North Portugal
Nestled in the luscious green countryside just beyond the border into Portugal, our next stop afforded us a chance to catch our breath, re-organise ourselves, and prepare for the marathon that would be Porto. We stopped at a small, friendly campsite halfway between Vigo, our previous stop, and Porto, our next one. At the bottom of the site a small river ran through the trees, and the young guys camping near us would frequently disappear through the gate leading to the forest, reemerging a few hours later damp and disheveled. There was also small cafe/bar on site, and one of the outhouses had been converted to house a rather sad-looking table tennis table. It was, as far as camping goes, a lovely place to spend a couple of days.
The young curly-haired man on the desk was thrilled to find out we were English; he was moving to London in September to begin his forensic sciences degree. We gave him lots of tips about London, though he had been before, and a list as long as his arm of places around the UK he had to also visit. Throughout our stay on the campsite he continued to check in with us, telling stupid jokes and sharing small observations he had made.
“You know what Australians call those orange poking things?” he asked one day, pointing out what he meant.
“A cone?”
“Yes, a cone. Well, no they don’t say that. They say ‘witches hat’! Can you believe that?” And he walked off laughing.
On our first night at the campsite we walked into the village and ate dinner on the small strip of restaurants overlooking the ocean. The portions — and the prices — were ridiculous. We ordered a whole cod to share, which came in a puddle of butter on a huge dish. There were potatoes and green veg, and a crusty breadcrumb coating for texture. It was delicious and rich, and we could only finish about half of it. The whole meal, including a bottle of wine, came to £16 each.
The following day, we drove to the nearby village of Orbacem on the promise of finding a wild swimming spot beneath a waterfall, which I’d been told about by a friend. With the help of Google maps and some detailed directions sent via Facebook messenger, we did manage to find the right spot. Following a path through the trees, we descended into a small valley. We picked our way over jagged rocks and trickling streams, and came out on the edge of a pool. The rock face clambered high above us in coarse, rugged bursts, and at the very top the water spewed through a large gap and poured smoothly into the pool below. The water was clear and clean, and absolutely freezing cold.
We left our things on a flat-looking bit of rock and ventured into the water. A few minutes doggy paddling in the pool was long enough for me, but Liam took to open water swimming as he does almost everything else, with child-like enthusiasm. Before long, however, we were both reminded that we hadn’t eaten since breakfast and it was now almost 4pm. As we retreated, shivering and damp, back to the car, we both wished we had bought some crisps with us.
That evening we cooked steak. The cuts of meat in the supermarket were so huge that we only bought one steak and simply cut it in half. We made a huge crunchy salad to go with it, and slathered the whole thing in a bright orange Gaucho sauce we found at the shop. It was delicious.
The following day we left rural north Portugal behind and headed to the bright lights of Porto. It’s a shame we couldn’t stay for longer and enjoy any walks around the campsite or explore the village more. I feel like whether we were to return tomorrow, in 5 years, or in 25 years, not much would have changed in the sleepy forest region around Orbacem.
