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Valletta
D Snack is a tiny cafe in Xhagra that sells sad chewy pies and nasty coffee. But it is open when everything else is closed, which turns out to be Sunday to Wednesday. On Thursday the town comes to life and the Jubilee cafe opens and people emerge from their houses. The bakery van drove down the street blasting its horn going one way and on the way back sells bread to old ladies in their doorways. A gas bottle van also drove around the impossibly narrow streets and a fish van parked in the street with a cash register and about 6 fish in the back while the driver sat in the front smoking and reading the paper waiting for you to knock on his window. In the Jubilee Cafe 12 people were crowded around a big table waiting on the Big English. Tom wanted a Big English but the wait looked too long so we had a dozen pastizzi, which are little breakfast pasties filled with ricotta or mushy peas. We ate on the square next to the Daily Mail-reading-English-couple that you find everywhere in Malta. After breakfast we drove down to the coast to see the cave where Odysseus was distracted by Calypso from returning home to his wife. He certainly was not distracted by the accommodation, which is just a crack in the rock. The valley was very nice and there is a sandy beach in the cove where he could build his new boat. Before leaving Xhagra we also visited the best preserved windmill in Malta which is perched on a hill behind the church. The miller would blow a triton shell to let the locals know the wind was good for grinding wheat and they would trek up the hill with their sacks of corn. The wheat supply in Gozo was always dodgy so the Knights of St John brought in subsidized wheat from Sicily. When the British took over they thought Gozo needed some free market reform and opened the market up. Consequently prices skyrocketed and the population starved. The wind was strong and not looking good for our ferry trip to Sicily on Friday. The Gozo ferry changed route and went on the leeward side of the middle island, but when we emerged out the other the south east wind was fierce. We drove back through the nasty Malta suburbs and left the car at the airport and took a taxi to Valletta. We sped through a massive stone archway and into the city. The traffic disappeared and the road got narrower and started to resemble a footpath between tall limestone buildings. The taxi could not make it into the alleyway where our house was so he dropped us off and told us to walk up the laneway and around the corner. The city is made up of narrow lanes in a strict grid between tall buildings that look like a bit like warehouses. There were school children and lawyers in sharp suits and cafes, restaurants, grimy groceries and fashion boutiques all mixed up together. Many of the buildings are being renovated with loads of rubble being emptied into tiny tip trucks. We ate a late lunch in a laneway near our apartment then went browsing in the main street which was filled with locals knocking off work and Christmas shopping. There were beautiful big squares with fountains and trees and cafe tables and it was just great. Trying to get back in our apartment we found the key pad was dead and we spent about half an hour waiting for a grumpy landlord to let us back in. Today we explored the city including the national war museum and the cathedral. The cathedral is drenched in the history of the Order of St John with tombs and monuments and carvings and sculptures and paintings covering every surface. It was an unbelievable baroque confection but had two paintings by celebrity desperado Caravaggio, hung in the chapel where he stood when he was expelled from the order he had only just joined. I suspect he was never a good fit. This evening we took the ferry to Sicily. The crossing was a bit rough and Tom turned green but only Harriet was actually sick. We are in Pozzalo now and pick up our car tomorrow.
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Drive to Madrid
Nothing compares to driving in Naples, but driving out of medieval hotel carparks is also a truly ghastly experience. Our Renault was wedged between the forest of concrete posts holding up the building - shunting through all of that was the first challenge. Then there was the steep, curved ramp up to the electric gate with a hard left turn at the top to a lane so narrow both mirrors are almost scraping on the walls. That final bend was the worst, with me trying to do a hill start on the ramp, burning the clutch and stalling the stupid diesel engine with the wheel on full lock. I had the hotel lady yelling to turn from from the front, while the cleaning lady was behind trying not to get run over when I rolled back with Anne yelling instructions from the side. In the end I gave up trying to guess where the car corners were and just trusted what the locals said, waiting for the grind of aluminium on sandstone. The town streets were a relief after that, even the arch through the town wall which I think was designed for two horses to pass rather than a 5 door hatchback. The freeways to Madrid were mostly empty and easy driving, but the ring roads taking us to the airport were increasingly congested and difficult with entry and exit ramps almost continuous for the last 20 minutes. It was a great relief to finally hand the car back, especially without a single scratch. After all this adrenaline and no stops since lunch time, when the taxi dropped us in Madrid we were glad to collapse into a Burger King and wolf down an enormous meal. Culture could wait.
