Palaces and Churches
This blog is running a few days behind.
It seems that no trip, not even a mini-trip, is complete without
a) an episode of food poisoning,
b) a near-death experience.
Mine came when I was nearly razed to the ground by a little red van with flashing blue lights that bounced off the kerb inches away from me after taking a corner too fast. Before I could collect myself, it had disappeared down the Praça de Lisboa.
When I woke up this morning, towering spires and imposing azulejo walls were still dancing before my eyes. There is more to Porto than Port; the whole of the city centre is a World Heritage Site.
I’m not done sightseeing yet; it is a georgeous day for a short trip. Whereto is less certain. It’s a toss between Villa Real in the wine-growing regions of the Douro, Guimarâes – Portugal’s first capital or Braga – Portugal’s religious centre. Convenience wins out and I hopped onto the first train which happened to go to Braga. A modern commuter train that runs on time (they all do here) took me 27 stops for 3�50—return! That is almost exactly 1/10 of the fare for an equidistant round trip from London to Reading. It is enough to make me want to emigrate (the sun, the food, friendly people and georgeous scenery all help, too) but I find the language impossible. To me, it sounds almost Russian.
As I strolled in the morning sun towards the centre of Braga, the call for Sunday mass went out. The rambling cathedral of Sé has the most impressive chimes I have ever heard. For over 15 minutes, a symphony of bells rang out. During a brief pause, I half expected the people in the churchyard to break into applause, but they simply filed inside.
I suddenly remembered what had drawn me to Braga in the first place. Leafing through the guide I had seen photographs of the pilgrimage church of Bom Jesus which lies 6km to the west of the city. Its baroque staircase is one of the most enduring images of Portugal. I had to see it.
So I jumped onto a bus and dragged my weary legs up 587 stone steps, pausing occassionally by the cooling fountains built into each of the landings. The church itself is beautiful but oppressive; the scent of frankincense brings back memories of the convent, so after a short while I turned and walked back down through a forest of statues around the central staircase.
Tags: Portugal, Tag Index
Denni