Villa in Pedorido (and its uniqueness)
Three hours north of Lisbon, we eventually found the villa in the mountains we would call home for the next two weeks. It was a little tricky to find as our turn looked like someone’s private driveway but it was a road — a very narrow, curvy, steep, and rutted road — and it led to a most fabulous terraced and gated property complete with gardens (flower, herb, vegetables, fruit trees), a courtyard, other private alcoves, a salt-water pool, a stocked wood shed, and fresh eggs from our very own chickens! Oh, and the obligatory rooster that made his presence known early and fairly often. We were warmly welcomed by José and Henrique, the owners, and, I swear, half of their extended family. They even baked us a welcome cake!
The house is unique in that there are two parts to it. The main house, that includes the kitchen and living room, also has a bedroom on the main level and another bedroom down some narrow, curved, and treacherous stairs to the lower level. The bathroom is also on the lower level. Yelena and Steph took the downstairs room and put Odin into the bedroom off the living room. Immediately next door is a separate suite with a bedroom and a bathroom. Steve and I took that one.
Yelena, Steph, and Odin were only there for five days then, after they left, Steve and I chose to move into the main house where everything was more convenient. Despite those stairs, we opted to have the bathroom close for those middle of the night visits. We limited our chances of falling down the stairs by keeping our clothes in the other bedroom, and using the bathroom next door during the day. The things you have to think of when you’re no longer 20 (or 30, or 40, or 50…). At least we had options.
Although the pool area looked so inviting, the closest any of us got to going in was a float around in a boat raft as the water was frigid. Also, for the most part, the weather was either chilly, rainy, or chilly and raining. But we did put quite a dent into the wood pile to keep the stove going in the kitchen each evening to hold the dampness at bay.
Eating In (and using someone else’s kitchen)
Monday is market day in Espinho, a coastal town about a half hour drive away, so off we went. It was huge; much, much bigger than the markets we’ve enjoyed during our vacations in rural France. We grabbed the first parking spot we could find which, coincidentally and fortunately, was at the food end of the market.
I’m enamoured with the idea of markets, even romanticize about the purchasing experience and the extravagant meals I’ll prepare with the freshest of fresh finds, then am totally overwhelmed when I get there. Between us, though, we bought breads, meats, cheeses, vegetables, fruits, desserts, a new hat and toy for Odin, and a lunch snack (not even sure what is was, but it was a sandwich of some sort, fish I think), which we had to eat hanging around. Eventually, we stumbled across a little café where we were more than happy to park ourselves for a quick refreshment break after all that ambling.
No one was inclined to cook in the tiny kitchen in Lisbon but the villa had a larger and fully functioning kitchen and also an outdoor kitchen, with grill, that Steph (our chef son-in-law — lucky us) continued to drool over the whole time he was there. He inaugurated it with slabs of pork that he purchased from a butcher on market day. Another day, we cockspatched a chicken — also purchased from the same butcher — spiced it up, and grilled some delicious Piri Piri Chicken. I did not use the grill on my own as 1) I’m not big on BBQ’ing and 2) the rain was heavy after Steph left and, although the outdoor kitchen was covered, it was still miserable out there.
We’ve stayed in a few rental homes now, and other people’s kitchens are always interesting, if not quite what you’re used to. This one was well-enough equipped, but different. A pet peeve is knives (and potato peelers) that are not sharp and, when traveling by car, we usually bring our own. Even the bread knife wasn’t sharp so we bought another one only to determine that, perhaps, the bread was too fresh (not that that’s a problem by any stretch of anyone’s imagination). I’m very used to cooking vegetables in my (large) microwave. There was a smaller microwave but no casseroles small enough to fit as I had no way to stop the tray from rotating. I adapted. The good news, I thought, was the stove — gas! Love a gas stove; unfortunately, the lowest setting was still too hot. I adapted. We didn’t starve.
We did have a wee problem with the teeniest, tiniest ants, starting with the infestation in the sugar bowl!!! After we dumped that outside and kept the sugar securely wrapped up in the pantry, and moved all the food off the counter, the attraction was no longer there and the ants moved on to a better food source, presumably outside to find the sugar pile. Or so we thought. A few days later, they were back in the recycle bags sitting on the floor, again presuming that the contents were attractive even though we took the recycle out often. So, those bags went outside too, then we were ant-free.
