NG2NZ 13. Gypsy ghetto

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2 & 3-Jan-25 Perpignan, France

Depart freezing cold Zaragoza. Journey to Perpignan is 3hrs 10mins. Via Barcelona. Soon in France seeing the sun set over the Pyrenees.

Arrive Perpignan 1800hrs. Dark. Walk through station to taxi rank. Plenty of dodgy looking characters about. Plenty of police about. And that’s just the station.

Soon check in to the Dali Hotel (www.dalihotel.fr). So called because Dali painted a huge oil painting called ‘La Gare de Perpignan’ in 1965 showing Perpignan as the centre of the universe. Yeah. Right.

Have decided on a two night stop in Perpignan to break up the rail journey to Lyon. A cursory glance at Google photos showed what appeared to be a nice town. So much so that I have a full day here tomorrow.

Ho. Ho. Ho.

Somewhat warmer now. Thankfully. About 15C warmer than Zaragoza a few hours earlier. Positively tropical. And the first time I’ve felt warm in over three weeks.

Hotel is located on the edge of the old town. On what might best be described as the ring road around it. In what seems to be a nice area. Judging by the quality of housing and cars parked up.

Find on t’internet what appears to be a decent restaurant about 600m from hotel in the old town. With good reviews.

Having sat on a train for a few hours need a leg stretch. Warm too. At last.

Google Maps plots my walking route. Up a cascade of ornate stone stairs to another level. Then through some residential area towards the inner part of the old town.

Off I trot.

The ornate stone stairs give the appearance of heading somewhere nice. But. After a block. I feel the vibe change. Have a weird feeling. At the next block find myself in a very run down half derelict neighbourhood. Have only walked about 250m from hotel. And my surroundings have changed substantially.

Graffiti on the walls. Debris in the road. Like bricks and stones. As though there’s just been a riot.

Rubbish strewn about.  Communal large waste bins overflowing and overturned. As though there’s just been a riot.

My spidey senses have kicked in. This is not good. There’s a really bad vibe. Within a block the whole atmosphere has drastically changed. I have a really weird feeling.

Google Maps directs me down a road. But. Can hear a gang of men up ahead. Talking on the street.

Hmmm. Something tells me I need to avoid them. So box around. Pass by what appears to be derelict buildings. Until you hear people and TVs inside. Peer through a cracked window in one half derelict building with graffiti on the outside to see a group of people sitting on grubby plastic chairs in a bare room devoid of all furnishings under a single light bulb. Like a prison cell. The internal walls are grubby. The people are grubby.

Simply squalid.

This feels bad.

Find said restaurant. But see the clientele. And decide the tall white won’t fit in.

Carry on further into the centre of the old town.

Conscious now that it’s a bit more shops and restaurants so must be near the centre.

Conscious too that there are lots of single men milling about. Those of fighting age. And not born in France by the looks of it. If you get my drift.

Conscious there’s lots of lads on bicycles scooting around. And not delivery boys.

There’s a feeling of being observed. Imagining the cyclists could be reporting back to their seniors that there’s a tourist ripe for being snatched.

I have a really bad feeling.

It’s not often with my 6’5” heavyweight frame that I feel intimidated.

Tonight. I am.

Very.

So much so that I find a market square with some open bars for a bit of safety.

Decide my best course of action is to return to hotel. Book an Uber. And wait at the pick up point. Outside an open restaurant which is empty.

Like Zaragoza a few hours earlier. I can track the car’s progress to my pick up point.

Like Zaragoza a few hours earlier. The driver can’t reach the pick up point for some inexplicable reason. Other cars are driving along the road though so cars obviously allowed. After 15minutes of mucking about driver is cancelled. Seriously fed up with these Uber drivers.

Now getting late. And feeling hungry. The restaurant I’m standing outside of has some punters now and looking inviting. It’s a Korean BBQ restaurant. My table awaits.

Sit down. And order.

Whilst waiting for the first beer to arrive.

A sight I have never seen before in Europe. Only in Beirut.

A squad of about ten armed soldiers in full combat gear, helmets and automatic rifles at the ready walk past the restaurant in two columns. Down the middle of the road.

On patrol.

And that, dear reader, tells you everything you need to know about what I’ve just walked through!

Perpignan redeems itself slightly with a splendid cook it yourself Korean meal of marinated beef, salad, kimchi and decent wine.

Decide it’s not safe to walk back. Second attempt at an Uber. Which can find its way to the pick up point. He’s French. And local though.

Discover the neighbourhood I’ve walked through is a gypsy ghetto. One of Europe’s largest it turns out. About 5,000 live there.

Plus the addition of some Middle Eastern characters. By the looks of it. To really add to the mix.

Have a full day sightseeing in Perpignan. You can imagine my hesitancy after last night’s escapade. Skirt around the gypsy ghetto to reach the main part of the old town.

Adjacent the ghetto is Hotel Pams. A palatial mansion built in the 1850s for the owners of a cigarette paper company. The contrast between its interior and the squalid conditions a few blocks away is startling. Fashioned in art nouveau style the rooms are opulent and stylish. Unlike the derelict squalor nearby.

The main part of the old town is actually quite French and charming. But there’s an obvious police presence. Everywhere.

The waiters last night recommend I go for a coffee at the rooftop café on top of the Galeria Lafayette store. Amazing views across the town and the snow capped Pyrenees in the distance.

Not since Bridlington 1977 do I think I have been on a ride on a tourist train. You know the sort. Not a train. But looks like a train. As it’s driven on the road. Perpignan has one. Thinking this would be a good idea to see a lot of Perpignan over the hour’s ride.

You know how small those tourist trains are?

