retiredmartin

March 2024. Porto. Portugal.

Returning from Porto’s south side, the one with the sherry and port and artery clogging sandwiches, Mrs RM took in the views from the top of the Ponte Louis I.

“That green bar with the balcony looks good“. She’s incorrigible, she really is.

“It’s looks a steep walk” I say, wary of being told off in half an hour’s tim.

But it’s an invigorating descent,

on a route packed with art,

although I can’t quite see where the pitch that Guindalense FC, whose social club we’re heading for,

fits into these slopes. But then slopes never stopped Yeovil.

I was going to compare Porto with Newcastle; the river, the bridges, the artery clogging cuisine, the hills.

Although there’s nothing obvious to compare with the Bridge Hotel or Crown Posada, the Guindalense seems to be the local hipster’s choice, perhaps more Tyne Bar than Free Trade, mind.

All the young folk are on the balcony with their cocktails,

but I prefer the sports club atmosphere inside, with ice cream cabinet, saints cabinet,

and trophy cabinet.

Duncan was at that title-winning match, you know (att:37 (away 3) )

My turn for a Super Bock Stout (a bit thin), Mrs RM has her only glass of port (a bit thick); they come to about £4 from memory. When we took my in-laws to Lisbon 25 years ago my FIL (see Mumsnet for acronyms) nearly had to re-mortgage their Tunbridge Wells mansion to afford a round of port.

The soundtrack is an ’80s camp pop dream.

Oh, it’s not camp ?

It’s Wolves v Fulham (LIVE !!!) on the telly. I assume it’s because Fulham are London’s top club, but I remember that their manager and half the side are Portuguese.

But I’m no armchair viewer, certainly now VAR has wrecked the game, and pop out for the views.

And then we descend down the stairs towards the sea.

“Shouldn’t we be going back UP the steps ?” says RM, who never learns.