Sightseeing

Belem is a few stops from me on the Lisboa-Cascais railway. At the mouth of the Tagus, it's traditionally the place from which the conquistadors and explorers were seen off, and, mostly, welcomed home to Portugal. It's littered with enormous phallic monuments to people like da Gama and Dias, heroes in their own nation, vandals and homicidal enslavers in other, more southern, nations. One man's meat...

There used to be a little hermitage here, where da Gama spent the night before sailing on his epic journey to India at the end of the 15th century. When he returned, flush with success, the king ordered a vast and impressive monastery to be built on the ruins of the hermitage - Mosteiro dos Jerónimos, arguably the vastest and most impressive monastery in Portugal.

Although the squandering of piles of money on a religious statement is not to my taste, the monastery is admittedly very pretty, and as a bonus, inside are buried, side by side, two of Portugal's notables. One is da Gama, who, as I've said, had a lasting effect on my own home region. The other, more culturally fascinating, is Luís da Camões, the 16th century author and poet, half-blind soldier, traveller, romantic. In a shipwreck off Cambodia, his Chinese lover was drowned, but he managed to swim to shore holding aloft his precious manuscript for one of Portugal's classics - the Lusiads. Scandals ensued after his love affairs with princesses and queens, and he was imprisoned several times for debt and fights. He dropped out of the University of Coimbra - hence the statue I had to pass every day while studying there. Fascinating guy...

















Also in Belem, and along the sam colonial lines, is the Monument of Discovery, an enormous structure leaning out over the Tagus, Vasco da Gama leading the conquistadors into regions unknown, spreading Portugal's influence and briefly making it one of the wealthiest empires in the world.


All very impressive.

More interesting, perhaps, is the living, modern city of Lisbon. One of the must-do activities in Lisbon is a ride on the old trams, so Dad and I made our way to a small square where one of the trams begins its perilous ascent to the castle. There was a queue. A long queue. Apparently, everyone else reads Lonely Planet too. The last time I was in Lisbon, it was the depths of winter and the tourists had gone to warmer climes - my friends and I travelled all day on empty trams, chatting to the conductors and hanging off the back rails. One tram came and went, filled to the brim with camera-wielding behatted Europeans; the next came with a twin. Dad and I got on the first one, and managed to nab the last two seats by a window. Luckily for us, this driver decided he wasn't there to be nice, and closed the doors to the other 30 people in the queue; the tram behind us didn't take any passengers at all, but just drove by! Lucky us :)


The No 28 tram wends its way through narrow streets, past Graça and its little olive tree-lined squares, up to the summit where the castle sprawls, and then down again past the teeming alleys of Alfama.


The Castello de São Jorge is another Moorish bequest, as is Alfama, where tiny houses are filled by tight communities - and have been since the time of the Romans. During Moorish times, it constituted the entire city, and it's the only place in Lisbon to survive the great 1755 earthquake.
















After a day's wandering, including an unplanned trip out to a mall on the edges of the city for a CD Dad wanted, we were exhausted, and headed back to Cascais for dinner and coffee. I took Dad to Flecha Azul, the friendly cafe next door to my school, where we sat outside enjoying the evening cool. A familiar, older man emerged from the cafe to smoke a cigarette (and by the way, I'm astounded by how well the Portuguese have taken to being told not to smoke indoors - the last time I was here, there were ashtrays outside shops in enclosed malls, and the Portuguese were making full use of them!) The man, who was familiar in the way that many faces are becoming familiar to me in little Cascais, started chatting to us and turned out to be an English retiree who's lived in Portugal for 10 years (although in time-honoured English tradition, he speaks almost no Portuguese!) He was a fascinating find: in Cascais, most retirees are conservative, upper-middle class bridge players, but he was working class and liberal. Finding out we were Zimbabwean, he self-deprecatingly said he knew nothing about it, but then turned out, as so often, to know quite a lot. He told us of a story that did the rounds in the 70s: apparently, when Joshua Nkomo went to England for the first time, it was traditional for the Queen to pick up visiting dignitaries from Victoria Station in her coach, it being just round the corner from the Palace. Feeling slightly awkward, the pair were sitting in the coach making stilted conversation, when one of the horses lifted its tail and noisily let out some air. At which the Queen murmured "Oh, do pardon me!"

"Oh, no problem, your majesty," says our forgiving Nkomo, "I thought it was the horse..."

Oh, British humour!

Visiting

I want you to turn away from the computer and go to your childhood bookshelf. The one stuffed with all the big fairybooks and broken-spined Grimm's collections. Are you there? Find a fairy tale and open it to the picture of the castle. The one with the princess in the turret and the ogre in the dungeon. Pretty isn't it?

That's where I was on Friday.