You know how big I am, dear reader!

Yeah.

Tight squeeze.

Sensing my discomfort. Train driver sets aside a whole compartment for me. No space to share with other punters you see.

As part of some local agreement, the gypsies have allowed the road train to drive through their ghetto on the proviso tourists don’t take photos. Or video. See photos below.

After an hour crammed in the tourist train. Need physio. Cripes. I ache. The train starts/stops outside the old gate tower to the town. Which has great views across the roof tops and the Pyrenees. But unlike Galeria Lafayette has no lift to the top. Only a small stone staircase.

Huff. And Puff. Up I go. Just for you, dear reader. But worthwhile for the views.

Heading back to the hotel decide I’ll venture into the gypsy ghetto again to take some photos. As soon as I walk down the streets the atmosphere again changes.

It really is a weird feeling.

Needless to say. Dinner is in the hotel.

Nice and safe.

I shall not be returning to Perpignan.

NG2NZ 12. Mohammed is cancelled

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1 & 2-Jan-25 Zaragoza, Spain

Midnight. A new year begins. Now 2025. Fireworks start. At home they last 10 or 15 minutes at most. Seville’s go on for an hour and a half! So much for trying to get to sleep. Unbelievable how long they go on for. And it’s not just the odd firework here and there. No. More a continuous cacophony of whizz. And bang.

Glad I chose a hotel near the railway station. Distinct shortage of taxis. So can walk to catch the train. In the freezing cold. Have I mentioned before how sodding cold it is? Town is eerily quiet. Long queue to get on to the platform. It being a high tech high speed train there’s security checks with tickets being scanned to get to the platform concourse before all luggage is X-rayed on the platform. Then a second ticket check before boarding. Bit of a faff.

Bright blue sky all the way to Madrid. Via Cordoba. Arrive 10 minutes early. Two and a half hour rail journey at 300km/hr. That’s how you do it. Ninety minute layover in Madrid railway station and enjoy the RENFE (national railway) First Class Lounge. Less railway lounge and more like an airport first class lounge. Very swanky. And comfy. And free food and drinks.

Further security checks and luggage X-ray to board the next high speed train to Zaragoza. Blue sky gives way to fog. And freezing temperatures.

Have always wanted to visit Zaragoza since meeting a couple on holiday in Majorca in the 1980s. He Spanish. Who owned a paper mill in Zaragoza. She English. Who looked like Dinah Sheridan.

Like Seville. Zaragoza is eerily quiet. Slightly spooky. Especially with the fog. And darkness descending. Nice to arrive at the Melia INNSide Zaragoza (www.melia.com/en/hotels/spain/zaragoza/innside-zaragoza) for an overnight halt.

But.

Yet another hotel room where the heating doesn’t sodding work. Told it will take time to warm up. But after an hour of sitting in a cold draft engineer investigates. Who agrees with me that the heating doesn’t work. And so moved to a new nice and toasty room. And an upgrade. Little wins Godber. Little wins.

Afternoon departure the following day for train to Perpignan allows for a wander around Zaragoza in the morning. In sub-zero temperatures. Jeez. Thought Spain was meant to be warm. Hence why I’ve only got summer clothing. Which I have been regretting the past few weeks.

Zaragoza busy and back to normal now the holidays are over. Cunning plan is to walk for a bit then pop into a department store to warm up. Because they’ll have heat won’t they. Well. No. Actually. What is it with these Spanish. El Corte Ingles one of Spain’s largest department store chains is freezing cold. Everywhere is cold!

Zaragoza was initially a Roman city called Ceasar Augusta. Its Roman Forum is preserved in a subterranean museum. Which is warm! Finally! One of the original drainage tunnels remains intact. Over 2,000 years of history right there in front of me. Pretty impressive.

Across the square is the Cathedral. Which is spectacular inside and very ornate. Spires soar to the sky. Towering over the remnants of a Christmas market.

Time to travel by train to Perpignan. But first. Taxi to the station on the outskirts of the city. When arriving, taxi had to drop me off on a side road some metres away from hotel entrance and had to walk final stretch because the main road in front of hotel was being dug up. So book an Uber taxi to pick up from the end of the same side road. An amount of time is built into my schedule to get to the station to allow for traffic, accidents and delayed pick up.Cos that’s how I roll. With good reason. Experience, dear reader.

Using Uber I can track taxi’s location live on my mobile phone. Here it comes. Down the main road. See it pause just before the junction. It will then turn right into my side road and drive to the very end to pick me up. Won’t it. Well. No. Actually. I see the car pause slightly as it drives past the end of my side road. As if looking to see if this is the correct side road. Before driving off down the main road. And my Uber tracker updates the route the taxi now needs to take to reach my pick up point. Having already missed it. Estimated time now 15minutes. Bugger. Going to be tight for time now. Can see the taxi being routed around what I assume to be a one way system. And watch as the little car icon moves very slowly.

Sod this. Instead of standing here like a lemon in the freezing cold. I’ll walk down to a junction the driver will have to go past to make his way to my original pick up point. A good few hundred metres away.

Off I toddle.

By now am in direct contact with driver by WhatsApp message. We’ll call him Mohammed. And tell him I have moved to new position here. So just turn right at the junction you are now approaching. I say. As that route is what’s showing on my tracker he should be taking.

But.

Instead.

He continues straight on at said junction another hundred metres or so away. Into another one way system.

I may have uttered some words along the lines of “Oh you flipping idiot!!” a bit too loudly. As I stood on the pavement. In the freezing cold. Fed up dealing with muppets.

And my tracker updates again. To see his route to get to me now is 15minutes.

Sod that.

