly expensive imported blooms in churches throughout Spain and Portugal, and was delighted to hear that most of the Abbey flowers literally come from the Abbey’s own gardens, another value-added field just around another quiet corner back from the Abbey, run by the husband of one of the flower arranging lady organisers.

Such a pretty abbey. Parts of the main vaulted ceiling with many delightful bosses have been painted in medieval orange-red and sharp shiny gold, and almost bring you to tears. This must be how it may have looked back then. I wish more churches would be brave enough to add the colour of yesteryear.

Several of the side chapels and canopies at Tewkesbury are among not only the fairest in all of England, but the finest in existence: the Warwick Chantry, the Dispenser Tomb. Delicate intricate stone tracery reaching from the tombs to the ceilings: so beautiful.

And some of the stone statue fragments hacked down during the Dissolution and buried beneath the altars and lost there for centuries, have now been recovered and are on display throughout the church. Such fine craftsmanship. Such a tragedy that only broken bits remain. Even the remnants, after so much damage and so many buried centuries, remain achingly beautiful. How lovely must they once have been in their entirety?

There is a ring of thirteen bells: rung twice on Sundays. I miss the sound of church bells here in England. On the Continent they ring bells at any old tick of the clock, and probably thrice on Sundays. Bells are one of those integral background pleasures that I listen for from early morning till late at night in many a European country, particularly the Mediterranean ones. Thirteen bells in a peal, though, is somewhat of a rarity: I’d love to still be around here on Sunday to hear them.

Today we have visited a clutch of tiny pretty villages all clothed in glowing gold Cotswold stone in this tiny patch of sunlight we’ve stumbled across today. On of our favourite villages, as ever, is Broadway. If there have to be tourist towns in the world to satisfy the masses then, at least, Broadway does it tastefully. The bookshops are filled with local history books, local walk books and tales of local colour. As it should be. I could have bought a ton of this local stuff.

Strawberries are now in season and the ice-cream lady, from a candy pink and white striped vending cart on the street is selling home-made strawberry pink and white icecream. As it should be. And if she is dressed in candy pink and white stripes, too, then that is garnish, not garish. Nothing about Broadway is tacky.

We’re sad about some things in England though. We are seeing a deterioration in buildings and works in counties that are not noted for it: Devon and Cornwall, for example. Hedges, which once were meticulously clipped, are now, very often, not even partially maintained, and street directions, mileages, and signage are often jumbled in with the weeds. Many front yards, footpaths and verges are overgrown or full of long-standing junk, and present a new air of shodiness. Paintwork, on an increasing number of houses and tired pubs enroute, appears long overdue, as do repairs to many of the structures themselves.

Even expensive counties like Gloucestershire have tired and tattered sections, but more worryingly, the mood of many of the locals we talk to is generally glum, not positive. It’s not all related to this nasty weather, either. This may turn out to be another season of discontent for the Brits. Certainly, they have long-standing unresolved nagging national issues to do with their involvement in the European Community and immigration issues that stem from that, which appear to need much attention at all levels of government and decision-making. A good summer wouldn’t hurt their mood either. They’ve been missing that for a few years, too, as even the weather gods have been unresponsive.

The weather continues weepy. Pete, now, has no patience with it at all. Beck and I remain fairly unaffected. But today we tried to outrun the devil and head north towards the sun. The drive has been pretty. We’ve allowed the sat nav free rein and passed through many a charming village. Lower Slaughter was almost as perfect as Broadway and even lovelier than Stow-on-the-Wold, and we were happily brought to a standstill tonight with the loveliness of stone buildings and beauty of Stamford.

From the Cotswolds we headed north to Cheshire to drop our camper off with our friends. We were waylaid there for a long while as Miss Bec landed in hospital in Staffordshire after a reaction to her tablets. That, together with the heavy Olympic air traffic, colluded in having us arrive home weeks later than we originally anticipated. Thanks to Qantas it was a lot less painless than it might have been.