Portuguese Hospitality (and the associated adventures)
The morning our little family left to fly home, we had a visit from José and Henrique, our Airbnb hosts, so they could do an interim cleaning. As they only speak Portuguese, they brought along their friend, Maria José, who speaks very good English and even better French. We discovered if we spoke French the men could understand so we stumbled along and had a great visit. When we told them we wanted to experience traditional Fado music, Maria spent a considerable amount of time introducing us, through YouTube, to the various forms, and artists, of Fado. Then she recommended the equivalent of a coffee house in Porto where, every Tuesday, it was open mic night for Fado. She also recommended a specific Fado show that would provide us with the history of Fado outside of a tourist environment. And, she recommended where to go for port wine tasting but was insistent that we not purchase from the cellars but to go to the grocery stores where the same wines are less expensive.
But that’s not the reason why this section is called Portuguese Hospitality. Later that day, Maria texted to invite us to Henrique’s house the next night for a traditional Portuguese evening! Steve was asked to bring his guitar. How unexpected, generous, and exciting!
We couldn’t go in empty-handed, and it seemed silly to bring the typical bottle of wine to Henrique’s, so we went in search of a “florista”. Google maps sometimes lets you down when you search “xx near me”. The search tool redeemed itself the second time and we eventually found another one. Through a lot of sign language, and the help of a sullen teenager with limited English, I was thrilled with the results (and so was Henrique!).
Trying to find addresses is tricky if you’re not a local. The numbers they give you are like postal/zip codes — which we didn’t know — so, when you’re driving up and down a street and can’t find the number that you think is the house number, your only recourse is to text your contact and beg for help. Only then, when you get an actual house number, and when two of them are standing on the street flagging you down, do you actually get to where you’re supposed to be. Even with a house number, I don’t think we would have found our way as we still had to squeeze around parked cars in a narrow lane, and turn in through an obscure gate. How these people ever find their own homes, not to mention friends’ homes, is beyond my comprehension!
We finally arrived about a half hour late which, according to custom, is right on time. Little did we know that we would be dropped into one of their usual Saturday night get-togethers complete with fabulous food and about 12 friends, including another guitarist, and an accordionist. After what seemed like never-ending introductions, and our first reaction to the dining room (WOW, with palms pressed up against both cheeks and mouth agape), we were seated and a long, slow dinner commenced, but not before glasses were raised with a lovely sparkling white.
We started with appetizers of different kinds of cured ham, some cheese, olives, beans that looked like limas but were white and pickled, and a delicious sausage made from chicken meat that had the texture of cod cakes. Bottles of white and red wine, juice, and water, were interspersed down the table for ease of helping yourself. (Observation over the course of the evening – no one over-indulged.)
There was also a starter of what we would call Chicken Noodle Soup. This one was made with orzo noodles and each bowl contained one piece each of egg yolk and white, and two pieces of chicken organs. Under normal circumstances, I would have passed on the organ meat but it’s surprising what I’ll eat when a guest in someone’s home. Also surprising was how delicate and tasty my pieces were — I think I ate chicken heart but was reluctant to ask just in case I didn’t like the answer.
For dinner there were two pots of chicken stew with rice, one cooked in broth (bottom pot), the other more traditional one cooked in chicken blood (top pot). We tried the latter because, why not, and it was delicious. There was also roasted chicken with a tasty sauce, a roast pork, and a separate pot with plain rice. So much food and not a vegetable in sight — not what we were expecting.
Then the desserts arrived — a traditional Christmas custard-type dessert made with small egg noodles and cinnamon (nice taste, unusual texture for a dessert), a Bundt-style pudding that was a little denser than crème caramel (more eggs, less milk) but with the same sauce, and two other cakes that I don’t remember anyone cutting into.
But we weren’t done yet! The cheese was still available and out came the roasted chestnuts. The steaming basket was ceremoniously passed under our noses so we could experience the full sensual effect (not to mention a mini facial). Then, I’m pretty sure two of the women spent over an hour peeling them. Because of my random nut allergies, I chose not to try one but Steve thought they were excellent.
It was 11:30 when I first looked at the time, and we were just getting started. Between dinner and dessert, Manuel got up and started to entertain us with his accordion; yet another cultural experience and one familiar to us only through foreign movies. It was fun to watch Steve trying to figure out which chords Manuel was playing – even though Manuel was calling out the chords (in Portuguese) – but, after he caught on, they made great music together. I sang a few songs with Steve’s accompaniment (Manuel tried to play along with Steve calling out the chords in English) and we were a bit surprised that so many could sing along to our North American song choices. What an appreciative audience and so much fun! (Unfortunately, I don’t have any videos of Steve and I together, and as soon as I figure out how to post the videos of Steve and Manuel, I’ll edit to add them.)
Who needs a common language when you are united through music? This was definitely the highlight of our trip.