See a normal city taxi driving towards me. With its John Inman ‘I’m free’ light on. A tall Touring Taurean steps out into the road to flag it down. This taxi’s mine! Mohammed is cancelled. After a lot of faff arrive at station in the nick of time.

To discover train is delayed.

NG2NZ 11. Extra leg room seats

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30 & 31-Dec-24 Seville, Spain

Faro hotel has rooftop restaurant. Perfect way to start the day having a brew admiring the view. Before a bus journey to Seville. There are only three rail crossings between Portugal and Spain. And none this far south. A bus it has to be. Am assured by the website that the bus has extra leg room seats. Therefore book that particular bus company. Which also allows you to buy adjacent seat to keep vacant for more space for a discounted price. No brainer.

Bus station is across the road from the hotel. Quick amble in time for the 1045hrs departure. Bus station is small but its grubby nature reminds me of Nottingham’s Victoria Bus Station in the 1970s and 80s. Diesel fumes and exhaust dust on the walls.

Bus originated in Lisbon early this morning. So already pretty full. Sit in allocated seat. Extra leg room seats my a**e. There’s bugger all room. Cannot physically fit. Two girls sitting in front had reclined their seats but are asked to sit up. Which they do. Jeez. Cramped. Sit skew-whiff as bus rolls out of Faro.

Not sitting like this for two and a half hours. No.

Beady eye spots that the middle seat of the back row is free. People sit either end of back row next to window. Middle three seats free. Make the move. Plonk myself in the middle seat. With acres of leg room down the aisle. That’s more like it. Actually quite comfortable now.

Bus advertised a pit stop at the border but this comes and goes as we motor all along to Seville non-stop. A few hours of fluid management needed. Knowing that the onboard toilet will be both disgusting and too small for my massive frame.

Bus arrives a lot earlier than expected so just over two hours driving. Not too bad.

Spent considerable time researching hotels in Seville. Decided that one within walking distance of railway station would be wise. Given I depart early on New Year’s Day. And not knowing how many taxi drivers would be up and about and in a fit state. Has to be the Only You Seville Hotel (https://www.onlyyouhotels.com/en/hotels/only-you-hotel-sevilla/). Across the road from station.

Need laundry doing. Reception do not know the laundry situation for New Year’s Eve. There is some doubt about availability. Check the laundry list in room. Decide it would actually be cheaper to fly back home and do it myself in my own home and then fly back. Rather than paying hotel. Jeez. Quite an expensive laundry service. Plan B. Local launderette. Few blocks away. All my worldly possessions wrapped up in a Sainsbury’s bag. Fortunately there’s one washing machine free. Launderette has a central control panel. You select the machine and pay. It automatically feeds detergent and fabric conditioner. Not like the old days. Thinking the control panel accepts credit cards. Slip credit card in a credit card sized slot.

And then.

Mild panic.

When.

I realise it’s not a slot for credit cards.

Hells bells.

Credit card now stuck in a slot.

And can’t get it out. With fingers.

Tweezers might do it.

But don’t have tweezers.

Obviously.

Bugger.

What to do.

But don’t worry, dear reader.

Bit of lateral thinking.

Use two other credit cards in wallet to act as tweezers.

Carefully. And delicately. Use two cards to pinch the card in slot firmly. And slooowwwly pull towards me. To extract stranded card.

Phew.

It works.

As my wash starts an immigrant family enter. And over the next few minutes deposit loads of black bin bags in launderette. Which soon resembles a refugee camp. And progressively take over the launderette as machines become free. God only knows how many people they’re washing for.

The final day of 2024 is freezing cold. It’s +2C this morning. Nippy. Very nippy. Still bunged up with manflu. Take taxi from station. For the short drive to Plaza de Espana. Taxi driver moans he’s been waiting 2hrs at the station. And now it’s a small fare. That’s the way the cookie crumbles mate.

Last came here in 2009 when I took the train to Tangiers. A shake down trip for the Around the World in 60 Days trip the following year. Back then in the summer of 2009 it was 40C. Flipping freezing now.

Built in 1928 for the 1929 Exposition, the plaza is a large expanse of fountains and small canals. Surrounded by a semi-circular and architecturally stunning building now government offices. Alcoves around the building are designated to each Spanish province. Simply stunning.

The many tourists try to avoid the Gypsy women selling sprigs of heather.

Royal Palace is sold out so a meander around the side streets. To find a jewellery store. Selling handmade earrings. Are you one of the lucky ladies? Now have three to cater for!

Unsurprisingly. Hotel has no tables free for tonight’s New Year’s Eve celebration. It’s freezing cold. Have been walking about all day. Can’t be bothered going out in search of a restaurant. Still full of manflu. Need a quiet night in. For a long day of travel tomorrow.

So.

Picnic in room.

Supermarket across road from hotel has the necessary for a picky tea. Fresh baguette. Brie. Salami. Olives. Tomatoes. Red wine. Beer.

So. There I am.

In bed by 9pm.

On New Year’s Eve.

Full of manflu. Feeling dreadful.

It’s a giddy existence, dear reader.

NG2NZ 10. That’s not cheese

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28 & 29-Dec-24 Lisbon & Faro, Portugal

Morning brew enroute whilst walking into Lisbon centre. A clean and nice looking coffee shop entices me in. Only when I’ve asked for a coffee do I realise I’ve actually gatecrashed a hotel’s breakfast room. But told it’s OK to have a coffee even though I’m not a guest. The usual brews to kick start my day. Go to hotel reception to pay. But told it’s OK. It’s free. Says beautiful young female receptionist. And says, “Merry Christmas!”. I’d like to think this was all down to Taurean charm. But she probably couldn’t be bothered with the hassle of ringing it through her accounts system.