Glorious Tewkesbury Abbey

Higgledy piggledy smuggler town Polperro, Cornwall

Tudor 14th century stone bridge Fowey River Lostwithiel, Cornwall

Lanhydrock House, Lanhydrock, Cornwall

Boats in the tiny harbour in Coverack, Cornwall

Charming thatch in Cornwall

Festivals were everywhere in Cornwall, too

The Mill, Lower Slaughter, the Cotswolds

Sign tucked amongst all the green

To St Petrock's Church, Lydford

Stunning blocky remnants of the 13th Century Lydford Castle

The Highwayman came riding, riding, Sourton, Devon

Beautiful Lower Slaughter, The Cotswolds

Our beloved Staffordshire, as lovely as anywhere

From cathedral to ferry

We drove the inland Santiago Camino from Chaves via Leon and Burgos to Santander to catch the ferry to Plymouth: a $A1,000.00 a night deal, without meals, on Brittany ferries. Leon and Burgos have two of the most extraordinary Cathedrals in Europe, both big draw cards with the pilgrims of old and, to a lesser extent, with the pilgrims of now.

There were masses of pilgrims enroute on this, the traditional inland route, heading for Santiago, some weeping at the portals at their first sight of each cathedral. Poor blighters! Wait till they get to the door and have to pay just to see the altar! Both cathedrals are extraordinarily beautiful. But, I still love Sagrada Familia best in the world! Go Gaudi!

Leon is remarkable for its height. It seems to vault some six stories and has so much extraordinary stained glass that the walls appear as glass which gives the entire structure an edgy fragility as there is so little brute strength in its spare pillar and stone supports.

Burgos cathedral is remarkable for its phenomenally carved interior altars, but more especially for its decorator iced-cake exterior, where rock drips like spun sugar from steeples in the sky. But both cathedrals have become so completely commercialised, these days, that it is difficult to feel much sense of sanctity about either of them. They have an air about them of detached autocratic paying museums. A couple of inner chapels allow free entry but most everything of importance is pay at the door, and pay through the nose. Even for the pilgrims who have worn their feet to blisters and blood getting there. Religion seems to go through these cycles, and this type of commercialism seems to happen during its uglier downturn phases. Ah well: all things have their day and Leon and Burgos’s cathedrals best days have very likely passed. So be it.

Leon downtown has a characterless air about it, with somewhat modern thoroughfares and what historical charm it has: glorious cloisters, brilliant nave - comes at a price, while this pervading sense of money-grubbing about most of its ancient character buildings: museums, churches and the cathedral -- is completely off-putting.

Burgos has more ground appeal and is a friendlier city. It builds on its fabulous peregrino history, highlights its remarkable city gates, marks its characterful calles and tree-lined avenidas with well-signed historical markers (in many languages), and although commercialism is alive and well in Burgos it is nowhere near as crass as in Leon.

The inland roads from Chaves to Santander were pleasant, if bland, autoroutes with some exceptionally long slow straight climbs in them but nothing scenically remarkable like some of the twisting vertical and switch-back mountain roads we’ve travelled these last two months. One tunnel, though, was 2.6 kilometre long and rates as our record length this year. Good roads, sane traffic, green scenery, easy driving – from a passenger perspective, though, just a bit of a snore.

Santander, we’d supposed, would be solely a ferry stop but we ended up really enjoying our time there. We arrived in time to negotiate an earlier ferry: which we did for no extra charge, which quite amazed us in this day of fees for breathing.

We camped just out of town on another hill during another famous feast, this one for St Peter, believe it or not! and had daytime fireworks and night time festivities. Play it again, Sam! Added to which, of course, we were there for the final of the European Cup and watched Spain win with ease. We had been supporting Holland, because we support Rene, who is Dutch, and his countrymen played their earlier games brilliantly. We’d pretty much lost interest when Holland were defeated by Russia, but elected, nonetheless, to watch till the bitter end.

On my computer, I might add! Which for a miniscule amount -- less than $A100 on eBay one fun day- I turned my computer into a travel television with the purchase of a tiny little USB connector, the size of a flattened finger, along with a mini-stick aerial on a teeny tiny cord. It worked wonders when we needed news. Some nights, this trip, we’ve had anything up to 40 channels to choose from. I am so besotted with modern technology. I hope our kids and their kids have some sense of the astonished joy that our generation has just playing with these gadgets that they continue to produce just to improve their leisure world. Gadgets that despite being tiny, can produce such awesome effects, relative to size. I am charging our laptop on an inverter which Pete and Lyn (Wonderful, both of you!) attached to our leisure battery with two tiny pigtail wires that convert the battery from its 12 volt output to 240 volts. I didn’t even know what an inverter was, or did, this time last year, but now, after much internet research on how best to run our laptop while we were travelling, I reckon I could, now, argue the benefits of pure sine over modified sine waves for computer usage-- with some ease.

