Portugal

After a lunch of marinated pork ribs, rice and the most local of organic greens courtesy of Lucy's Mum, Alice, the four of us take a drive.

Behind glass the sun warms the car comfortably for our trip 40km North-East to Amarante, straddling the Rio Tamega. The road drops quickly into the town centre and takes us into a cobbled square with a minute petrol station, filters us into a dark, narrow street, shared with pedestrians, and eventually over an ancient bridge spanning the river. On the South side, the town hangs over the steep banks of the river, many buildings jutting out over the water. On the North, a 16th century church stands proudly beside impossible winding streets of an old bairro.

We take coffee at a cafe on a riverside square outside the church. Some research is necessary to reveal whether this is the location used for the denouement of "Love Actually" where Colin Firth mangles Portuguese for the sake of his heart; it certainly looks like it. The church has an extraordinary gilded altarpiece, too gaudy for English eyes. Relics and graphic statuary make for macabre company, this is no place for the unholy. I retire to watch the river and street life.

Jobless and retired men mark time on garden furniture outside cafes. They dress respectably in shirts, sweaters and jackets, a hat is optional. A waitress in a hair-net solemnly fills tumblers with port. Conversation is gruff and fractious-sounding, the privilege of long friendship. A few hundred yards up the river, another man watches the loose end of his fishing line from a rock in a shallow cataract. At some point the rapid was upgraded to provide sport for energetic Summer kayakers. A cat's cradle of ropes span the river suspending a series of vertical gates, the red or green directional notation and white paint of the poles is badly faded and cracking.

The narrow lane home traces a countour line along the Rio Tamega's corrugated valley. The curves are constant and the view slides back and forth across a driver's gaze. A maniac back-projection cameraman hoping to make his name could not intimate a more nauseous ride. This time of year the landscape is crisply defined. Later, lush foliage will suffocate the terrace edges, mossy dry-stone walls, tilled fields and vineyards. For now, the yellow of Mimosa and bowing lemon trees, and the red of last year's leaf fall contrast with the modestly green slopes and still leafless trees. Mystery is provided by the banks of backlit river-mist mingling with muscular plumes of wood smoke. The fires that look so impressive might warm only a corner of a profoundly cold granite home These houses were designed for Summer, to be retreated into when the heat becomes impossible.


- The Tâmega river at Amarante


- Gaudy alterpiece


- Spooky cross in the old town


- Lucy mugging for the camera

To celebrate our release from the road we are directed by Neca, Lucy's father, up the hill overlooking Alpendurada, through a tunnel of bare vines, to a three-storey house. On the ground floor is a long, narrow room with a tiny bar at the far end. We eat green olives, heavy bread and salpicao. This last is a prime fillet of pork cured with salt, wine and wood smoke then stored in olive oil until sliced thin for the table. It's sweet, sour, salty and smoky. Could it be the ultimate bar-snack? To accompany, we have a white china pot of red wine to pass between us. Homer would have added honey and water to make this inkily thick, bitter and pungent brew more palatable for his pampered heros, but we are made of stronger stuff and neck two pots at fridge temperature. Not only is this snack tasty and wholesome, it has impeccable local and organic credentials.

Stomach and soul thus refreshed it is visiting time. Arnaldo's new place commands an impressive view of the valley. Nelo and Annabella have also moved and are positioned at the foot of a ridiculously steep drive. On the next terrace down, a neighbour tills his kidney-shaped field. He tosses his tractor about with abandon and no little skill, working at a rate which suggests that his dinner is poised above the dog. Keeping watch is Nelo's newest toy, a caged raven. The story has it that the bird, already fully grown, sidled over to him and asked to be put inside, and it may deserve to be there. It has a menacingly deranged way of marching and hopping along its perches, karking one-two-three-four times, and then wiping it's beak as if it can't quite get that spot of blood off. I won't be letting it anywhere near my eye-sockets.

The property above Lucy's parents' is up for sale and has been for a year. It's a little smallholding with a river view, a three storey house and plenty of problems. It has no access, and is on an awkward bend in the road. The house itself probably needs tearing down and rebuilding from the foundations - no small task, but surely a bargain at €50k?

Or is it? Sergio, a contemporary of Lucy and local architect outlines the difficulties and irregularities of the planning legislation designed to protect what is now a UNESCO World Heritage site. This percentage of your land may be developed, this many stories, this many windows per story. All couched in a great big "maybe". It is all too easy to be seduced by the majestic curves and cosseting ambiance of the valley and make grand designs on a ruin, only to be told that your piece of heaven has been designated for growing spuds and nothing more. Caveat emptor indeed.


- Offsetting our carbon-footprint by planting a single Magnolia tree in Ricardo and Joana's garden.


- Misty magic of the Douro