Makes my day anyway. Little things.

Happy to meander the back streets on the edge of the city centre and discover a funicular. The Lavra funicular built in 1884. To be precise. You can’t beat a funicular, dear reader. One must always take a funicular. A trundle up the steep hill to more back street meanderings. To be greeted by a pug in a pushchair. Dear me. Look at photo below.

Area becomes progressively more dilapidated and ethnic as I walk downhill to the main square. The top part is quite upmarket but the lower part has derelict buildings. Washing hanging out of windows. Less Portuguese natives. More litter. More squalid. You know the score.

Greeted in the main square by half of Africa. Selling the usual tourist tat. Spread out on blankets on the floor. You know the score.

Soon realise that Lisbon is built on a massive natural amphitheatre. All routes leading downhill to the Triumphal Arch at the main plaza by the coast.

Fortunately a lift takes you to the top of the Triumpal Arch. Built in the 1800s to celebrate the rebirth of the city after the 1755 earthquake. Amazing views of the whole of Lisbon from the top. Beautifully set against a bright blue sky. Quite a panorama.

Hotel is at the top of said amphitheatre so an easy walk down. Am now at sea level. What goes down must go up. Bit of a slog dear reader.

Had passed on the opportunity to gain some height at the St Justa elevator. Very long queues of tourists at the base. Don’t do queues. Don’t do tourists. So a plodding perambulation up more side streets. Going uphill. Very slowly. Jeez there are some steep hills in Lisbon. But find myself at the top of the St Justa elevator. Having walked a considerable distance uphill. Unsurprisingly there is no queue of tourists at the top so descend just to say I’ve been in it. Originally built in the early 1900s and steam powered. But was converted to electric power by the British in 1907. Constructed of iron and 45m high with two lift cabins and a walkway and observation platform to connect to the high level neighbourhood.

Neighbourhoods of Lisbon remind me of Buenos Aires. Has that old world charm about it.

After a lot of walking downhill and uphill all day. Am glad to have a sit down the following day. On the train to Faro. Having already sampled a sandwich from Portuguese Railways opt to buy something better in a proper café before boarding. There’s an assortment of fresh baguettes with fillings. Ask for a cheese baguette. But told they don’t have cheese. I’ll have a cheese and ham baguette then. Please. As I can see that is pre-prepared in the display case next to where both the cashier and I are standing. It’s in plain sight.

She says that don’t have any cheese and ham baguettes. Tell her they do. And point to Exhibit A. A cheese and ham baguette. Right next to us in the display case. She moves to look. And sees the cheese and ham baguette. As I do. Pointing. But no. Am told that’s not a cheese and ham baguette.

It’s a brie and ham baguette.

Oh for God’s sake.

Give me strength.

Eventually get what I want.

Train is old. Slow going. Stops every few minutes in the Lisbon area. Then every town it passes through. Toilets are absolutely disgusting.

3hrs 40mins later. Arrive Faro. And a very short walk to Hotel Faro (https://www.hotelfaro.pt/en/) for an overnight stop. And close to the bus station for tomorrow morning’s departure.

It being Sundy afternoon most places are now shut.

Not sure I’d rush back to Faro, dear reader.

NG2NZ 9. The westernmost point

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26 & 27-Dec-24 Lisbon, Portugal

Boxing Day train from Porto to Lisbon. A grotty affair. And that’s First Class. Train sandwich. Disgusting. Train toilets. Well. Glad I’m a bloke. And don’t have to touch anything. Just point and shoot. Grim.

Things don’t improve on arrival in Lisbon. Poxy, grubby little taxi. Equally grubby little driver is shown hotel name, address and location using Google Maps. It’s simple. But we end up at a different hotel altogether so have to direct him the final mile.

Eventually arrive Lumen Hotel (https://www.lumenhotel.pt/en). A modern and new hotel. But one which does not have heating. Still suffering with manflu. Room is cold with air-conditioning on. Technician arrives to see if he can get room any warmer. He can’t. And accepts that it’s freezing cold in room. Which wouldn’t ordinarily be a problem. But manflu is not helping. Am suffering, dear reader. Feel dreadful. Still.

Having been told that the hotel only has AC to offset the solar gain from the floor to ceiling windows leave curtains wide open the following day. To capture the solar gain. I’ll warm this room up if it kills me.

Another blue sky and sunny day as I pick up hire car to drive to Cape Roca.

The westernmost point of Europe and the Eurasian land mass.

Shall only be heading east from now on. Yay.

What a glorious day it is with cracking views of the rugged coastline.

Little sister had alerted me to the fact Lord Byron had stayed nearby at Monserrate Palace near Sintra. Which is nearby.

Off I pootle.

Simply stunning architecture both inside and out. Built in the late 18th/early 19th centuries. Like Gaudi’s El Capricho in northern Spain, the rooms are empty of furniture. You can imagine how nice it would be to live here though.

The only problem is the 330m climb up the steep path to return to the car park.

Monserrate Palace is one of a number of former royal palaces in Sintra and a guide recommends that my next should be Quinta da Regaleira. Only 2 miles up the road.

But.

The whole area has a one way system. As the access roads are all too narrow for the masses of cars.

So.

An 8 mile road trip.

Which should take half an hour.

It doesn’t.

It’s slow going dear reader. Just one long queue of fellow day trippers all trying to get to the same castle. With limited parking.

Arriving in Sintra town realise this is going to take too long. So decide to park up.

Except.

Sintra has a problem with supply and demand of car parking spaces.

Four circuits of the one way system in the town and half an hour later find a car park spot.