Santander turned out to be fun. We did the fate-thing. If we saw an accessible boat heading somewhere we hopped on it, not having a clue where it was going, for how long, or for how much, and we ended up having a great day on some tiny ferry boats, crossing from stop to stop and exploring each stop: eating icecream, drinking beer, nibbling pinxtos, walking, talking. Our last taste of Spain. We will miss it. The Santander to Plymouth ferry is huge, rather glossy for a channel ferry, with lots of mirrors, stainless steel and glass. The trip across is nineteen, gentle, engine-throbbing hours and a very comfortable overnight ensuite cabin made for a pleasant crossing. In the morning, after a lovely evening meal and a good night’s sleep, we arrived becalmed. Pete and Beck are not really sea lubbers, so this was a good outcome for us.

Santa María de León Cathedral has some of the most beautifully preserved Medieval stained glass in Europe

"Pulchra Leonina" the facade of the Cathedral of Leon, Portugal

Paseo del Espolon. This tree-lined shaded promenade, Burgos

El Cid statue, Burgos

Facade of the Arch of Santa Maria, the City Gate l in Burgos

Stunning murals in Burgos

Sarmental Door, Burgos Cathedral, Burgos, Castilla Leon, Spain.

Burgos Cathedral, Burgos

Cloisters of the Burgos Cathedral

Carved doorway, Burgos

Burghers in festival dress in Burgos

Festival parade in Burgos

Enroute to Santander

Cabo Mayor Lighthouse, Santander

Camp kitchen near Santander

Saturday, June 28, 2008

Starving beggars and white orchids

We have moved to inland Portugal today and we’re finding it quite a different temperament: a little more elegant in parts, though, still, those incredible contrasts between the rich and poor prevail.

Amarante is one of those gorgeous medieval villages with an inordinate number of extraordinary churches: one with a set of cloisters that any London cathedral would be proud of. One gruesome feature I keep forgetting to mention about the Mediterranean Catholics is their penchant for displaying corpse-like cadavers and bony stone statues of figures in various poses, or lighted caskets, to revere. These can be any saint or converted sinner, even one deliberately bejewelled in precious stones and intricate metallic garb, decorated propaganda saints of the medieval era created to entice worshipers to the church. Often these effigies lie in rigid state in a glass-sided coffin, entombed beneath a high altar, backlit by eerie lights, or naked under white ruched satin which highlights the charred corporeal rigor mortis seizure of the body as if in a catastrophe of Pompeiic proportions. More candles are lit by parishoners at these very visible altars than at any other – which must please the prelates immensely. Amarante is on one of the southern caminos to Santiago de Compostella as it was founded by one of those hermits, Gonçalo, who gathered around him devoted adherents inspired to follow his footsteps and teachings. His stone tomb is a little macabre in its creation. But even more macabre and rather pagan-like in this very Christian town are the fertility rite phallic cakes for sale in the bakeries throughout Amarante, called Bolos de São Gonçalo in memory of him: a medieval hermit whose hermetic lifestyle would not lead one to think that honouring him would incline one to be more fertile.

Portugal’s campsites are in extraordinarily high places. We still haven’t worked out why. To see Guimarães (Zhim’-ah-raish) we had to encourage our camping car up a very steep slope, again, with almost sheer drops off one side; but the campground, once there, was worth it: a municipal piece of land with more staff than it had clientele, and wonderful facilities including an Olympic sized swimming pool which only Miss Bec and I were brave enough to use, for the excellent fee of only €11.00 per night.

Somewhere we have lost contact now with any tourists who speak any English in these campsites. I can’t remember where this happened. But in France you could practically be guaranteed to find an English speaker anywhere. Even in Spain it was more probable than not. Not true in Portugal, however. At least not in these inland parts.

Another generalisation we seem to be making: Dutch tourists are the most intrepid travellers we’ve met on this trip. Even in the most remote parts where no one else goes there will be at least one Dutch camper. The Brits, as a general rule, tend to stick to the coast and head for the sun. We have seen so few Germans we can’t make any judgements about their camping habits, yet: May to June may be a little early for them: we don’t know. The French, though, have motorhoming down to a fine art. They have precise routines. They even expect the local boulangerie/patisserie/pastelerie van to turn up precisely at 9.00am in the campground with their breakfast bread. They set up long term sites, and like the Dutch seem always cheerful and good humoured.