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Ciudad Rodrigo. Even the post office is a medieval tourist attraction with painted tiles showing hunting scenes, carved wooden staircases and huge doors. There are signs telling tourists to stay out of the way of genuine customers.
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A verraco in Ciudad Rodrigo. Made by the Vettones in about 400 BC.
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Ciudad Rodrigo
For such a small and relatively poor country, Portugal has enormous and extensive new freeways. This may be where all the money went. We had three to choose from to get us to Madrid, and they all took about the same time. We chose the same route as Wellington when he drove out Napoleon, crossing the mountains at Guarda and staying the night at Ciudad Rodrigo in Spain. We really just picked this town with a pin in the map, but it turned out to be a great place. It is a beautiful walled town on the Salamanca plains of western Spain. Inside it is densely packed with beautiful 16th century sandstone houses and churches. No one in the town spoke English and we felt really off the beaten track. There are old bull fighting photos everywhere and until recently they held bullfights in the town square. They still have a bull run through the town each year and a big bull festival. Jamon (hamon - Spanish ham) is a big deal in Ciudad Rodrigo, as elsewhere in Spain, with a variety of dry cured ham legs hung from the ceiling in every cafe and bar. But here they took it to another level - the beer taps at the bars were molded into huge upside down polished brass pig legs, with the trotter pointing up in the air above the barman's head. Before the Romans arrived a Celtic tribe, the Vettones, lived around the town. They were finally suppressed by Julius Caesar. They carved big stone animals all over the place, including bears and pigs. There was one in the town you could climb on. It gave the place a distinctly Asterix feel. The locals still unofficially use Celtic names for things.
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Porto
For Tom, Sunday the 17th of January was to be the highlight of the trip, perhaps even the purpose of the trip. Sunday was the day we would go to the FC Porto football stadium, see the FC Porto shop and visit the FC Porto Museum. In the evening we would see FC Porto play.
It was freezing cold and drizzling and a 30 minute walk to the stadium. The stadium was new, gleaming and huge and had an enormous club shop underneath. They sold just about anything you like with FC Porto on it and Tom carefully considered how he would spend his money. The museum was extensive and designed to exhaust the interest of even the most passionate FC Porto supporter.
FC Porto were playing away, in the neighboring city of Guimarães, about 60 km away. The game was at 8:30 and our car was locked in the carpark. We decided to take the train, which would involve at 1.5 km walk to the stadium at the other end. The last train back was 30 minutes from the final whistle, so it was going to be tight, and we would return at midnight.
It was freezing when we left for the Sao Bento train station, which was a beautiful Art Deco sight in itself with spectacular medieval scenes in blue and white painted tiles on the walls and roof. We grabbed our tickets and hopped on the train, a bit concerned it would be packed with blue and white chanting FC Porto supporters. Instead it was there were only a few tired people going home. Tom’s new scarf was showing and an old bloke came up and started yabbering enthusiastically in Portuguese at us all, pointing at Tom and saying “FC Porto!”. We made it quite clear we did not understand him, so he spoke his Portuguese slower, with an English accent. He showed us his members card for Vitória de Guimarães.