It’s a nice place and worth a stop, dear reader. Should you ever come.

But. Very busy.

Not having time to walk to the older part of town and back and then visit the castle. Jump in car to park in the castle’s visitor car park. A few miles away.

Ah yes.

That will save time.

But no.

It’s a long slow three miles of gridlock. In the one way system. So no turning back.

Parking is seemingly impossible.

Then I see the long pedestrian queue to enter the castle.

Er no.

Can do without that. This late in the afternoon.

Sintra worthy of a visit, dear reader. And an overnight stay to get in the castles before the tourists arrive from Lisbon.

Having driven past the castle in the one way system soon find myself back at where I started a few hours earlier. Monserrate Palace.

A cracking day nonetheless.

Driving back to Lisbon. Thoughts turn to dinner. A yearning for garlic prawns, fillet steak and chips fills my mind.

Discover a steakhouse near hotel called BYF. Off I toddle. Having not made a reservation. Am told they’re fully booked but the sister restaurant across the road has a table free. Great. It’s a fish restaurant called FYSH but promised they do fillet steak.

Escorted across the road by the young waitress who introduces me to the maitre d’ with an explanation. Welcomed in. Surrounded by fresh fish on ice and lobsters in large water tanks. So you know they’re fresh. Mind set on steak forego the fish options apart from the garlic prawns which are excellent.

Having ordered French fries to go with a juicy steak you’ll laugh when they serve it with some crisps. And by crisps. I mean Walkers type crisps. No. No. No. That won’t do.

It’s quickly sent back for the necessary French fries.

Table decoration is a small bowl. With a real live fish swimming about in it. Apparently a betta azul Japanese fighting fish.

Not your usual plastic flower decoration I have to say!

NG2NZ 8. A drop of port in Porto at Christmas

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24 & 25 December 2024, Porto, Portugal

Knowing that some European countries celebrate Christmas on Christmas Eve, am not sure what’s going to be open or closed today or tomorrow. In anticipation, have booked restaurants tonight and tomorrow well in advance. With Christmas Day being my day have booked a swanky restaurant for dinner. Christmas Eve is Thai.

It’s another bright blue sky and sunny day. But a fresh wind blowing down the river valley. A friend had recommended the market. Thinking that it would be a traditional old market hall surprised how new and refurbished it is. To the extent of being a bit sterile and disappointing. Plenty of salted codfish on sale. The Portuguese celebrate Christmas with salted codfish it seems. Not a turkey in sight.

First port tasting on Christmas Eve is at Calem Port lodge. Not heard of Calem before. But given three glasses to taste. Rose, Vintage and a 10 year old Tawny. Surprisingly large glasses. All the port lodges are on the south side of the river in Villa Nova de Gaia. All the casks and vats are stored in long rows of warehouses with tiled roofs…called lodges. Traditionally transported from further up the Douro valley and the vineyards by barge.

Christmas Day begins with a champagne breakfast. With a cracking view of the bridge.

Leisurely walk about a fairly quiet Porto before the second port tasting. At Taylor Fladgate.

Many of the port houses have British names. Well. It all started in the 1670s when two English merchants on holiday in the Douro valley were given a glass of sweet fortified wine by an Abbott. Liking it so much they bought his stock and shipped it home. It became popular in the early 1700s when import duties were very low and the war with France meant that French wine was difficult to get hold of. This led to the British buying up land and creating vineyards along the Douro river valley.

About 30 grape varieties are used for making port. The Douro valley is split into three regions. Baixo Corgo at the western end closest to Porto. Cima Corgo in the middle. Douro Superior at the eastern end of the Douro. Cima Corgo and Douro Superior regions in the east are hotter and have less rainfall than the western end and so have the finest ports with greater ageing potential.

In the early 1900s, Portugal had periods of instability and so to avoid damage due to civil unrest the British port houses and vineyards fixed signs to their buildings stating ‘English property’ with a Union flag.

Port is a fortified wine. The grapes are picked and allowed to ferment. To a certain extent. But then a neutral grape spirit, which is called brandy but isn’t what you know as brandy, is added to the wine to stop the fermentation process. This leaves sugar in the liquid and makes it more alcoholic.

It’s then aged in barrels in the many lodges in Villa Nova de Gaia on the southern side of the Douro river in Porto. Which gives its name to ‘port’.

All the barrels are handmade. Traditionally they were made in units: pipes, almudes, canadas. Pipe is 550 litres. Almude is 25 litres. Canada is 2.08 litres. In the Taylor’s cellar, all the barrels are marked with a cross and two numbers. The barrel is always one pipe of 550 litres plus a unit of almudes (the top number) and a unit of canadas. So an X with 2 at the top and 4 on the side calculates as 550 litres plus 2 x 25 litres plus 4 x 2.08 litres…equals approx. 608 litres.

The length of time it is aged in the vats and casks determines the colour and type of port. A vat is typically 20,000 litres whilst a cask is about 630 litres.

For port aged in wooden vats. 2-3 years is Ruby. 3-4 years is Reserve. 4-6 years of a harvest in a single year is Late Bottled Vintage (LBV).

For casks…2-3 years is Tawny. Which can then be aged in casks for 10, 20, 30 or 40 years.

Vintage ports will be aged in wooden vats for just under two years before being bottled to continue ageing in the bottle for 20 to 30 years.

The stuff you learn on this blog, dear reader.

The tour ends with a port tasting. But. It’s a white chip dry port and a 2019 LBV. The stuff I can buy in Sainsbury’s.

A steep climb from river level back up to the hotel is rewarded by having to walk through Jardin de Morro park. Hundreds of people congregating to watch the sun set. Really good atmosphere. A cracking end to the day. Again.