On Thursday my Dad arrived from England, which was very exciting, and even more so when my big meeting-up plan worked like a dream, and I didn't have to run around Lisbon desperately looking for him.

The next morning I looked out of my window at the Serra de Sintra and, not seeing any clouds, hustled down to Dad's hotel and onto a bus bound for Sintra Village. Although I can see it from my window, it's still a 40 minute bus ride from Cascais. Perched high in a forested national park, Sintra used to be the big town, and Cascais the fishing village. These days Sintra is the preserve of the rich and famous and daytrippers from Lisbon, and when I say these days, I'm talking about right back to Lord Byron's time; in fact, Byron called it his Glorious Eden and used it in his poem Childe Harold's Pilgrimage, while Hans Christian Andersen merely considered it the most beautiful place in Portugal. Several English notables ended up here, some for more noble reasons than others, and some of them made their marks in beautiful palaces and landscaped English gardens.

We rode the bus through suburbs and villages, climbing the landscape, until the castle I can see from my bedroom window as a grey sliver in the distance was more looming than slivering, then we got off. Unfortunately a couple of stops early, so we had to walk through the lower town for a short bit, but we fortified ourselves with a Portuguese brunch - coffee and pasteis de nata.


Heading onwards past deep valleys and tiny roadside shrines, we turned a corner and were suddenly in Sintra Vila proper, the National Palace before us, chestnut sellers on the corner. We equipped ourselves with a map and a paper bag of roasted chestnuts, and sat in a deserted corner, a treed courtyard with a bench overlooking the valley. We decided to see the castle, and we decided to walk up to it - I swear Dad had all the information at his disposal when he decided that!

It was a hard work, but we took it slowly. It wound up a steep mountainside for 700m, first through tiny houses (one was lived in by Hans Christian Andersen once) and churches, then through forest. The forest floor was dotted with great big slabs of rock which seemed unnaturally shaped and placed. A couple had definitely been hollowed out a bit - perhaps to supply a suitably uncomfortable place for a hermit to live out his life. Soon we started seeing more definite signs of life with thick defence walls and a ruined church.


The path became wider and more defined.

I climbed an interesting little tower to look down on the ruin, and only realised after scrambling down the narrow steps again that there was a skull-and-bones on the base - it was an ossuary for the bones from the church's crypt.

Finally we reached the main wall of the castle. The Moors conquered Iberia in the 8th century, and their final defeat in Portugal by Christian Portuguese in 1249 coincided with the establishment of Portugal as an independent nation. In Southern Portugal, they left behind some beautiful architecture and buildings, and some important names - Lisbon (Al-Ushbuna), Coimbra (Kulimriyya), Beja (Baja - where I lived as a student), the Algarve (al-Gharb) and the beautiful area we're now exploring - Sintra. The Moorish influence continued long after the last were expelled from Portugal and Spain in the centuries following their defeat. Portuguese people took up their paintbrushes and created some of the most beautiful pieces of pottery I've ever seen, with intricate patterns and convoluted stories. The Moorish Fountain is an early 20th century example in Sintra.

This is no pretty but fundamentally pointless folly, though - it remains a water source for local people to this day. We passed another fountain further up the hill, also built above a natural spring, where groups of older people were cheerfully ignoring the municipal sign restricting them to 2 litres a day, filling five or ten 5-litre bottles each, and loading them back onto their waiting bakkies...

Anyway, as I was saying: we'd just reached the top of the hill, where the Moorish castle sits like a natural eruption of pale stone. Less menacing than it perhaps would have been were the hill still deforested to the base, as I'm sure it would have been once. The forest has taken back its territory, and is thick even inside the walls - fairly useless if you wanted to see your enemies coming from far off! The fort - for that's really what it is - looks remarkably well-preserved for something built more than a thousand years ago, and which has been through a number of wars and nation-shattering earthquakes. And this is because it's not well-preserved, but rather well-renovated. Much of the lower walls and floors, and the amazing cistern have survived from the first occupants, though. Even the outdoor granaries are still there - despite having been converted to rubbish tips by the subsequent Christian occupants.


The view from the crenellated walls is astounding - villages on the coast, half a day's hard ride for 8th century warriors, are clearly visible. Sintra Village is just beneath - although if you bear in mind that we actually walked up to the Village, and only then up to the Castle, I'm pretty sure you're bloody impressed with us right now. If you're not, you should be.

Dotted throughout the forest were dozens of sprawling mansions, every one of them sprouting turrets and lace like a set designer had just learned the Grimm Brothers were coming to see the play tonight and were expecting perfection, thank you very much.


From one of the towers, the fanciful palace on the next hill is clear in its pink and yellow glory - Pena Palace, a 19th century pure embodiment of romanticism built over the ruins of a medieval monastery.

