Scenes of Portugal
1.
It is sunset at the bell tower. Nearby, empty backstreets are lined with laundry hung across rope and wood structures, strung from balconies and across the front of terraces. Plants line windows, balconies, and the narrow laneways around the castle.
A cawh-cawh sounds as a peacock glides overhead, half flying, half jumping from rooftop to rooftop. It is followed by another, then another, then another; wings of blue and green are outstretched above the narrow gap. Further along the streets, children pour out of school, each with an apple in hand. They skip along, merrily, as they retell their day to the respective adult following slowly along behind them.
The magic hour hits and the golden glow of the sun illuminates the walls of Lisbon. Rows and rows of red rooftops roll out, their colour deepening in the blazing light. The walls of a church and pantheon in the distance are resplendent as the dying day – not going without one last showstopper of a fight – gives new life to the ivory stone.
Great swathes of amber light brush over the city. Soon, the sky is tinged with purple, as evening arrives.
2.
The blue churches are dotted across the hill that forms Porto; coloured not with paint, but with tiles. The white ceramic squares have layers of intricate patterns and scenes – of history, of nature, of worship, and of Baroque flourishes – all told in blue lines. Like compass points, these blue churches seem to encircle the central city, orientating guests.
The white and blue of the church walls flows onto the city’s streets. Council buildings, cars, and scaffolding are decorated with a singular repeated pattern. Blue on white, white on blue; the colour scheme emblematic of a city built high on the banks of a river – white walls, blue river, so on the pattern flows up through the hills and across the city.
3.
Underfoot, lie tiles, intricate decorations upon which to walk. Small square stones in ivory and charcoal tones.
Underfoot, lie tiles of patience and precision. Patterned and plain, they pour out over the city, across streets, avenues, winding up and down hills. The swirls and curves belie the labour involved. The sheer amount of tiles hides the expanse of time taken to place and pave them, individually, collectively.
Underfoot, lies beauty so commonplace it is scarcely witnessed. The beauty is ingrained in daily life.
4.
The backstreets of Porto, tucked behind the cellars of port, are quiet and residential. In one, a dog lounges in the sun, long limbs outstretched in a regal fashion. Rooftops are filled with gardens of succulents and cacti. On sides of steps, pots are filled with green foliage; rich and luscious emerald tones, depths of life emboldened by the warmth of the Portuguese winter sun.
A radio hums through an open window. A lace curtain dances in the gentle breeze. Rust forms and paint peels and tiles fall from walls. Quilt-like patterns form as mismatched tiles replace those that are lost. The charm is in the details; the repetition of patterns attracts and awes, yet it is the imperfections that truly appeal.
5.
The mid-winter sun is warm and vibrant. The days are longer this far south and the skies are a radiant blue, with only faint wisps and hints of cloud. In Foz do Duoro, layers of clothes – first scarves, then coats, then jumpers – are peeled off as a walk along the coastline is enjoyed.
Buildings appear occasionally along the footpath. Now abandoned, their futuristic curves and retro tiles are seemingly out of place against the beauty of the beaches; the soft sand and rugged, jutting rocks.
A single snorkeler bobs in the shallows, surfacing occasionally to orientate themselves.
6.
The Palace of Pena, perched high in the hills of Sintra, is striking. Yellow walls on a bold grey base, meet a red tower. Purple and white tiles cover the middle walls, seemingly for the sake of it. Crenelated parapets, turrets, and drawbridges are dotted throughout the building. Giant Monstera plants climb across the walls as if they’ve always been there; as if the plant life is as much a part of the structure as the foundations.
Inside, the palace is made up of an array of interlocking rooms, each one decorated differently to the next. Elaborate services cover the length of tables, chandeliers loom large, and antlers of stags line an octagonal room. A courtyard is covered entirely in ceramic tiles. The rooms are detailed, some with intricacy, some with boldness.
The hill upon which the palace stands is covered with towering trees. Beyond them spread the hills of Sintra itself. The town and the view is dotted with the palaces of millionaires and castles old and new. Nature and architecture fight for supremacy.
7.
A pastry a day is the goal. Each pastel de Nata is different – some so soft and flaky that hours later a fleck of pastry can still be found, snug in the folds of a scarf. For some, the custard is so silky and smooth it seems to ooze outwards from the pastry confines.
The best, by far, is the original. In Belém stands a patisserie – large, with big open rooms, tiled in blue and white. It stands next to the monastery which first created the pasteis de Belém, the blessed combination of pastry and custard.
One plate is ordered and swiftly demolished and, without a moment’s hesitation, another plate is asked for. When on holiday…
"There are eight million stories in the naked city. This has been one of them."
- The Naked City, 1948
All photos taken on 35mm film