The mountain site above Guimarães, Penha, has only three campers tonight. I think the drive up the mountain frightens everyone away. The Penha mountain is littered with religious grottoes, a church right at the peak near the campground, and bush-walking tracks web its slopes. To get quickly to and from Guimarães (it only takes 10 minutes) we used a cable car (Pete’s first experience in a cable car) with cables stretched tautly along 1.7km and up to a grand height of 400 metres. A brilliant ride down and back to a brilliant little town.

Guimarães is probably my favourite town in Portugal to date. It has the neatest laid cobbles and meticulously swept and maintained spaces we’ve seen so far which makes this town quite a rare find in Portugal in that it is tidy, for one; and, it is so beautifully preserved and maintained. Just a joy to explore. The town has a very noble history. After building a monastery and then a castle here (to defend the monks from the Moors, Normans and other sundry invaders) there followed the construction of wonderful Moorish-style church spires so identifiable as Portugese, along with meticulously cobbled medieval alleyways with upper level connector bridges very much like the Bridge of Sighs in Venice overhead, and neat square-cobbled arched town squares lined with upper stories of elegant old white chambers and galleried apartments.

The entire town is a location that would be an exterior decorating magazine’s favourite photo shoot opportunity. It was in the stark and spare crenellated castle here in Guimarães where the first king of Portugal, Alfonso Henriques, was born, and, where, just a few paces down from the castle gate in a tiny simple boxy little room of a chapel, called Sao Miguel, that he was baptised. Alfonso Henriques went on to fight the good fight founding the nation of Portugal by defeating his mother’s army from Galicia in 1128, and the nobles who died in battle supporting him were buried under this tiny chapel floor which was then paved with the sepulchres attributed to their noble houses in their honour. These great slabs of funereal stone literally cover the chapel floor in perfect order and are deeply and richly engraved with these medieval symbols and emblems. Amazing still today. It is no wonder this historic little chapel has been classified a national monument; or that the town centre is on UNESCO’S World Heritage list.

Someone once built complete and almost lifesize tableaus of the Stations of the Cross around the town. Of the original 18, today only 5 remain, and though they have been moved at various times and restaged in various combinations throughout the ages what remains of these stations, today, is interesting. With our usual astonishing good luck, at our last church stop in Guimarães was at the Igreja S. Francisco. We were quietly admiring the high altar when a prelate, very deliberately, came over and tapped us on the shoulder, signifying we were to follow him. He led us into a heavily locked sacristy, then allowed us to see what we realised only later was the famous painted ceiling of the sacristy. As well, he allowed us a private viewing of a room filled with heavily jewelled religious vestments hanging in separate compartments under glass and key, along with ancient exquisite hand-embroidered silver thread on linen altar cloths, also under glass and key, and thickly ornamented pure silver and gold chalices, monstrances and other astonishing religious paraphernalia which we’d never normally see outside a religious museum, as stuff so precious is usually tucked away behind doors that only open for a hefty admission fee in such wealthy churches. For whatever reason we were his only invited guests that day. After we left he locked up his treasures. Luck. Irish. Us.

From Guimarães we followed the Vinho Verte Route to Barcelos. Several times we have tried the ‘green wine’ this region is famous for but, so far, have yet to be enchanted. The word ‘green’ is used for some of this wine because that wine is still new. It can be red, white, still or sparkly, but if it is new it is classified as ‘verte’ or ‘green’. Having said that, Portugal scored the world’s very first demarcated wine region, the Douro, way back in 1756. Portugal, since then, has encouraged the growth of its own traditional grapes, and it is believed it has more traditional grape varieties, over 200, than any other country in the world, and, today, Portugal ranks a strong 6th in the world as a wine producer, which is amazing given its size.

Barcelos is famous for two things: its ceramic production and its cock legend. This red-combed cockeral is very identifiable as a Portugese symbol on many a festive occasion. Again, with unbelievable luck we arrived in Barcelos on a Sunday (our first fine sunny Sunday in Europe this trip!) when there just happened to be a ceramics market in the main square, and an artisan studio in town opening its doors on that fine afternoon that we were there.