And to really complete Christmas day.

Dinner at Teves restaurant at Timbre Vertudes.

This is the life, dear reader.

Live it whilst you can.

Merry Christmas.

Well OK…you’re reading this in May 2025 but you know what I mean…

NG2NZ 7. Molten cheese

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23 December 2024, Porto, Portugal

Having departed Vigo by train rather early arrive to the blue sky and sun of Porto mid morning. Having reverted back to GMT. Check in to the Hotel Vincci Ponte Ferro (https://en.vinccipontedeferro.com/) with an amazing view of Porto’s signature bridge and the Douro river below from room. Ah yes, this will do very nicely for the next few days. Not a bad place to spend Christmas.

A cable car takes you from bridge level high up to the river level below on the Villa Gaia side of the Douro. Skimming the roof tops of the old port houses as you do. Rows and rows of long tiled roofs. Still used as storage cellars for Porto’s most famous product. Port. A drop of which I’m rather partial to. Along with some ripe Stilton. There are few finer things than sipping a port with stilton and biscuits by a roaring log fire at Christmas. Such were my teenage years in parents’ cottage. Dad used to buy a wheel of stilton and feed it port over Christmas. Ah yes. Happy memories. So used to good quality port that when a mate offered some of his Dad’s port one Christmas I knew how rough it was. It was Cockburn’s. Dreadful stuff.

So you can imagine my delight at being in the home of port. A few tastings have been booked, dear reader.

All the restaurants on this side of the river are empty. They’re in the shade this side. And all the sunbathed restaurants on the north side are busy. But that’s OK. I’ll have a quick snack. So pop into Casa Portuguesa do Pastel de Bacalhau. An ornate interior with organ. Which sells the local delicacy. Codfish cake with a cheese filling. Served with a glass of sweet white port. Presented on a board where you put your thumb through a hole to hold the glass of port in a slot and the deep fried codfish cake. Bit like an artist’s palette.

But.

What they omit to tell you is this.

When you bit into the crispy codfish cake at one end.

Hot molten cheese squirts out the other end.

FFS.

Thinking it’s only squirted onto my hand that is entangled in the wooden board. But no. A huge globule has streaked down my right trouser leg at the knee.

Oh FFS.

My hands are a greasy cheese covered mess. My jeans now have a large greasy blob of cheese drooling down the leg. Grab tissues. Trying not to make things worse. But fail miserably.

Spend rest of day walking around with a greasy patch on leg.

Cross the river by tram to Sao Bento and spend a few hours milling around the old town. Lots of architecturally stunning buildings but there’s also a lot of derelict properties. Ripe for renovation. It’s soon apparent that the ground floor of a building might be a nice shop, café or restaurant but when you look up you see that the building above is derelict. There’s a phenomenal amount of derelict buildings. And this is the centre of town too. Where you would think they would be a prime location for housing.

Today’s main event is the Sound and Light show at the Clerigos Church. Wow. What a spectacular show. You’ll have to see the photos and video below dear reader. Utterly brilliant.

And another great end to a day. With dinner in the hotel overlooking an illuminated bridge. Scallops and pork belly, wild boar fillet followed by chocolate fondant. With some nice wine. You would love it mucker!

Ah yes.

This will do nicely, dear reader.

Loving Porto.

NG2NZ 6. Sunderland Flying Boat DV967

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21 to 23-Dec-24 A Coruna, Spain, to Porto, Portugal

Another dismal day. Low cloud. Heavy rain. Flipping cold. Slightly cheered that when wanting to pay for my morning brews in hotel breakfast room waitress says, “It’s OK…it’s only coffee.” More cheer when I realise they’ve already brought car to reception from the overnight offsite parking. Saves getting wet. A Coruna known for the Tower of Hercules. Roman lighthouse built in the 1st century. And the second tallest in Spain.

But as it’s chucking it down. You can’t see much of it.

Nearing Cape Finisterre see plenty of people walking the Camino Way. That well known Pilgrimage Path. Culminating in Santiago del Compostela.

At Cape Finisterre for my own little pilgrimage. Finisterre meaning the end of the world.

On 13 June 1943, my Great Uncle, Flying Officer Leonard Lee, was the Captain of Sunderland flying boat DV967. With a crew of 10. As part of 228 Squadron Coastal Command. Attacking German U-boats.

On this particular mission they were about 300 miles north west of Cape Finisterre. The U-boat they were attacking was U-564. Which had sailed from the Bordeaux submarine base I was at a week or so ago. As they were attacking it they were themselves being attacked by the U-boat. Which succeeded in shooting them down. None survived.

They had managed to damage the U-boat but not sink it. Which was completed by a further RAF attack the following day.

He trained at Carberry, near Brandon, in Manitoba, Canada. Which is why some of the crew were Canadians. One of which was Vincent Goldstone. Who was from the Brandon area. We are still in touch with Vincent Goldstone’s niece. We’ll call her Miss Brandon. As she’s reading this blog too!

So this blog post is in memory of these brave men:

Flying Officer Bertrand Leonard Lee

Flying Officer Desmond Fairfax Hill

Pilot Officer George Lough

Flying Officer Alfred Keith McDougall RCAF

Flying Officer Robert Jasper Agur RCAF

Sergeant Vincent Murray Goldstone RCAF

Sergeant Robert Alexander Shaw RCAF

Sergeant Richard Evelyn Joseph Smith

Sergeant James Watt Fraser

Sergeant Andrew Carmichael

Sergeant Dewi Davies

Having being directed to a car park space I had already spotted at Cape Finisterre by what I think to be a car parking attendant he later approaches. Thinking he wants me to pay for a ticket. He’s not a parking attendant. It’s a ‘pilgrim’ begging for money. Who is quickly told to clear off. I’m all heart.

