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Europe > Portugal > Lisbon > Lisbon > Articles > Portugal

Portugal

by Tim Elliott

There is something endearingly glory-boxish about this city — a European capital, after all — where all the buildings look like wedding cakes and no structure is over five storeys high

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Before we get onto the part about the Lisbon death drive, or the bit about Roger Moore in the Palace of the Seven Sighs, or the suspicious gypsies, or even the part about the codfish, I have to tell you that this is just a travel story.

It all began some 33,000 feet up, on a flight to India, when I fell fleetingly in love with a Portuguese goddess called Claudia. Claudia (pronounced Cloud-ia), was an immigration officer in Lisbon. To this day she is the only woman I’ve ever met who could make the Portugal Tourism and Visitation Act 1987 Part IV (Sec. 2) sound sexy.

Anyway, it was Claudia who turned me onto Portugal. With her livid Latin lips and dancing hands, she evoked her mysterious and little known land, talking at length of the misty, sylvan hills, of the forests and fishing villages, and of Gothic manses where one could sip warm port while reclining on rugs made from the fur of long extinct species of big cat. In short, I was sold.

Two years later I found myself in Portugal, determined to discover if the country Claudia had described truly existed, or if it was the result of one too many Glenfiddichs at altitude.

Naturally, Lisbon was first port of call. It was here that I first realised that Portugal was, indeed, a country unlike any other: fiery yet unassuming, romantic yet understated. This, I hypothesized, was due to its troubled history. Since time immemorial Portugal has been the foyer of Europe, trudged through by every conquering tribe imaginable — Celts, Phoenicians, Greeks, Romans, Visigoths, Spanish, and French — all of whom came, saw, conquered, and left their rubbish behind. Despite the Portuguese getting their act together for a brief period in the 1400s — when they became a world power with colonies in South America, Africa, and Asia — the wheels soon fell off, and the country resumed its slide into oblivion. A few hundred fairly forgettable years ensued, culminating in the demise in 1968 of dictator Antonio de Oliveira Salazar, who was the first and possibly only world leader to die by falling off his chair.

This was last straw for many Portuguese, who began emigrating in droves, an exodus that continued until recently. (Portugal’s population is 10 million, but an extra three million live overseas.)

Things are improving now: employment is up, inflation is down, heads of government stay safely seated, and many Portuguese are now returning. And why not? Lisbon, the capital, has to be one of the most underrated cities in Europe. I was instantly wooed by the cloistered ambience of the place; the steep hills, the twisting lanes, the grand plazas, the statues of old guys in frilly shirts riding horses with testicles the size of footballs. There was something endearingly glory-boxish about this city — a European capital, after all — where all the buildings look like wedding cakes and no structure is over five storeys high.

One of the best places from which to view Lisbon is the Castelo de São Jorge, a rambling Dark Ages castle perched high above the city like the Tower of Mordor. An impressive piece of Visigoth architecture in itself, the castelo affords unbeatable views of Lisbon’s historic heart, and I spent several hours peering down from the ramparts and into the warren of streets below. I could see everything from here: the trams, the cafes, the boats in the harbour, pretty girls riding bicycles, enterprising young Moroccans peddling hashish to backpackers. I had the sense that all over the city people were doing deliciously old-world things like playing the accordion or kissing against lamp posts.

Another quaint European habit people have here is to drive like idiots. This is made worse by the fact that most of Lisbon’s streets are cobbled. When it rains a slick of water builds up between the cobbles, so that vehicles actually start to aquaplane. I didn’t so much drive as sail my car around Lisbon, with only the most tenuous connection between my wheels and the road. And while drifting into oncoming traffic can be invigorating—not to mention eliciting some colourful language from the locals—as with most activities involving death I found the attraction wore off fairly quickly.

So I left, motoring west to Sintra, just 30 minutes’ from Lisbon. Set on a low hill within view of the coast, Sintra has long been a magnet for Portuguese royalty and English nobility (apparently Lord Byron loved the place), who come for the fine views, the lush forests and the opportunity to go on a dirty weekend at the staggeringly opulent Hotel Palácio de Seteais.

The hotel, whose name translates as the “Palace of Seven Sighs”, was built in the late 1700s by the then Dutch Consul, obviously a man with impeccable taste and scant regard for budgets. A neoclassical masterpiece, the residence has been converted into a five star hotel with 30 deluxe suites, all of which are decorated in period fittings.

