After the storm, comes the port
Douro Valley: Sometimes, without intention, a day can go from indeterminate to divine.
With the promise of dry weather after a spell of wet and very windy days, we headed to Porto’s Saõ Bento station and caught the 08:21 train to Pinhaõ. Once suburbia was in our wake it wasn’t long before we saw our first boat wake, fanning out from a traditional Rabulo as it plied a steady course along the Douro River.
The early morning fog was burning off; patches of blue showed through low slung clouds.
Port wine gets its name, its provenance and its reputation from this area of north eastern Portugal. Only wine sourced and produced among the several official appellations here can call itself ‘port’.
Terraced slopes ladened with neat rows of angled vines and olive groves step down almost to the water’s edge. White coloured buildings called quintas (production facilities, cellars, tasting rooms etc) dot the hills.
We disembarked and ambled in blazing autumn sun along the riverside promenade. Pontoons and their tethered boats bobbed and bumped on the gentle river current.
Late morning. We had coffee. A café com leite and espresso duplo. Less than 3 euros for both.
After that we booked an hour long boat ride for 2.30pm. It’s what tourists do.
Then we went in search of a luncheon venue. On rounding beneath a bridge and climbing a short cobbled road, we spotted Writers’ Place. How random.
An ivy clad walkway lead down the side of an innocuous facade, where an imposing maitre’d with a very strong French accent, and sporting a well-used apron, stood guard. Her commanding matronly presence seemed to say: “hold on, don’t you even think about occupying a table until we speak.’ Be gone any sign that might say: ‘Please wait to be seated.’
So we stood our ground, patiently, and admired the sun-drenched terrace with its sweeping river and hillside views. Plus, there was wild rabbit on the menu.
They ‘had me’ at the restaurant name.
Before long, and seated in a prime spot, a carafe of vinho verde (half litre for 10 euros) was in its rightful place. In time, so too was the rabbit with chestnut sauce (both regional specialties).
Boats idled by. Vines were being tended in the distance. Diners came and went. A cat slept. A large group speaking a foreign language with volume and vigour, seemingly celebrated our collective fortitude in finding us all here, on this day, in such a sublime setting.
When it came time for a conta, it was cash only. Unusual. Our 60 euros (including a 5 euro tip) went straight into that apron pocket.
We walked lunch off along steep, narrow streets. Visited the Quinta das Carvalhas across the river, sampled a ruby and a tawny, then returned to the dock for the obligatory boat tour. On the water, several luxury river cruise boats – like you see on the Danube – passed by coming from Spain and heading to Porto, and I wondered if they had wild rabbit on their menu?