Sadly, after all our effort, we didn't feel up to battling the tourists for a closer glimpse, and when we left, it was straight onto a bus, which teetered its way down the hills to the bus station. And when I say teetered, I actually mean "perilously crashed" - Dad thought it might be a source of pride amongst the bus drivers as to who terrifies more tourists on each shift... From there we caught another bus back to Cascais, along the beautiful western coast.

Bedtime arrived early that night.

Walking

Thought I'd take you on a walk today. This is the walk I take whenever I go into town. Hah - yeah, right! It's actually the route my bus into town takes, because who walks when there's a bus, right? But it is the walk I sometimes take when the weather's not too hot, as it's the quickest way to town, and the most beautiful.

First we're going to walk down the road from my flat towards the sea. This area used to be a part of the protected Sintra green belt. Then, because developers don't like to see a nice bit of land wasted, some fires mysteriously burnt all the indigenous flora, and the land was sold to be turned into hotels. It's a common story in Portugal - in this dry country, it's often easier to burn your rival's olive grove than to compete with his business. When I studied in Coimbra, there'd just been a fire that could be seen from space - the firemen (who are volunteers in Portugal) had given up on fighting it, and had just concentrated on saving the houses on the edge of Coimbra, and so everything beyond was a blackened desert.

But pass the hotels, and the most amazing view opens up to you.


Not the roundabout, obviously, but the sea beyond. At this point, the coast has risen from the beaches of Estoril to become crumbling cliffs and jagged caves, and it continues to rise until it reaches Cabo de Roca, the westernmost point of Europe, a 20-minute drive from here. We turn left towards town.


Lined on one side by blue-green sea, black rocks and the dry, indigenous vegetation, the other side of the road is where exiled royalty came to hang out during the European revolutions and post-WWII. The last Italian king spent his 37-year exile in one of the grand palaces hidden behind high walls, and the Brits are represented by Princess Di, who, like Rei Umberto of Italy, had a road named after her. Following the path towards town takes us into a shallow dip, where walkers are shielded from the traffic by trees. The sound suddenly drops away, as if you'd stuffed your ears with cotton wool, and all that can be heard is the boats on the water if the wind is right, or the plop of a fisherman's line as he casts off from the rocks beneath.


A few steps down the road, the silence is forgotten as Boca do Inferno, the Mouth of Hell, thunders into view. A deep chasm in the cliff, where the sea froths its way through a narrow opening, this is partly famous for being the site of an English occultist magician's faked death in 1930. Aleister Crowley was a rather unpleasant man, and his stay in Portugal after being kicked out of Mussolini's Italy is not widely celebrated by the Catholic-minded Portuguese. His "suicide" was assisted by one of Portugal's best-known poets, Fernando Pessoa, and Boca do Inferno became a bit of a pilgrimage spot for all of a fortnight, before Crowley rocked up again in Berlin.


The day I took these photos the Boca was tame, although still noisy, echoing off the rocks; in the fiery build-up to storms, the plumes of spray can be seen from the town centre.

Onwards from the Boca. Just before a narrow bridge, on the right, is an old manor house, Casa de Santa Maria, a beautiful ramble of shuttered windows and tiny towers, overlooking the marina. It neighbours a lighthouse, typically Portuguese in its blue and white tiles.

From Santa Maria, we cross the bridge to the marina and the castle. From the road, all that's visible over the fortified walls is a couple of cranes and some mysterious iron rods - something is being built or renovated or destroyed inside. Although the castle is owned by the council, it's not often open to the public. A friend tells me that sometimes they use it for classical concerts in the summer, but she's never gone; I'm definitely putting it on my list of things to do when they next plan one.


As we turn round the corner of the sprawling castle, the Baia opens up before us. Little brightly-painted fishing boats bob like apples, contrasting with a few sleek and enormous yachts, anchored just off a small curve of beach.


The fishermen store their equipment on a ledge below the promenade, watched over by a statue known as the Jolly King - a bronze statue of King Carlos the Diplomat, the last "real" king of Portugal, who loved the sea and spent many summers in Cascais. He's caught in the act of gazing over the Baia from a ship deck, telescope in hand.


Turning left at the Jolly King, the promenade drops down to sea level, a palm-lined road popular on weekends, when there's often a festival and Santini's, the venerable purveyors of ice cream to royalty for decades, has a stall by the mermaid statue (which you can just see behind the palm tree).


The road slips down to meet what would perhaps be called the Town Square, were it not so tiny; it contains the Town Hall, decorated with tiled portraits of the saints Pedro and Paulo.


We're two minutes from my school here, and so this is where we'll stop, on the bench where I often sit and have lunch or an ice cream, scoffing at the bright red tourists and envying the browned locals, keeping an eye on the fishermen's boats for them, until they come in the late afternoon with their nets and traps.

It's a hard life...