The ceramics of the region are hand-thrown functional pieces most in a heavily-decorated brown glaze -- or a simple country-chic blue and white glaze. And I loved these. They reminded me of country milk-jug crafts. The artisan pieces downtown were mostly grotesque myth-like figures, oddly conceived, though brilliantly coloured.

Along with the ceramics displayed in every store and stall, Barcelos carries products sporting the figure or the symbol of a high-standing red-combed cockerel which traces its misty history back to a lovely old tale which charms children to this day. Once, much to the horror of the religious townsfolk, a stone cross was mutilated in the town. Eventually, a suspect, a man from Galicia enroute to Santiago de Compostella on a pilgrimage, was charged, found guilty and sentenced to hang, despite loudly protesting his innocence. On the morning of his hanging, as his last wish, the pilgrim was allowed to visit the hanging magistrate in his dining room. There he beseeched him and his family to believe him. The pilgrim announced that if he was hanged it would be unjust, and that the townsfolk would know that he surely spoke the truth at the very moment of his hanging, as the roast chicken lying on the Magistrate’s dinner table would rise up and crow three times. Truth tells. At the precise moment that the hanging was scheduled to take place the roast chicken rose up (on stunted hind legs?) and crowed three healthy raucous times. The judge, and the baffled townfolk, rushed out of the dining room through to the town square attempting to save the poor pilgrim. This they were able to do, as the knot in the hangman’s rope had fortuitously stuck, saving the man of Galicia from certain death. And so the crowing cock of Barcelos is a symbol of truth, fairness and all that is right and good in the world, and images of it abound in this tiny town and throughout the country.

In Barcelos, we saw two of the most breathtaking churches we have ever seen: one completely decked out in walls of azulejos tiles. From top to toe. Truly remarkable. I loved it. It also had a statue of the Blessed Virgin stabbed to the very visible heart with close to a dozen sharp, effective, real silver daggers. Lots of votive candles were lit for her, too. The other (the priest on guard would allow absolutely no photographs) was a circular church, Igreja do S. Bom Jesus da Cruz. This was a near-perfect church in terms of proportion and sheer beautiful lines. It sported only black studded leather trestles, as seating: most with no backs. Very cool. And apart from its perfect shape and symmetry this tiny church was decorated extraordinarily: every low and high square inch of the place, even tiers that surely had to be reached by high ladders on to its high altar, were covered in masses (plane-loads!) of pure white scented flowers of the expensive imported variety: white orchids, white roses, white lilies. All fresh. Probably hot house. No doubt costing an absolute goldmine.

Yet outside, in Portugal’s streets, crippled beggars go starving. It makes absolutely no sense. So many people in Portugal are maimed. So many without a limb or more. So many beggars. So many on crutches. So many with so little. We’ve heard that the minimum wage in Portugal is between 400-450€ a month. Impossible to survive. Some things are hard to reconcile.

As luck would again have it, June is the month for Festivals and a great time to visit Portugal. Much of this has to do wit the Luke gospel that points out that John the Baptist was born six months before Christ, so celebrating the birth of John in June has become a tradition that honours the birth of Christ later in December. On this glorious June Sunday in Barcelos we were treated to a surprise parade of regional brass bands processing through the town square doing complex and fascinating routines of the like we have not seen attempted in Australia since we were little. As well, every bombardier (fire fighting engine) within cooee was lined up to do a drive by. Everyone in town turned out including local dignitaries on stage and there was much music and joy in the streets. Streets, which just happened to be heavily decorated with festive three-story-high temporary structures all arrayed in a fantastic row down one side of the town square. These were decorative and symbolic church gate arches and, every year, are apparently newly-built and displayed during religious folk festivals, when every parish in the region dresses its own high parish church gate arch and mounts it in the Barcelos village square for all to see for the entire summer. These quaint old-fashioned customs abound everywhere in Portugal.