Guimaraães was even colder that Porto, only 6 degrees, and raining. We ran to the stadium and found a huge crowd lining up to get in. The tickets were being sold from two tiny windows, and they only took cash. Tom was freaking out at this point. I found a policeman to help find an ATM then ran down the street. The first ATM gave me no cash, nor did the second, nor did the third. I realised I must have exhausted the card, so I reduced the withdrawal to the bare minimum and got the cash, ran back to the stadium and bought the tickets. It was getting very close to the start of the game, so we ran to the opposite corner of the stadium, found our gate and got in minutes before the opening whistle.
On the concourse the sound was deafening. We quickly climbed to our seats and could see the whole stadium which was filled with roaring and chanting fans. Three quarters of the stadium were Guimarães supporters in black and white. A huge Guimarães crowd at the opposite end of the pitch was waving enormous flags and singing in unison. Below us were the FC Porto Dragons making even more noise. Blue and white flares were let off, then some sort of percussion grenade. A megaphone was leading the chants and a huge drum was keeping everyone in time. This was before the game started.
Porto conceded a goal in the first five minutes when Casillas feebly patted the ball to a Guimarães striker. Aboubakar was disappointing and got an early yellow for a clumsy handball. Brahimi was impressive on the left wing but the surprise for me was Jesus Corona who was tricky and aggressive. Tom was gripped. Once things were underway, I went to find food, which 10 minutes into the game was sold out. The nice lady at the stall still had bread rolls for the hot dogs and gave me four for 2 euros. Our cheapest dinner of the trip.
Porto never recovered and we had few regrets about leaving 5 minutes early. A couple of evictions and a line of riot police near the exit, as well as the possibility of a 200 euro taxi ride home, also helped motivate us to the train station. We jogged most of the way and got there with 15 minutes to spare. A couple of other supporters joined us, the last one only 5 seconds before the door shut. Harriet, Anne and Tom read their novels on their iPads while I had my book. And then it was a cold, dark walk at midnight in the deserted wet streets of Porto back to our hotel.
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The farm house we stayed in at Tomar had a turret and some very aristocratic Portuguese owners.
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Tomar
On Saturday morning we lit the fire and had a slow morning. Tom and Harriet kicked the football on the lawn. Tom stepped in the swimming pool for some reason and spent the rest of the day with a wet sock and jeans leg. We had breakfast at a cafe in Tomar at tables in the street. Portuguese cafes are fantastic. They appear very modest and a bit crummy on the outside but inside they serve a better range of cakes and pastries than a French patisserie. The coffee is also better than Spain or France (but not as good as Italy). What's more, the food is fabulously cheap - cakes, coffee and juice to fill everyone up for 7 euros. We were in Tomar for the Templars castle, which is built on top of a hill in the middle of the town. It was built in the 12th century and owned by the Templars for 200 years before they were dissolved and it became a Portuguese castle and monastery. The original Templar castle is still there, including the walls and keep and other military things I can never remember the name of. Inside, the monastery is mostly from the 15th century and is a huge complex that reminded me of The Name of the Rose. There is a huge refectory, rows and rows of doors to monks' cells, cloisters, an aqueduct and I am sure secret passages. At the centre of it all is the church. The original Romanesque church was built by the Templars and is round, based on the Dome of the Rock. This was extended later to create a nave and has the most extraordinary stone carving. We had a two and a half hour drive to Porto and we arrived in the evening in peak hour traffic. It was pretty awful, but when you drive in countries with such creative drivers they can be very forgiving of unexpected manoeuvres. Porto was great. It had a boom at the turn of the twentieth century and the city centre is filled with Art Deco apartments and businesses. Outside and inside walls are covered with hand painted tiles. Doorways and sills and stairs are all carved out of granite slabs. But probably because of the (unspoken) dictatorship that started in the 1920s the city missed out on much of the 20th century and it has all been left intact. But the city is hip, full of young people and with lots of edgy stores and apartments. We had a very nice dinner in a fancy restaurant and collapsed into bed.
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5000 year old standing stones in Evora. Real life Druids were out of the shot, just to the right.
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