As you will see from the photos below…not the clearest day. And I struggle to make out the lighthouse in the mist and rain.

But clamber down the rocks beneath and look out to sea. Well look out to a bank of mist and cloud and rain. And pay my respects to those brave men. Quite a poignant moment. I’d only ever known my Great Uncle through a small black and white photograph on Great Aunt’s sideboard. Taken in Nottingham’s Market Square. Just before being deployed.

My Great Uncle died the day before his second wedding anniversary and my Great Aunt never remarried.

Lest we forget.

Continuing the pilgrimage theme overnight at Santiago de Compostela. Rain, rain, rain all the way. I’d assumed Santiago de Compostela was a small church town. Like Walsingham perhaps. But it’s actually quite large and the new town is pretty grubby. Fortunately staying at the Hotel Altair at the entrance to the old town (https://www.altairhotel.net/en). Unfortunately, it lacks any heating. It is freezing. Electric radiator has to be wheeled in to heat the room. Unfortunately, it’s a weekend and laundry service is not available. Fortunately, there’s a public laundry nearby. Unfortunately, that too is freezing cold. So spend an hour shivering with my manflu waiting for jumper and clothes to be washed and dried. The joys of being on the road. Fortunately, beat the mid afternoon rush. As my drying cycle nears the end a load of young woman enter the launderette with bags of washing. There’s now a lack of machines and dryers for the many who are now waiting. Glad I got in before that lot.

Having now got room to the status of ‘not freezing cold’ decide to switch off heater during the night. There’s no need for heat now. Manflu has taken a turn. Somewhat feverish during the night. Whole body is on fire. It feels as though I’ve been possessed. Jeez. Not a pleasant night. But hope it’s a sign the manflu is being purged.

Cold and wet Sunday in Santiago seeing the Santa run. Hundreds of runners pounding the cobbles. Impressive Cathedral. Silently does it as I pootle around the pews full of people praying. Well. Apart from my walking boots going. Squeak. Squeak. Squeak. Squeak. At every footstep.

Final day of driving and arrive at Vigo airport to drop hire car off. No Hertz in attendance. Only a key drop. Later receive an email with a bill for EUR800 for ‘damaged wheels’. But some months later have still not been charged. Fingers crossed.

The only reason for coming to Vigo is to catch the train to Porto and resume rail travel. It’s an early departure to Portugal. And a poxy three carriage commuter train. Economy class only. Thankfully it’s only half full so can stretch across the seats. And only just over 2hrs.

And finally.

After the rain in Spain.

Some blue sky.

And sun.

And not freezing cold.

NG2NZ 5. The rain in Spain

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16 to 20 Dec-25 San Sebastian to A Coruna, Bay of Biscay…northern coast of Spain

Manflu. Starts with a sniffle. Then a tickly throat. Followed by a chesty cough. And sniffles. It’s the cold you see. Given that I was a Scout and did D of E. I am woefully unprepared for the cold. 2C this morning in San Sebastian. It’s to be a theme for the rest of the trip.  So much so that have to go shopping for winter fleeces. But. Spain doesn’t cater for 6’5” blokes. The Germans on the other hand do. Which is why I like them so much. Have to stick to my summer clothing for the next month.

It. Is. Freezing.

And I feel dreadful. Full of manflu. No, no, it’s worse than that. It’s the virulent form of manflu. Severe.

Pick up hire car. To drive from San Sebastian to Vigo. All along the north coast of Spain. Via Bilbao. Santander. Gijon. A Coruna. Santiago de Compestela. Vigo.

Why Vigo? For the train to Porto. This section of the trip is just getting from A to B. With few points of interest enroute.

Bilbao better known for its ferry terminal now has the Guggenheim Museum. The outside architecture is much more interesting than the ‘art’ inside. Fairly dismal museum. Old town quite small but nothing of note.

Santander also better known for its ferry terminal has the Magdalena Palace, built in early 1900s. Former Royal Palace of King Alfonso XIII and Queen Victoria Eugenie, granddaughter of Queen Victoria. Parts of the estate modelled on Osborne House on the Isle of Wight.

Santander also famous for its cold loving mosquitoes. Some prat decided it would be an excellent idea to let off fireworks outside the hotel at 3am. Which wakes me up. Which means can’t then get back to sleep. Which is further exacerbated by the high pitched whine of a mosquito in my ear. At 3.30am. So have to get up to kill it. But it’s hide and seek time. And fail to find it. A few minutes later. Whining in my ear. Sod it. Lights on. Searching for a bit of black against the white walls. Ah. There you are you little sod. Splat. Blood squishes out on to the white wall.

Yay. Finally got it. Can rest easy now.

Ho ho ho.

It has a mate.

Which is still after blood. My blood. Now 4am. Lights on. Searching for the little blighter. This goes on another hour. Lights off. Whine. Lights on. Search. Fail to find. Lights off. Repeat.

Eventually fall asleep. At 6am.

Wake with a number of mosquito bites on my body. The itching of which will add to the general grumpiness caused by manflu. And a lack of sleep. You all know by now that Touring Taurean does not do mornings. Let alone after a few hours sleep. Grumpy little ogre this morning.

Whilst getting dressed. See a little dark speck on ceiling. Found you! Splat. Well. All I can say is there was a lot of blood in that little speck. Jeez. It’s quite remarkable how much there was. Quite startling that it’s my blood. Clean up operation required to make the ceiling white again.

