The 'Everything Goes Wrong' day -To Oporto - Tuesday 29th September

Well, not quite everything, but every long trip is bound to have such a day; this is ours ...

We are up early. Earlier than expected actually. You see, in line with yesterday's Observation of the Day, i.e. our complete loss of sense of time, we have overlooked the fact that this western part of Spain is in a different time zone to the rest, being one hour behind. No worries, the large early morning moon hanging low in rose pink skies over the water looks beautiful as it hides itself away for the day. Pity the tide is out, which makes the view less appealing, but it's another beautiful morning. With another car journey beckoning. We are off, south to Oporto.

Oops, before we've even left, Brett discovers he has lost his sunglasses. We retrace our steps from yesterday afternoon and evening, enquiring at the bars and restaurant. The town is quiet but the bar owners are setting up chairs and getting into gear for the day. No sunglasses to be found. They are prescription so it's a bummer; we pack up and leave Cambados without them. It's been a short but sweet stay in a place we would like to have explored further.

I drive us into Portugal, with Connie's good guidance. [NB: Our original plan had been to travel to southern Spain but switched to Portugal at some point as we were enjoying the north too much]. 

The roads in Portugal are as efficient as those in Spain but, alas, we fail to heed Connie's "bear right" instruction when going through a large toll gate and end up going through the booth for those who have passes or cards or whatever they have in Portugal to cover tolls up front. Which we do not. Once through, we can't pay our toll. Oh dear, we envisage fines and smacked hands, but there is nothing we can do about it. The road hauls us on towards Oporto. You are also supposed to get special documentation to drive in Portugal but there is no border control to get it. Just a bridge linking the two countries; one side in Spain, the other in Portugal. Naughty us, we are breaking all the rules.

We have no accommodation booked in Oporto. A recommended hotel was full when we'd tried to book online and our research stopped there, Brett assuring me it wouldn't be a problem to find something. Hmmmm. Oporto is not Cambados!! 

We drive to the recommended hotel anyway, in the hope they may have a cancellation or something. It looks very nice but no, sorry, they are fully booked. And everywhere else is likely to be full too, they tell us - Oporto is playing Chelsea tonight. In Porto. Big game. They give us a few suggestions and a map and we walk off in search of the nearest one. We get a bit tangled up with directions (the roads are confusing ... or is it the map ... or is it us!?)  I get an earful whatever it is. We walk round in circles for a bit, getting nowhere except cross with everything and each other. Brett does not cope so well when things are not going to plan, even if there isn't really any plan. I try to remain solution-focussed whatever the scenario. He is by now just plain ratty. I guess I'm used to this but it doesn't make it acceptable. I deal with it best I can and try to remain solution-focussed! I sense there will be a solution ...

We spot a couple of hotels but not the ones suggested to us. One looks 5-star, the other, well, who knows what it might be like but it's worth a try. We go in and, after a little humming and haa-ing with a dubious look, the man says, yes, they have a room, and it is €55. We were expecting to pay way more than that, especially given the city is full. The man on the desk seems very nice, there is parking in a car park across the road and the room is almost ready even though it is before 2pm, the usual check in time. We take the room for three nights. It is a tiny but tidy room on the second floor. Phew.

The Hotel Vice-Rei is old-fashioned, reminding me of hotels I stayed in in Europe in the 1980s. The room key is a real one with a heavy brass key ring. The kind you definitely leave at reception when you go out, or lament forgetting to do so as it weighs your bag down on the other side of town. No modern card entry at this place. 

The shower is small with a curtain that wraps round on two sides - haven't seen one of those in a hotel in years! The bathroom door is battered to buggery. There is a little balcony overlooking the busy main street below. We don't realise it yet - but this hotel is actually in a great location - in Boavista - and it turns out to be a very good hotel that meets all our needs.  At this point we are still settling down from hissing at each other in the streets! But it seems things have worked out okay in the end. At least as far as accommodation goes ...!!

There is, however, the matter of our unpaid toll. We confess, and the nice man on the desk tells us we can pay the toll at an office on the fringe of town by the football stadium. This will avoid a fine. So the first thing we do is go and sort that. Perhaps we are being too compliant, but we're up for an adventure - and perhaps neither of us wants to be in a position to accuse the other they were responsible for any potential fine!!! 

We take the Metro to the Stadium, where the big game is about to happen. The train journey is chaotic, people shouting, yelling, jostling, going about their day. And getting to the Stadium, which is an impressive building. It's quiet though, when we arrive; too early for the crowds yet, but merchandise stalls are setting up and security is preparing. This is indeed a big match. We wonder about seeing if we can get tickets but assume, rightly, that it is a sellout and there is no chance.

It is early afternoon and it is stinking hot. We find the street the "pay your toll" office is in, but it is a very long street. And I mean very long. The office, alas, is at the far end of this very long street. It is very far. Sign. We walk and walk and finally arrive, hot and thirsty. The office is seething with people. It seems to deals with all kind of road, driving, toll, licence issues. 

