The day began with us packing our gear in preparation for leaving our Porto apartment. Once the bags were packed, we headed off for one of the many hole in the wall restaurants and cafes that dot the area. Breakfast today was at a sparkling little place 50 steps away from our digs. Johnny broke the habit of a lifetime and instead of cereal had a huge plate of waffles and fresh fruit. Britty and I opted foe porridge laden with fresh fruit.
Taking the luggage back to the car was so easy as it was all downhill. We locked everything into the car and headed off to Taylors, the port wine producers for a tour of the cellars and a tasting. Of course, because this is Portugal and they don't do flat roads, we approached the premises, through a maze of steeply rising and steeply falling cobbled paths. We passed some very clever street art and the fancy Yeatman hotel, where Britt and Wil stay when that visit, high above the hurly burly of tourist Porto below.
It was a beautiful set up at Taylors. and even though I began quite certain I had no interest in buying a bottle, by the end I was completely drawn in. The courtyard was threaded above with vines and two enormous lions guarded the entrance. there was a mixture of working storage vaults, artefacts and videos explaining the history and process. The tasting was in the formal garden laid out as if it were a garden from a Monet painting. A very lucky rooster and some peacocks also had the run of the place. An army of friendly, knowledgeable and welcoming guides met us there. We sampled a white and a red port, with the red being more luscious and wonderful.
It was close to lunchtime and totally seduced by the experience, we ordered lunch in the garden. Plates of cheeses, olives, meats and breads arrived and it was a wonderful and memorable lunch. Suddenly, a party of suited men flowed into the garden. The tall one stooped to clean up the tanbark that the rooster has scratched onto the stone path. "it's mister big" I loudly whispered to John, grabbing for my camera. It was the CEO of the whole company, Mr Robertson. I recognized him from the videos. As I snapped his photo, he stopped in front of us. For a moment I thought he might ask me to delete the photo, but he stopped for a chat, asking us where we had come from etc. He was so charming and wished us a good stay.
Britt recognised that another member of the part was the chief taster and blender of the company. Apparently all the big deals were on some kind of inspection and photo shoot. We had almost finished lunch but there was still a bit of bread and Britt called on the guide to please bring us a little bit of oil to dip the bread into. He did so straight away and asked if we knew the boss. Our little interaction had been noticed. We left through the shop and Britt stopped to buy a couple of things. As we were leaving through the main gates, the entourage reappeared and Mr Robertson waved and called out a goodbye. Talk about being in the right place at the right time.
It was a walk back to the car and just over an hour's drive to the west end of the Douro Valley and Mesao Friohe. Here we stayed in what was once a grand old house in the style of the 1930s I think. The rooms were quite grand and spacious with patio doors opening up to a wide veranda with stunning views of the Douro river which fanned out in a V across the front of the villa. The steep hills all around were fringed with elegantly slow turning wind turbines. The slopes were terraced for wine growing and riddled with narrow winding roads that linked the villages. As the sun came out the white houses looked like confetti sprinkled over the hills. a river cruise boat made it's way elegantly down the river as we watched from the terrace. The Douro was higher than Porto and the air was noticeably cooler. In the distance smoke rose from smokestacks and by six o'clock a mist was beginning to settle in the valley. I couldn't see us making much use of the infinity pool in this weather.
Dinner was at a humble, restaurant frequented by locals. There were several of them leaning on the bar when we arrived. We were seated under the glow of the tv showing an international soccer match. This was not a particularly hopeful start but we ended up having a great night. Of course we began with hunks of bread dipped in olive oil and olives. Then Britt has corn fritters and a kind of tomato rice. Johnny finally got his sardines with potatoes and I had veal medallions with potatoes and a warm salad. Brilliant, as was the bottle of local wine. We shared desserts, and then ordered coffee. None of us noticed the delivery of a bottle of white liquid to the table. I assumed it was water, but it turned out to be a fiery concoction called Aguardiente. It tasted a bit like flavoured metho. I think the host and his sister in the kitchen warmed to us and the metho certainly warmed me.
Home was a very short drive away. By this time, the hills had disappeared in the darkness and only the stringed pearls of street lights remined visible. Beyond the mountains there must have lain a big township because some powerful lights were giving the remaining clouds an unearthly glow.
Luckily we had left the aircon on an the room was toasty warm on our return. Brrrrr. Goodnight.
