zhisou

We headed north to the Spanish border, to Carminha for a top bacalao-based lunch.  They love their salt-cod in Portugal, and sticking a bit of bechamel on top never does any harm.   We walked around the little town huddled on the southern banks of the Minho – the wide river that forms the border with Galicia, Spain’s rainy north-western region, a celtic land of superstition, witches and, more importantly, seriously good seafood.

The previous day had been foggy too, after having spent a day in Porto we wanted to spend a day on the beach, but the heavy mist put a stop to that.  We went to Braga instead.  Braga was lovely.  A big town, capital of the Minho province, and seeing as its name in Spanish means knickers (nearly, the Spanish word for knickers is bragas), it was a place I wanted to go.  A chap can’t turn down chances to crack hilarious jokes about female underwear.  Not on my watch.

So we walked around Braga a bit, made hilarious jokes about female underwear, had some meaty lunch in a lovely little restaurant courtyard, and made our way back to the unlovely hotel to pack.

Normal people go from this bit of Portugal up to Galicia via Valença – a stunningly beautiful fortress town of shops and restaurants, once the source of cheap towels for all of northern Spain.  Crossing the border here is by a motorway bridge across the Minho (Miño in Spain), landing in Tui, but racing past these sweet riverside towns, and on northwards to Vigo.

We are not normal people.

We decided to catch the ferry.  For a laughably cheap €3, me, the wife, the kids and the car were all taken across on a crowded little boat that paid no heed to its own timetable, seemingly preferring to just get on with it.  We touched down in Spain and sped up the hill to the guest house we’d booked on the Internet.  The little map looked like it had been done by someone who didn’t understand (a) maps, (b) the location of the guest house, (c) the basic principles of communication, and (d) anything else at all.  We drove around for hours looking for the damn place, and I’m pretty keen with this sort of thing, I’ve got a sense of direction that can stun a grown man at ten paces.  I use it to impress girls sometimes.  After disagreeing which way it was, we took the average – the road in the middle – and by accident stumbled upon it hidden away in a tiny side road.

Now, I’d booked the first hotel because I like big hotels where I can be (a) anonymous, and (b) will be guaranteed certain minimum services and facilities.  Okay – hands up – I got that one wrong with Hotel Chav back in Povoa, but I’d always been pretty worried about a tiny country guest house, probably run by some aging hippy-type who would do really irritating things like (a) talk to me, and (b) look at me.  Worse, he and his wife might try to pressgang us into communal activity and take a polite interest in our lives.   And so it was.

We went out a lot.

This was in A Guardia, the last bit of Spain, the bit that takes up the little corner at the bottom of Galicia.  The Atlantic Ocean to the west, the Miño to the south.   Most of the town is a traditional fishing village on the steep slopes round the bay, facing the ocean.  It’s not exactly lovely, but it is charming – the first town I’d really liked.

We went up the mountain to see the views (see zhisou pix when I get that far) then drove into the town to eat lots and lots of seafood.  Lots.  We had scallops, clams, squid, and huge juicy langostines.  We ordered too much and ate it all, glad to be back in Spain – despite the Zamora experience – despite the higher prices.

It was nice.