In addition to the cold. The blue sky has given way to rain. This is chucking it down rain. Not mizzle. Or a slight spitting. This is full on get drenched.

It’s to be the theme for the next few days.

Between Santander and Gijon is Altimara. Home of a cave discovered in the 1910s which has 15,000 year old paleolithic artwork on the walls. The actual cave is off limits so they’ve built a fibreglass replica in the museum to show the extent of the art. Lunch is in the nearby historic town of Santillana del Mar. A nice spot full of old buildings and cobbled buildings.  Tapas for lunch. Again. There’s only so many croquettes I can eat on the trot though.

Comillas has been recommended by a friend to visit El Capricho. Ornate house designed by Gaudi in the 1880s for a wealthy merchant. The outside of which is more interesting than the relatively bare interior. At least it provides shelter from the rain for a while and a brief leg stretch.

In need of fuel at my overnight stay of Gijon am surprised to find a petrol pump attendant who does everything. Not had a petrol pump attendant since being in the Middle East.

Uneventful drive to A Coruna. Hadn’t realised how mountainous this region is and it’s a constant mix of tunnels and viaducts. Mountains to my left. Bay of Biscay to my right as I skim the coastline.

Drive over one particular mountain pass to discover snow ploughs in the thick mist which gives way to brighter weather as I drive above the cloud. Before dropping down again and end in A Coruna on the north west tip of Spain. The outskirts are grubby port areas but it redeems itself with a nice old town which is full of locals on a Friday night.

There’s a nice buzz here.

NG2NZ 4. Come on you Reds!

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15-Dec-24 San Sebastian, Basque Country / Spain

Take the train to Spain. 2.5hrs on the TGV to Hendaye. French border town on the Atlantic. Snow capped Pyrenees to my left. Flashes of the Atlantic on my right. Whizz by at 180mph.

Thinking to myself that it’ll be warmer in Spain. Because I have only packed summer gear. It’s always warm in Spain. Isn’t it?!

Turning right out of Hendaye TGV station to walk the 50m to the Euskotren. A couple of Basque commuter carriages that transfer you across the border at Irun and on to San Sebastian. The sort that only run every half hour and timed to coincide with the TGV timetable.

Plenty of space on boarding. So spread out. My 6’5” heavyweight frame is not designed for these poxy little commuter carriage seats. Tight fit. But it’s OK. Have plenty of legroom to stretch out. Have sat at a 4 seat bay. Two seats facing each other. For extra leg room. Bag is on floor by window seat. I. On the adjacent aisle seat. Train is only about quarter full.

Well.

It was quarter full. Until. We cross into Spain. And stop at Irun.

Load of football fans get on. And fill all the other seats with a few standing. Father and 10 year old son sit on seats facing me. Both have earrings. In that oikish way. Now a bit of squash.

Assume there has been a football match in Irun which has just finished. And they’re all going home. So won’t be too bad as they’ll all get off at subsequent stops.

Er no.

Soon becomes apparent football match is at my destination. San Sebastian. Sod it.

Next stop. More fans get on. But no more seats. So jostling in the aisle. Seat blocked by my bag is now sat in my another oik who is having to sit skew-whiff as bag is now jammed up by the window. Which means that father also has to sit skew-whiff as there’s not enough room for four legs and a bag to sit properly…there being no overhead rack to put bag on. Fortunately, young son is opposite me so there’s a few more inches of leg room in my favour.

Next stop. More fans get on. But no more space. But that doesn’t matter. We’ll just push a bit more to squeeze in the train.

A woman stands cramped near our seats.

Being the perfect gentleman. Stand up and offer her my seat. Not able to speak Basque. Or Spanish. Motion in silence that she should sit in my seat. Which she gratefully accepts.

Retrieve my bag to create more space in the seating area so I can then stand in aisle with bag.

But then. Father picks up son and places him on his lap. To vacate seat for me.

So. There we are. Five of us all crammed in to a four seat bay. Not enough leg room. All being jostled by those standing in aisle. Now I have to sit skew-whiff. To avoid touching woman. Arm rest means I have to sit with knees facing into the seating. Along with other knees and legs. Father is a big bloke. I’m a big bloke. We’re up close and personal. Skin to skin. Arm rest biting into my thigh.

We are all contorted, dear reader. Not speaking to each other. We’re all strangers.

It’s dire. Never ever been that cramped on a train before. Miss Nottingham and younger sister, we’ll call her Bloss, will no doubt be scoffing that I haven’t been on a German train to the Baltic in peak holiday season!

Twenty minutes of this. It’s so full that no one can get on at subsequent stops. Noisy football banter pervades the carriage.

Penultimate stop is clearly for the football stadium. Everyone disgorges from the carriage. Father says goodbye in Basque and shakes my hand. To which I reply, “I’m British.” To which woman retorts with, “I’m British as well!” And then buzzes off.

No taxis at San Sebastian main station. So a 10 minute walk to Hotel de Londres y de Inglaterra (https://hlondres.com/en/). The grand old dame of San Sebastian. Right on the promenade. With magnificent views of the bay from room.

Any thoughts of Spain being warmer are quickly dispelled. It’s cold. Very cold.

Tapas time. At Sirimiri tapas bar. It’s cold, dear reader. So you would think they would close the flipping doors. Wouldn’t you. But. No.

One of the nicest pints of beer from the local brewery washes down an excellent selection of pinxtos (pinchos/tapas in Spanish…we’re in Basque country now). Filet steak. Fresh anchovies. Tuna. Croquettes. Ceviche. All delicious.

There’s a nice vibe here, dear reader. San Sebastian knows how to do beer and pinxtos.