Porto

I like it here a lot. This slightly uncritical attitude may be due to the warm sun on my face, the beautiful view of the architechtural jumble descending into the river or the sweet Vinho di Porto warming my stomach, but I can't help any of that, the combined effect is lovely.

Two chatty couples from Somerset make their way with me down the same set of steep stairs, also on their first day here and also blown away by Porto's eclectic beauty. They were drawn here almost solely a cheap flight, the promise of sun and port but it can't be bad for this World Heritage sight to be more accessible. Despite the quaintly haphazard architechture the infrastructure is slicker than Lisbon, with shiny new yellow metros and suburban line trains, one glides slowly across the Ponte Luis I, high above, as I write.

TRAVELLERS' TIP: Don't point out the massive sign saying Cockburn's and laugh. Anyone who knows anything about port will witheringly remark "Its pronounced Coburns actually, its a well known brand" as you watch all respect for you drain from their features.

I still like Porto. After climbing up from the river, weighed down by a rucksack packed for Siberia, I am rewarded by stunning views from the Palacio de Cristal. In heaven, I and many others are for some reason sure that there will be peacocks and sure enough they wander here among bushes bedecked with fragrant pink flowers. Sure, there are geese here too, so it is probably not the actual fields of Elysium but its very nice all the same. In the Aromatic Garden I can't really smell the flowers because of a slight cold (uma constipacão, not to be confused) but it also meant I couldn't smell the leaking sewer pipe in the corner of my room last night, so every cloud...

I'd headed to the park to find the Port Wine Tasting Bar. It doesn't open until 4 so I head for the Museo de Romantico next door. I didn't know what to expect though I guess I was secretly hoping for a softcore version of Amsterdam's Erotic Museum. Thankfully, as with the "World of Salt!" I was prepared for disappointment.

After obtaining a ticket I was asked whether I was English. When I answered in the affirnative the short lady who seemed to be in charge said that no-one there spoke English but that I should wait 15 minutes for the tour to begin. I sat down, in what was admittedly a very comfy chair and listened to the lady sniff. Now I'm no prude when it comes to sniffing and understand that sometimes its the simplest thing to do but this small woman was hoiking it back like a sailor every ten to fifteen seconds. This made the wait a tad trying on my previously flat calm nerves. The electricity cut out and the room went dark. The man who'd been on the computer behind the desk now had nothing to do. He decided to make jokes. There is a cute habit that people have when speaking to a foreigner: They make a joke in halting English of four or five words, in this case something about electricity bills. They then translate their witticism for the benifit of their linguistically challenged friends except in the process of translation the jokes has morphed from a few unfunny words into a fantastic anecdote of several minutes including pauses for uproarious laughter. The man does this a couple of times and after each the sniffing lady glares accusingly as if to demand why my sides are not also splitting.

After 15 minutes it would appear that nothing has changed but apparently the tour can now begin. Much to my delight I realise it is the sniffing lady with whom I will be exploring the Museum, a collection of rooms preserved in the style of the early 19th century, when the exiled King of Sardinia, Charles Albert, lived there. The house is interesting but as I bend to examine something a grunted sniff behind my ear dampens the sense of history.

At the end of the tour, which takes less time than I spent in the reception area, I ask where the toilet is. She kindly shows me, but my hopes for peaceful ablutions are dashed when I hear a distinctive snorting waiting just outside the door.

Any frustration has long since melted, sitting on a bench in the park once more, bathed in sunlight watching bees buzz lazily from flower to flower. When I arrived at this bench by a cave I encountered Antonio, who said he'd been a chef in London, yet did not speak any English. He asked if I wanted to take a photo of him. I rose to oblige and he whipped out a booked entitled something like My Friend Jesus, with a picture of Christ adorning the cover. He seemed pleased with the shot, the cave in the background, book in hand and face turned heavenward with a pious expression.

In a neat garden I look out over the Douro towards yet another superb bridge. The Portuguese seem to excel at bridge building. In Lisbon there is the 17km monster, Vasco di Gama and the Ponte 25 de Abril, which looks like the Golden Gate, San Francisco. In Porto there is this one, the Arrábida Bridge, which when it was built had the largest concrete span in the world and the massive iron bulk of the Ponte Luis I and in between there are numerous impressive viaducts, river crossings and the like. This is the Solar do Vinho do Porto, a slightly faded white town house, with smart shutters and an excellent bar on the bottom floor stocked with almost every Port imaginable. From a simple glass of sweet red up to a 1961 bottle selling for over €200. The waiter recommends a dry white to complement my chorizo. A Dutch couple are the next patrons to arrive. Their son, a composer, has a Portuguese wife who is due to give birth to their first grandson in Porto today. They are excited but worried that their phone is not working and they will miss the call to the hospital. We both leave reluctantly, because it is wonderfully tranquil but I know I'm already later than intended.

Walking swiftly round a corner I see a hill sloping down to a large open crossroads, overlooked by a blue tiled church. On the otherside the hill climbs steeply to another church similarly decorated. This was certainly the building I'd seen as I left the station this morning and judging from the map and factoring in Sod's Law I knew I'd have to climb the hill at speed to get to my train. As I reached the crossroads a tram pulled up, but after allowing several ladies aboard I made to grab the handle and swing myself up, only to have the driver accelerate off. Several locals gesticulated to the driver, feeling I'd been unjustly treated but I just chased after the tram as it climbed, determined to reach the summit close behind it, knowing this motivation would make the climb easier. At one point it had to stop, a car was parked on the tramlines, but it was quickly moved and I puffed on. Reaching the top, breathing heavily I felt exhausted but relieved that I'd make it on time.

However, relief turned to dismay as I couldn't find the station. I had not come far enough! There must be another hill to climb. I asked a group of young skateboarders, but they pointed back down the hill and I wasn't going to fall for that. Then a kindly old man with wispy white hair, seeing my puzzled glares at the map, pointed down the hill as well, giving directions in French. I could not summon the energy to run so descended the hill slower than I'd ascended, I'd run straight past the station chasing the bloody tram. I hope there's a profound moral there.