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Coimbra, Portugal

Sitting on the town square in the late afternoon, a welcome breeze comes up from the river, cooling down the cobbled streets. The locals are doing their customary strolling through the streets. Students with long black cloaks swaying in the breeze make their way up to the university. What a gentle city, edges softened by centuries of sophistication. A student just draped his cloak on the grass for his girlfriend to sit on.

Escaping the Portuguese palace this morning (it felt like being trapped in a bad, glitzy, Bollywood movie) we quickly found our yellow arrows again. The guesthouse could not have been closer to the highway – every truck made the entire house rattle. I feared for the safety of the espresso cups. We had a good laugh about the absurdity of being dropped off in the mall last night, and both agree that our dinner of chicken, sausage, coleslaw and roast potatoes was the best meal so far. I do believe that good Portuguese traditional food is – like in South Africa – hard to find in restaurants. Roland asked me about South African food, and before I knew it I am waxing lyrical about frikadelle and sweet potatoes with preserved ginger, oxtail and skenkelpot with dried fruit, and of course chicken pie… I trust that further north I will find some good home cooking in one of the Alberques.

Our morning walk is crisp – the woods are washed clean and showing off fresh green after the rains of last night. The soil smells fresh and again we are mesmerized by the smell of the fig trees. The luscious purple figs of yesterday are now only a dream… Our first stop in Santa Clara, on the pavement in a busy street opposite a bus stop, brings cafe negro (extra hot after endless sign language) and fresh pastel nata. The custard filling inside the nata is just the perfect texture, soft enough to ooze into your mouth, the most sensual, comforting texture in a crispy casing, baked to perfection! I would love to get hold of this recipe…

We realise that we were actually in one of the suburbs of Coimbra last night. When you are walking, places feel very far apart. Yet, looking at the map we were literally about as far away from Coimbra as Kenilworth is from Cape Town. Walking through the suburbs it is interesting to see the remarkable difference between city and country life. These are literally worlds apart, yet only kilometers apart. School children catching busses, businessmen going to work, housewifes sweeping yards (one of them seriously killing the snails that dared up her front gate during the night).

Roland is wonderful company – he is gentle and makes good conversation. I am intrigued by what he tells me about life in Sweden and how people are determined to maintain the status quo and not rock the boat. The result of course is that no one ever makes any decisions, as they are too scared to offend or to be taken up on their decision. Also interesting what a premium is put on family life, and the expectations that come with that. We walk together in long silences, yet have a good laugh every now and then, which does make the time pass much quicker that both of us would want. He is going back to Lisbon tonight, and then back to Sweden tomorrow morning, having done an eight day walk as an appetizer for a longer walk later. Admittedly he says that he thinks it was a mistake, as he is also only now getting into the rythm of the caminho. Walking with someone is a totally different experience. Actually voicing thoughts and expressing opinions make for a more cerebral experience, whilst walking alone one ponders and simply let things come and go through your mind. When there is no one to moan to about the steep hill or the heat or the flies, it someone just happens and passes, non judgmentally. (Difficult with the flies I would admit – I do prefer to swear very loudly and crudely at them. As if they pay any attention…. I should really consider the corks on my hat – have certainly drunk enough red wine to cover my brim!).

As we come over the hill, Coimbra unfolds across the horizon in all her splendour. (I remember from our last visit the steep roads up to the old part of town, where Victor and I got stuck in a pedestrian area (my navigating), me trying to find directions whilst he bought condoms in aid of AIDS research, to my absolute irritation…). As we start the descent to the river, tour busses draw our attention to what must be a place of interest. We decide to investigate – and enter the breathtaking splendour of the Moistera de Santa Clara. From outside the convent looks like a huge warehouse. Inside my breath is literally taken away. The high vaulted ceilings and intricate, guilded woodcarvings are truly breath taking. Built in honour of Saint Elizabeth (born in 1271) who was married to King Diniz of Spain. A social consciousness, Queen Elizabeth smuggled bread to the poor, to the irritation of her husband. One day he folllowed her to catch her taking bread to the poor, when opening her basket the bread had turned into roses. The unfaithful husband could not understand this. Later, Isabelle was known to be a peacemaker and had no qualms riding her horse into a war zone to calm both sides. In 1625 she was canonized. This cloister built in her honour and bearing her remains is spectacularly renovated, the cloister courtyard a haven of peace and tranquility. As we walk through, the rain falls softly colouring the sandstone to a deep ochre. The wear and tear of centuries on the stone makes for the most intriguing patterns on the colomns. A most charming guide shows us the original coffin of Queen Elizabeth in a less ornate part of the cloister. It is impossible not to be moved by the mixture of serenity, beauty, splendour and architectural wizardry. How did they get all these stones carved and assembled and put together without cranes and mechanical engineering?

As we leave the cloister and start walking across the river, there is a torrential downpour with nowhere to hide! Soaked to the bone, we run into the smallest little pub trying to hide from the rain, another excuse to drink more beer. Eventually (two beers later) the rain subsides and we find a hotel for me for the night, right next to the Se Velha Cathedral. (I cannot yet bare the thought of a dormitory, so get a room high up in the rafters. Shared bathrooms – but a double bed and my own space). We decide that as we are right next to the cathedral, we might as well go in and see it. (I know I know – another cathedral…). Well, behind the massive red curtain that hangs across the entrance we are welcomed by very well spoken students who inform us that it will cost 2 euro to see the cloisters. We decide it is worth it and venture forth. I am not sure if Roland or I were more astounded. I wish I had a better vocabulary to describe this cathedral. Suffice to say – when I walked into the cloister I was in tears. It was so unbelievably beautiful that I simply cried. We spent a long time just soaking up the peaceful atmosphere, I took loads of photographs, especially of the Moorish tiles.

Our souls enriched by the quietude of the cathedral, we venture out into the real world again. Of course it is pouring with rain, and we have to run to the next cafe to grab (another) beer. As soon as the rain subsides, we decide to find a place to have a meal before Roland takes off. Walking around in circles, every restaurant looks like the next tourist trap. We walk right around the old town, and just as I thought we should just hug and say goodbye, a tiny little cafe Maria jumps out at us. Five tiny tables, display shelves covered in sardine tins, fado blaring and the voluptuous lady in the kitchen singing along at the top of her voice, we know that this is our lunch date. We both order the spicy chickpea salad with chorico and crispy ham, I wine and Rolando beer. There is a table of seven girls and one man, who I would assume to be students. It is so obvious that all seven girls are madly in love with him – charming, witty, sexy. (They laugh just that little bit too loud at his jokes, taking turns to engage with him on what looks
like silly questions). The two waitresses are totally charming, with little rituals of slowly pouring the dressing over salads and making sensual gestures over their food. Daniella (I did not get the name of the voluptuous one) is a clown, serving her tables with such passion that she just steals my heart. Our salad – well, voted best meal in Portugal to date! It is zesty, spicy, chick peas fresh and crunchy, chorizo zingy and the crispy ham just rounds it off with balls. On our third round, the student picks up the guitar….and as they would say in the classics, the rest is history. Hours and many songs later, we stumble out of Maria’s, hug each other and I fall into my bed in a drunken stupor.

Now it is 21h37, I am sitting in a small restaurant a stone’s throw from my hotel, having just had a soulful cheese platter and (more more more) wine, waiting for the fado performance to start. I am in heaven….

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