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Lavra, Portugal

I am intrigued by the initiation practices that I saw in both Coimbra and Porto. First year students are marched around the city by senior students. The latter are in full black dress and black tie, with black cloaks that they use to shield off onlookers by holding up the cloaks like a screen The first years wear branded T-shirts, and the lot I saw yesterday were all wearing paper hats that looked like donkey’s ears. They are made to sing, dance, chant and perform. Having some very strong opinions on these rituals at our universities back home, I am really surprised to see that it happens here as well. More surprising though is that in both Coimbra and Porto all these students then congregate in front of my hotel room to get drunk and party until 03h00 in the morning, making the most unbelievable noise and leaving an even more unbelievable mess of cigarettes, plastic beer cups, papers and kotsch on the pavement, which is then all cleaned up at 06h00 in the morning by the local cleaning up people. They use big lorries with those round broom-like things and high pressure hoses that are powered by even bigger generators on lorries. OK I will stop kvetching (for now) – but all this at 06h00 when the noise only stopped at 03h00.

The organ recital last night is by German wunderkind Axel Flierl in a massive concrete block of a modern church. The organ is newly built (2000) with some elements from a previous organ built by the Scot Peter Conacher. (Little bit of useless information). Thanks to the concrete and solid wood, roch-hard benches and marble tiles throughout the church, it has the most wonderful acoustics. Opening with a Fantasie and Fugue of Bach, the full power and glory of the instrument reverberates through the very marrow of your bones. If this does not stir your soul, you do not have a soul. For me, classical music it the true “personification” or manifestation of the mystery of the universe. I do believe that the grandeur of architecture is an attempt perhaps to “vergestalt” the mystery. Whilst quite extraordinary to see nowadays, it is such a sad and miserable failure if that was indeed the intention. The program of Bach, Liszt, Franck, Mozart and Landmann is such a privilege to experience. Like so many times on this journey I feel so perfectly content and in tune with the universe, experiencing the perfect harmony with and through the music. (My only wish at that moment is to be able to tap into this being when I am back home again and the pawpaw is making its way to the fan).

I decide (against my will) to follow old Brierly’s advice and take the metro to Matasinhos, near the Porto harbour, from where the coastal journey starts. I am very much in two minds about whether to take the coastal or the interior route, knowing that for some parts of the coastal route it seems that I will have to walk on the beach. Now while I love walking on the beach, I am not so sure what it will do with a backpack and in the heat of the day. Last night I decided to do whatever comes into my mind first thing in the morning (well second thing, first things is always “I miss my Nespresso”). SO the coastal route it will be. Another blue sky perfect day, it seems the right thing to do. The route goes over a massive drawbridge, down the street and you are on the beach. Just as you arrive at the promenade, there is a sign that you can get a stamp for the Compostella. I ask the lady how many people do this route, and am suprised when she says I am the first one today (it was already 09h30) and that usually she sees about five people a day. Obviously the road less travelled. Could be good, could be bad, could just be. (The song this morning just happens to be “When I find myself in times of trouble, mother Mary comes to me… Let it be, let it beeeeeee….). So I will let it be. Waves that look a mile long break in slowmotion onto white sandy beaches. Surfers are out, dog stollers stroll, joggers jog and old men sit. The coast is rich in history which is communicated on plagues all along the boardwalk. Idyllic little restaurants varying in their style – from very simple to the most stylish jetset type hangout places – are dotted all along the walk. Of course the temptation to stop and just sit is there. But the journey must continue. One day I will come back and sit here for a long time. Maybe even forever.

In Porto I discovered an art shop, not nearly as exciting as the one Kobie showed me in Melbourne, but exciting never the less. Today was the type of day that needed to be sketched or painted. Elegant brush strokes of watercolour on rough paper with a steady hand to give expression to the waves crashing down on the beach. Because word and photographs again cannot do justice to this poetry in motion. It needs colour and movement and descriptions that go beyond the ordinary. The type of magnificence that stops you in your tracks. Minutes later you realise that you actually stopped breathing in fear of this moment passing with an out breath. Wanting so desperately to hang on to the magic, that wonderment of nature in all her glory, powerful, subtle, exploding, gentle. In the rolling and crashing of the waves I find the deepest sense of calm, a total contradiction. The comfort of tides, the knowing that the tide will rise and fall, tomorrow the sun will rise at exactly the second that it should. That seasons will come and go. The rain will fall, the leaves will turn, the harvest will mature, the storks will fly from South Africa to Turkey. Every year, “religously”, without the slightest help from mankind. We can build our churches and sing our hymns, it will make no difference to the perfect rythm of nature.

What Brother Brierly does not know, is that since he wrote his little guidebook (hahaha) the Portuguese have actually completed the boardwalk all the way from Porto to Vila do Conde. A pristine, brand new (what looks like Balau) walkway over the precious dunes, with loads of signage explaining the fauna and flora of each area. And more and more dune restoration to build new, stronger dunes. So for 21,87 kms I walk on sturdy, new boardwalks, the mighty ocean crashing on the one side, village life in all its mutations happening on the other. From the grandest of seaside apartment blocks to the smallest of stone fishermen cottages, the route just ambles along the coast, truly undisturbed by my presence. The walk into Vila do Conde is overpowered by the majestic presence of the convent of Santa Clara (1318), a massive block in white with the by now familiar sandstone edging around the windows. This one is adourned with beautiful urns on top of the roof.

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