I certainly was up well past my bedtime when we finally arrived back, full and happy, about 2:30am, only to find that the wind had pushed the rain under the window in the living room and the water had dripped across the sill, down the wall, and along the floor in a nice little stream. If that wasn’t bad enough, the water also had seeped into the floor boards and found a hole that allowed it to drip onto the floor in our downstairs bedroom. Although the bed was dry, access to the bed wasn’t so we made the decision to move all our bedding into the main level bedroom. It might have been about 3:30 by the time we fell into bed and, with the help of window shutters and the peace and quiet of the country, we got our full 8 hours of sleep.
(Side note): there is a large evergreen tree outside the main floor bedroom that, in the wind, likes to brush up against one of the windows. Two nights of that and we headed back down to the other bedroom where it was quieter (and because we had the water situation under control).
Weather (and decisions)
The rainy season in the north of Portugal starts in October/November and this year was an exception — more rain than normal. Where we experienced sunny and warm days in Lisbon, we had rain almost every day in the north, and lots of it. This was disappointing as we had hoped to share some touristy experiences with Yelena and her family while they were there. There was no point in taking a river cruise in the rain, or checking out the hiking trails in the Geo Park. Regardless, they found things to do — toured a castle in the rain, took Odin to the Discovery Centre in Porto, explored some back roads that maybe they wished they hadn’t (too steep in some places so had to back down). They even had a night out in Porto by themselves for what looked like quite the fancy seafood dinner. It would have been nice if they could have stayed longer but the rain hardly ever let up.
And although we had a washing machine at our disposal, and a clothes line, there was no way to dry our clothes because of the rain/dampness so we found a laundromat and lived like locals for an hour a couple of days while we dried our laundry.
Our agreement with José and Henrique was to stay eight days after Yelena left, for a discounted price. With no intention of theirs to rent the property after that, they agreed we could add another two days, for an even better daily rate, if we chose to stay a bit longer. That was a tough decision to make as we loved the villa and appreciated their kindness and generosity. But, it was our vacation, and the rain was relentless and frequently torrential. After considerable research for other Airbnb properties further south, even south of Lisbon, those weather forecasts also included rain! We chose to stay where we were. What can you do but make the best of where you are and what you have to work with?
Entertainment (and making the best of where we were with what we had to work with)
When in Portugal, you must find a place to listen to Fado music so, on the Tuesday night after our visit with our hosts, Steve and I headed into Porto in search of open mic night at the recommended café. We found it but it was SO small and SO crowded, we stood outside (it wasn’t raining) and listened to one singer (who was very good) before we wandered a few doors down and found another small restaurant to have dinner – pasta and pizza – not typical Portuguese but good nonetheless (and we were hungry).
Despite the rainy forecast, we made the decision to secure seats for the 6.5 hour Saturday cruise up the Duoro River hoping we would be able to see and photograph the promised beauty of the terraced vineyards where the famous port grapes are grown. We boarded in Porto at 8:15 and set sail at 9:00. It started pouring rain halfway through breakfast, it poured all morning, it poured through lunch. But, as we were finishing lunch, the rain miraculously stopped! I’d even go so far as to say that it stopped just as the scenery started to get better. We had already gone through one gigantic lock – about a 25 metre rise – and were able to step outside to better experience the second, even deeper, lock at about 35 metres. After that, we were not disappointed with what we saw, including the impromptu dance party on the deck.
The cruise ended at Régua, in the heart of the port wine growing region. We had about a 10-15 minute walk (uphill, of course) to get to the train station for our return to Porto. As much as I was looking forward to a train ride, I didn’t take into consideration that we would be returning in the dark and didn’t bring anything to read. Neither did Steve… it was a long 2.5 hours.
It’s worth mentioning that we were very well taken care of on this cruise, making it very good value for the cost (about $125C each). The boat was comfortable, with two levels – the lower level where we ate, and where it was easier to see out in the rain as there was an overhang from the level above, and the upper level with an inside lounge and an outside seating area complete with piped in music and a bar. We were assigned a table for our two meals. Breakfast consisted of breads and pastries, a jug of orange juice for each couple, and coffee or tea. Lunch was a full and delicious pork roast meal, complete with a bottle of red between us. Mid-morning, glasses of port were passed around. When Steve ordered another glass of “tawny port” at the bar, the bartender heard “tonic port” which, apparently, is another traditional drink, so we ended up with that instead. We’re not fans of tonic water but, the more we sipped, the better we liked it. I was beginning to wonder if we’d be a bit tipsy by the time lunch was served. Our hostess spoke at least 4 fluent languages – Portuguese, Spanish, English, French – and kept us well-informed as we cruised up the river. She shepherded us over to the train station and made sure we all had our train tickets in hand. If ever in Porto, in nicer weather, I would recommend this day trip.
