Aveiro

I've not been to a Catholic cemetery before, at least not one like that in Aveiro. I had wondered about the cluster of spires and wandered until I found a side street leading to the wrought iron gates. It is busy, families clad in black, with head scarves and hats, sweeping graves, changing flowers and lighting candles. The crypts form the outer wall and vary hugely in size, age and state of repair. Some have doors hanging open, others are bedecked with flowers, some are ornate, others are slick and modern with glass swing doors like a modern office building. Most have the coffins on display but a few hide them behind lacy curtains. Many have photographs that sit on tiny altars at the back, and there pictures too on the graves within the walls. These individual tombs have sometimes been added too, with marble plaques commemorating other family members neatly arranged in little stands atop the original grave. Its a very public display of grief, that keeps a reminder of death close at hand throught people's everyday lives.

The lady in the tourist office shows me the oldest bridge in Aveiro on a map, as well as the fish market, some old churches and an eco-museum on the site of an old salt farm. Outside boats advertise trips to "Mundo do Sal!" but I decide to walk. I have to admit that I was prepared to be disappointed by the World of Salt! but it is often the case that despite low expectations, an attraction like this can in fact give a really illuminating insight into traditional local industry. Unfortunately this time it was not the case.

Despite a sign saying that over a million Euros had been invested here, there was not a cinematic tour with a loveable but hip cartoon duo called Sodi-YO and Chlori-DUDE. This was truly an eco-museum simply by virtue of there being almost nothing there, apart from six boards with information in Portuguese on one side and English on the other. The site had been left exactly as it was, but not in a good way, left being the operative word.

Still determined to learn, I left my bag on a bench by the Palheiro, a salt pan hut because I was certain no-one would be along to steal it. I trod carefully on the muddy pathways between the salt ponds, reading all the boards until the final one which told me I'd done it in exactly the wrong order. As I walked back along the banks of the farm I saw a condom wrapper spinning gently on the surface of one of the ponds. It would take a considerable amount of alcohol, a strange fetish for the production of seasonings or some very strict Catholic parents to make this seem like a place for wild romance.

At the hut I find an extra board, which someone has set fire to, presumably expressing their disappointment at "Mundo do Sal!". It details who worked on the farm: Apprentices, called Moços, were picked at the "Fiera dos Moços" in March. Women worked here too, though they "also worked in agriculture and carried mud and salt". Thankfully, emancipation was not long in coming and so "By the end of the 1970's [they] abandoned this job".

Despite not being heart-stoppingly brilliant and perhaps not being the best use of over one million EU euros, I've enjoyed sitting here by this hut for several hours, writing undisturbed.