We are now in Braga. We are here because it is Saint Joao’s (Saint John the Baptist’s) feast day tomorrow and the celebrations everywhere are huge. They started here before we arrived yesterday and will go late until tomorrow (also Rebecca’s birthday). St Joao’s feast day is often bigger than Christmas. So far we have been partying since daytime fireworks and night time raucous music first marked our days and nights way back in Santiago de Compostella. It is as if Spain and Portugal have entered this treaty to keep us royally entertained with feast days, festivals, floats and fairy floss for every day in June. This week in Braga is almost unbelievable. A long street market lines the entire main street. Our campground is about 600 metres from the noisy city centre which is the heart of the festival activities. We can hear every whisper that goes on. Tonight it will not stop: we will walk the streets of Braga and will have our heads banged with garlic flowers or plastic hammers in good cheer. Rebecca will have more than her share, given that her feast day aligns with Saint John's. Like last night we shall eat on the street and finish on fartura from the churro shops. These are like long strings of deep fried doughnuts wound into massive vats of hot boiling oil from fairly primitive dough dispensers, then sprinkled with cinnamon and icing sugar. Or Pao com Courico, sliced smoked sausage wrapped completely inside torn hunks of fresh dough, made right there in the streets as you watch the yeast rise; cooked over a wood-fired street oven before your very eyes. For €2.00 a piece. Utterly mouthwatering.

Portugal is cheaper for eating out than Australia. Pete is so smitten with prices he might decide to move here! Coffee for three (one espresso and two con lait) today cost under €2.00. Haircuts for three, with shampoo and blow-dry and the works, totalled just €20.00. For dinner we ended up eating an entire barbecued chicken mutilated into a flat piece with a sharp knife and a mallet, skewered and charred on a hot coal barbecue outside a beautifully decorated gypsy tent in the festival grounds, accompanied by the seasonal and delicious charred green peppers and a raw onion salad. This, after we had long watched folk bands in traditional costumes from many regions of Spain and Portugal dance and sing their way through the city centre. In the cathedral, tens of thousands of expensive imported lipstick flowers, each individually wrapped in cellophane, were brought in by the crate load from the airport, then had to be split open and sorted in order to decorate all the religious statues which are to be in the sacred procession tomorrow.

We can't quite come to grips with the cost of decorating not only the churches, but the cities like Braga, Porto, and every other part of northern Portugal, which this month has to be decked out like Blackpool, though in flowers as well as lights. Long high decorative arches have been swung across full street widths all over villages, towns and cities every ten metres or so. Electricians have followed along and wired them all up with multi-coloured lights. Council men on ladders, on bleachers and mass-tiered seating for concerts and processions, have been so busy decorating every visible things that the pot-holes in the roads grow deeper by the hour, day, week. And as soon as the Festival is over they have to spend weeks taking it all down and storing it. They must have whole hidden massive warehouses where all these things are stored. And this happens year after year. All night on the 23 June, Braga partied. All night long. Street processions started at 9 am in the morning and went on and off all day until well passed midnight. Fireworks, next door to our campsite, started at 2.10am. Yes, that was a.m., and went non-stop for 20 minutes. Music from fair grounds, stalls, and machines barely stopped. Becka’s birthday bang. We went to bed late and slept what little sleep we had plugged up with airline earplugs. At 6, this morning, the festival music stopped briefly. At 9am it was in full swing again. Tonight, in the stadium next door to the campground a rock band is scheduled to start its gig at midnight. And there are to be more fireworks. By 10.30am this morning as we packed our bits and bobs and left Braga, the partying crowds were back in the streets as thickly as they had been just hours before. Tonight the party might finish. We are moving on. Exhausted but amused. It has all been a bit much, a little like China crowds on steroids. The fairground music, the festival megaphones, the noise, the mass crowds, the chaos. It sounds and looks so very similar. Right down to the street sweepers trying to stay one push ahead of ten tons of street litter. And, as in China, they do an exemplary cleaning up job each morning. We need sleep. We must move on.

Today we drove the most beautiful winding panoramic route through the lovely mountains and lakes of the National Park of Geres (in the mountains just north of Bucos, Andy and Les!) and found this to be the most scenic part of Portugal, to date. At the end of the day, though, our last in Portugal, we arrived in a very dry area. Barely 11 kilometres from Spain tonight. Inland. The land around is all dry-gulch country littered with rocks and wiry rolling sage brush that could easily feature in a John Wayne movie.

Luckily, we are camped at a Quinta just south of Chaves (Char-vish), which is green and heavy with trees and birdsong, and sports three kidney-shaped swimming pools if you dare. The water is ice. A lovely old wooden wagon is featured in our camping space, which shows how the casks of port had been laden to be carried downriver to be loaded on to the beautiful barco rabellos headed for the warehouses in Porto.

Outside the campground, down the dusty road a tired old farmer heads home from work in his clopping horse-drawn wagon. Portugal has been anything but predictable.