The rest of our entertainment we made ourselves, mostly driving around to see where we ended up. On a few biblical rain days, we were content to stay put, enjoying the quiet, rural surroundings. One day, we planned a trip to the Friday market in Guimaraes, then a drive over to Braga to visit the cathedral and church that Maria had recommended, then a return through the south end of the only national park in Portugal – the Parque Nacional Peneda-Gerés. The market was smaller than the one in Espinho and didn’t have any food. But, if you were looking for shoes… It would have been very nice to spend time in Braga, what with the charm of the older section and the promise of those churches, both of which we saw only from the outside. It was impossible to find a place to park and, after a couple of go-arounds and wrongs turns, we chose to move on. By then, it was starting to get a bit late which would have had us returning in the dark if we drove up to the park. We chose a different route back and, while skirting around the small town of Pinheiro, saw a castle on top of a hill which begged to be discovered.
Eating Out (and all its challenges)
We only ate out once as a family and that was fun, starting with the choice of restaurant (Google Maps — “restaurants near me”) about 15 minutes away on the other side of the mountain. Despite Google telling us it was open, it wasn’t that night but the owner was there and recommended another place across the small river we had just driven over. Directions are unique when you’re traveling and after a couple of wrong turns, and a drive down an alley under a bridge — yikes — we found the Jardim do Arda on the shore of the Arda River, and discovered rapini (yes, we have rapini at home but we’d never eaten it before). Here was another wonderful family restaurant where we determined what we wanted to eat by all crowding around the counter and looking at pictures on the owner’s tablet. It was only after we had finished eating, and Odin had made fast friends with their 4-year-old daughter, Maria, that Carlos, a regular, who had been quietly eating his own dinner in a corner, strolled over for a chat and we discovered he spoke French! Salia, our hostess/owner, teased him about where he’d been when we were trying to interpret the Portuguese menu. We made it back to the Jardim do Ardo twice more on our own where we enjoyed other delicious meals and extended conversations with Carlos.
Aside from the pasta and pizza we ate when we couldn’t get into the Fado café, the only other Porto meal we had was following our return from the boat cruise. From the train station, which was small but beautiful, we had a little bit of a walk (downhill this time) to where we parked our car near the water. The route took us down a pedestrian only street that was bordered on each side by shops and restaurants. The shops were closed but the restaurants, most of which had outside tables, were well attended. We chose one whose menu we could understand (more on that later) – inside as it wasn’t raining but was damp and promising to – and settled in for a very good lasagna. I don’t think you can get a bad meal in Europe.
Car Rentals (and driving in Portugal)
As Lisbon is a large European city, I was expecting narrow roads and aggressive drivers but, as we wouldn’t be driving in Lisbon, I only had to be concerned with taxi and Uber drivers. They did not disappoint.
Picking up your rental car is always more complicated, and more expensive, than when you so easily book it online from home. This one was no exception. Even though the Budget website claims there is no extra cost for a second driver, if that driver is a family member, that was not the reality and we were charged the maximum of 100 extra euros for that privilege. (I sent off my request for a refund after we got home – let’s see what happens.) And, apparently, there are so many toll roads in Portugal, we needed a transponder because, if we didn’t have one, there was no way to pay at the tolls and you had to find a post office to settle up!!! That was another 48 euros. Why don’t they tell you these location-specific details online when they know exactly where you’re going? And why don’t they just build transponders into the price of the rental upfront because it’s pretty well impossible to go anywhere without intentionally, or not, getting on a toll road? On the upside, we were upgraded to a nice 4-door BMW, then had to figure out how to unlock the doors and trunk, and how to start it without a key. Then, as we were headed back into Lisbon on our last day, a message came up on the dash indicating we had to add AdBlue. Some online research later and we discovered it’s an additive that helps with emission control and, if we ran out and stopped the car, the car wouldn’t start again and we would need some kind of roadside assistance! That got our attention so we pulled into the next service centre. Again, why would that tank not be filled up and why don’t they tell you about these things? (The car only had 15,000 kms on it when we picked it up.) Rant over.
Leaving Lisbon airport, we survived the giant roundabout before getting onto the highway going north. A highway is a highway is a highway.
