We didn’t exactly rush out of Porto. The van stayed put until the sun had properly climbed, and even then we were in no hurry. Breakfast was just coffee and a couple of leftover pastries Mary had tucked into a paper bag the night before. The kind of start that happens when you know there’s no long drive ahead.
We left the city by the riverside road, taking our time. The Douro looked like glass in the morning light, with only the occasional ripple from a passing boat. Terraces of vines stepped down the hillsides in straight lines and strange curves, patched with olive trees and the odd fig. We pulled over a few times just to take it in.
In Peso da Régua we parked by the water and wandered along the quay. A couple of river cruisers were boarding passengers, the crew moving with the sort of calm efficiency you only get from doing the same job every day. We sat on a bench and watched for a while, letting the sun get a little too warm before we moved on.
Lunch was in a café that looked like nothing special from the outside but served grilled pork that tasted far better than it had any right to. Mary ordered a salad and spent most of it picking at my plate. The owner topped up our glasses of vinho tinto without being asked.
The road east ran tighter to the river now, curling in and out of small villages. Sometimes we caught the smell of fermenting grapes, other times just warm stone and dust. It was the kind of drive where the speedometer barely moves and no one cares.
We found a pull-in just past Pinhão, the view stretching for miles over vineyards and red-tiled roofs. We stayed longer than we planned, leaning against the van, not saying much.
By late afternoon we’d decided not to push on too far. A small campsite near the river gave us a pitch under a line of eucalyptus trees. The air shifted between their sharp scent and the smell of someone barbecuing sardines two pitches away.
The evening was quiet. A short walk, a glass of port because it felt like the right thing to do, and an early night. Tomorrow would mean leaving the river and heading back into Spain.
If you missed the night before, that’s A Night in Porto: Dust, Fado, and a Very Small Dog.
Next, we hit the border and find unexpected company: The Road to Cáceres and the Stray Dog That Chose Us.
