We stayed in Porto after the sun went down. No rush to get back to the van. The air had cooled but the pavements were still warm, and the light over the Douro turned from gold to something softer. Mary said we’d regret it if we didn’t see the city at night, and she was right.
Down by the river the restaurants had filled. A busker with a battered accordion worked the tables; no one seemed to mind paying for a song. We found a spot outside a small place that looked more interested in feeding locals than catching tourists. The table was a bit wobbly, but the view of the Dom Luís I bridge lit up in the dark made up for it.
Dinner was simple: caldo verde to start, then grilled dourada with potatoes so soft they didn’t need cutting. The vinho verde kept coming without ceremony. Behind us a couple were speaking French, debating whether to go up to the Sé or stay put. They stayed put. I understood.
Afterwards we wandered up a narrow side street where a doorway framed a singer and two guitarists. A Fado set. Dust hung in the light from the bar, and the music reached past the chatter outside. Mary leaned on the wall and didn’t speak until they finished. We left a few coins and kept walking, not saying much.
Further along, near a quieter square, we met the dog. Small, scruffy, the colour of toast. No collar. It trotted alongside us like it had somewhere to be and we were invited. At one point it darted into a shop and came out with a biscuit in its mouth. The shopkeeper waved as if this happened every night.
We let the dog lead us back to the river, past the bars that were just waking up for the night shift. Somewhere behind us a tram clattered over the bridge. The river was black now, broken only by the lights from the opposite bank.
By the time we reached the van it was late enough that the streets had thinned out. The dog had vanished as suddenly as it had appeared. We sat for a while with the doors open, just listening to the city settle into its rhythm.
If you want the start of the day, that’s here: Porto: A Grand Arrival.
And the next morning? That’s The Post-Porto Pause: Douro Dreams & Late Morning Starts.