I had no idea how mountainous Portugal is and the next 16 days were spent holding my breath, taking short (quiet) intakes of breath, squeezing my eyes shut (I wasn’t driving), clasping onto the overhead handrail, flinching, wincing, stepping on my imaginary brake pedal — you get the idea. Our drives might have been more enjoyable (for me, Steve didn’t seem to mind) if the weather was better and I could have focused on the apparent spectacular scenery. We climbed, we dropped, we twisted, we turned, on roads a little narrower than our secondary roads at home, with no shoulders and with oncoming traffic that didn’t always stay completely in their lane in curves, and tailgaters who thought we were driving too slow (we were not!!!). Cars passed us in places I felt sure would end in fatality (theirs primarily, ours by proximity). That extra hundred Euros I mentioned for a second driver was a complete waste of expense (if I don’t get my refund) as I had absolutely no desire to drive those roads under those conditions so didn’t and, if you know me well, I love to drive so it had to be hair-raising. Suffice to say, we survived, but I am clearly uninitiated in the nerves of steel department, including our two attempts to get off the highway at the right exit to our hotel at the airport on our last night. I have never been so happy to hand back a rental car. Thank you, Steve, for your driving skill and for keeping us alive!!!
Regardless, those narrow roads and the numerous villages tucked away in the mountains and valleys have a special appeal to me. Restaurants and cafés popping up in the most random of places. Cobble stones paving the roads in tiny villages. Houses you can almost reach out and touch as you slip around village corners. Stop signs that say “stop” which, for this Quebec-born and raised gal, are always ironic and make me smile. Terraced hillsides everywhere, and I mean everywhere, and so many of them sporting grapevine after grapevine after grapevine — the ones we saw beautiful in their autumn splendor. Shrubberies reaching out to caress us as we cruised by. Lights from cozy homes sparkling up and across the valleys as darkness settled in. The scenery was spectacular but, unfortunately, lookouts are non-existent and other places to stop to take pictures were very hard to find.
On our way back to Lisbon, we chose to take a slight side trip to Peniche, a tiny little bump of land sticking out into the Atlantic — the most westerly point on the Iberian peninsula. We hung around until just before sunset before continuing on our way.
Language (and the fun and frustration of communication)
Call us unadventurous, call us cozy in our comfort zones, call us boring, but we like to travel places where we can understand and be understood which is why we’ve been to France three times because our French is good enough.
So many people told us we’d be fine with English in most of Portugal, and I’m sure they were well-intentioned and assumed we would stick to tourist locations. But what’s the point in traveling if you can’t wander off the beaten path to get a better idea of what a country, and its people, are all about? We wandered off, as is our habit. English is not so well established in everyday Portugal and neither is French, although we ended up with more French than expected. And Portuguese is not even close to Spanish, so we couldn’t begin to guess. But offering up a few words (hello, please, thank you, good-bye) was well received and everyone was friendly and good humoured.
I am definitely an unadventurous eater so deciphering menus was the hardest and we did our best with Google Translate. Servers did their best with the odd English word or pictures from tablets. Some meals were what we expected, some weren’t; nothing killed us or made us ill and there were some pleasant surprises.
The day we tried to find the “florista” we ended up at a gas station/general store in a village (no thanks to Google Maps) and, finally, someone directed us across the river by gesturing with sign language to a tower. That was fun, although we never did find that shop; I’m positive it didn’t exist.
Experiencing a culture, in my opinion, involves a grocery store, a pharmacy, and public transportation – check, check, and check – all of which would be so much easier with a little bit of the language.
And then there is music, the universal language that brought us together with new-found Portuguese friends for an amazing evening.
A Random Funny Story Before I Say “Até A Proxima Vez” (“Until Next Time”)
Travelling with a three-year-old was fun. You just never know what they are going to say or, in this case, do. Odin had a Monster baseball hat that he’d been wearing all summer. He had a habit of taking it off and putting it back on and his parents had to be vigilant about keeping an eye on it. The day they toured the castle in Sintra, Odin took his hat off and flung it over a very high stone wall. When he asked daddy to go get it, this was the result when Steph said he couldn’t.
Two days later, at the market in Espinho, they bought him a better hat — so adorable. Two days after that, on our way to dinner out, here’s how the conversations went as we followed in our car and parked behind theirs.
Steve: “Odin just threw his hat out of the car window.”
Me (who had my head down looking at the map): “No he didn’t. There’s no way he could have done that.”
Steph (a few minutes later as they were getting out of car): “Odin, put your hat on.”
Odin: “I can’t, I threw it out the window.”
Seems they had to place his car seat beside the window, instead of in the middle, and he discovered the button before they could lock the windows. This time, though, daddy was a hero and actually found it on our way home after dinner.
(As I post this, post-vacation, he still has it.)
If you’re reading this sentence, thank you for staying the course.
I was asked if I would go back to Portugal. Part of me feels there is still so much to see and do and another part of me feels “lost” without enough language to feel more comfortable. And then there are those roads…
We had a great trip, but the jury is still out.