Strolling into the lobby, I was greeted by the concierge, an effete looking chap called Pedro. Pedro was wearing a marone three piece suit and a pencil moustache. We got talking about the hotel. “Lots of famous people stay here,” Pedro said. Film stars, minor royalty. “It’s one of Roger Moore’s favourite hotels,” he added, nodding soberly.

“Really,” I said. “How often does he come here?” “Quite often,” Pedro said.
“When, usually?”
“It depends. When he has time to take holidays.”
“Would he be here now?”
“No. Senhor Moore is not here now.”
“When is he coming next, do you think?”

I would have pressed on but something about Pedro’s expression made it clear that if I asked one more question about Roger Moore he’d have security give me a complementary face massage, no doubt the only service I could afford at the Hotel Palácio de Seteais.

Significantly less extravagant but no less impressive is the Convento dos Capuchos, a nearby hermitage built by Franciscan monks in the 16th century. The Franciscans must have been a tough bunch, eking out a living here in a series of tiny stone cells dug deep into the rock and surrounded by thick, mist-soaked forest. Spartan and medieval, the convento does, however, have a certain charm. All the doors and windows are lined with cork, and everything—walls, doors, crucifixes—is matted with a spongy emerald moss as soft as velvet. Walking here was surreal, with all the sounds muffled and muted, as though I were padding along the bottom of a still green ocean.

From Sintra I headed north, half a day’s drive to “castle country”, that rugged, remote region near Covilhá, in the Serra de Estrela, the country’s highest mountain range. Here I discovered the fortified hilltop hamlets of Monsanto, Penha Garcia and Penamacor, entire villages constructed of stone, and full of gypsies with broken noses who stared at me warily, as if I’d driven my fancy car all the way from Australia with the sole intention of abducting their grandchildren.

But perhaps the freakiest thing about these villages is the streets, or lack of them. Some “thoroughfares” here can be just two feet wide, and even the broadest alleys were only just driveable. I was constantly awestruck by the ability of both locals and visitors to negotiate the steep, serpentine streets without smashing all the side mirrors off their cars. Don’t get me wrong, the sense of history here is great, but you simply don’t see those kinds of driving skills where I come from.

The food is also something to behold. It’s said that the Portuguese have developed some 14,000 ways of cooking codfish, most of which you will end up trying before you leave. The emphasis here is on heartiness: there’s lots of cod and potatoes, cod and onion, cod and cheese … and of course, plenty of crusty bread and red wine, with port to finish. It’s soul food, essentially: fulsome, belly-warming fare that has been cooked the same way for centuries. Sitting in a road side tavern in Covilhã, I noted to myself that there is perhaps no finer thing than eating a hot plate of bacalhau a braz (a baked dish of shredded cod with potatoes and onion), in a Portuguese pub while outside a stiff mountain wind whips the windowpanes.

Much of life in Portugal has revolved around the sea. The fado—a nostalgic, uniquely Portuguese form of crooning—is said to have derived from the laments of 16th century sailors. So to truly tap into the country’s soul—to hack into the cultural mainframe, so to speak—I headed west, tooling up and over the Serra de Estrela, through dark forests clogged with cloud and mist, to the ancient coastal settlement of Nazaré.

Founded in the 1600s, Nazaré is compact, picturesque, and almost too cute for its own sake, boarded by cliffs on one side and the Atlantic on the other. The archetypal “white town” of Portugal, it does see its fair share of visitors. And yet it seems to have remained remarkably unspoilt. It was late afternoon by the time I arrived, and as I strolled the beach front boulevard, past the outdoor cafes and bars, I was struck by how unaffected it still appeared. Ancient mariners with crinkle-cut faces stood staring at the sea, mending their nets and smoking. A troika of garrulous gypsies sat on the seawall opposite, gesticulating wildly. On the beach a boy played with a kite made of newspaper and fishing line.

Onto my third beer now, my synapses soused by the hops and the sunshine, I began to daydream about moving here. Finally, I thought, I’ve found the very quintessence of Portugal! The sea. The fishermen. The beer. The sea. The beer. Besides, I’d fit right in here: I used to love fishing as a kid.

Then I realised that this is exactly what the Romans thought. And the Visigoths. And the Spanish, and the French. They all got here, liked what they saw, and thought they might just move in. But it takes more than a couple of armies and some cultural chauvinism to win over the Portuguese. These guys march to their own drum. That’s what’s so brilliant about them.

No, to really understand the Portuguese you need time, patience, guile. This could take months, I reflected with satisfaction. So I settled back, squinted at the sunset, and ordered another beer…