I deduce that we have to get a ticket from the machine which gives us a number and we must wait until that number comes up on the screen. I push the button, get the ticket, and groan. We are number 87 and the screen shows 42. Thankfully there is a cafe/bar next door. We go get a beer and sit there for a while. I check progress as we drink. It's slow. We finish our beer and they are only up to number 45. Loud groan. 

Hmmm, what can I do to expedite this nonsense, I wonder. I go up to the ticket machine again and spy a button with 'Priority' on it. I push it and a new ticket pops out with a different number system. C22. A minute later, literally, C22 comes up on screen! Oh thank goodness for "priority"! Why didn't I spot that sooner. We go to the appointed desk but the woman doesn't speak English. We are directed to a very nice man n another booth who does. He sorts us out swiftly and tells us we are not the only foreigners to make this mistake. We pay the toll, thank the man nicely, and leave as number 46 comes up on the screen ... Thank goodness for Priority buttons! It seems no one much knows about this button - or uses it! Bloody glad I did! I needed no special anything to benefit hugely from pushing it!!! 

We walk to a different Metro station much nearer the office, down a street seemingly in the middle of nowhere. There are community gardens everywhere and people pottering in them. We are in outer Porto suburbia. Being here wasn't quite in the plan but it is an interesting  place to be nevertheless. 

The train station is modern but we can't seem to work the ticket machine and we can't get on the train without one. We are, it seems, destined to flout the rules in Portugal!  Good job there are no physical barriers here requiring you to process a ticket to get through and on the train like in France and Spain. There is just a validation system. We travel along, change trains and take another Metro to the old part of town, purchasing a ticket at the change point, another mission with a machine that won't work, won't take our notes, spits back our coins. Sadly, it doesn't have a Priority button, but happily a nice young woman helps us get sorted and we continue our journey.

Safely in the old town and, we hope, with no more things to go wrong, we wander down to the Douro river. It is busy, the Chelsea-supporting Brits out in force in exuberant mood. Boats go up and down the river and the colourful but faded buildings have pride of place by the water's edge. The sun shines down and we have a drink on the balcony of a bar overlooking the river, and the many port houses on the other side. The burdens of our day have faded. After we have enjoyed the lively scenes by the river for some time, we Metro back to the hotel and chill for a bit before heading out to dinner. We ask the hotel man for a recommendation and he points us along the road and round the corner and rattles off the name of an eaterie. We obviously don't listen properly and before we know it we are going round in circles. Again. We navigate the environs again but still can't find anything resembling a nice place to eat. I suggest this way, Brett suggests that. En route we find a couple of seedy food joints, a modern food hall, a cemetery and a few back alleys, and things are in danger of going badly wrong again. What is going on ... We can't even find a recommended restaurant around the corner!? It seems we have lost our mojo. I think we are having a mid-trip crisis! 

We return to the hotel and ask the man to pinpoint the place on the map and write the name down. We set off afresh. We find a restaurant and Brett is convinced it is the one, but the name doesn't match. Oh well, it looks good and is full of locals so it can't be bad and I can't be bothered searching further or pushing the point. We go in and take a seat. The big match has begun and all eyes are in the place are on the screen. 

The menu is huge. We order a tomato salad and the house specialty of Seafood Rice for two, a Portuguese-style paella served in a big copper dish with lid. It is truly massive. And very tasty. Full of big prawns, small clams and medium sized mussels. And much more. We almost consume the lot, but not quite. Our waiter has recommended a very good white wine to go with it. Locals come and go and scoff and watch the game and cheer. When we are done, our waiter opens the lid to take a peek at our remains and is visibly impressed with our efforts. We treat ourselves to port for eating up our dinner. Our waiter brings us two glasses, and leaves the bottle on the table, indicating 'help yourselves'. Thank you, we will.

Oporto wins the game and everyone is happy. We are the last to leave. The port bottle is empty and we are not even charged for the port, it is their gift to us. Seriously? Yes, seriously! We tell our lovely waiter we will be back tomorrow night. He beams. 

Hey, why go somewhere else, somewhere touristy, when this is on your doorstep? We have had a most excellent night after a somewhat arduous day of one drama or another, and return to our hotel. But then again ... we're on holiday and trying new things is good.

In summary, after a harrowing morning where things didn't go well, the dated and helpful Hotel Vice-Rei saved our day. And now it will host our night. Sleep is good!

Observation of the Day: Portuguese people are short. I notice how short the men are when we are on the Metro train and, squashed amongst them, I realise I am taller than every single person around me. The women are short but, actually, I tower above the men. I am not at all tall, but I feel positively willowy. It's a new experience for me, to feel "tall" even though I am not. Brett is a relative giant. I make a point of observing the height of people, especially males, throughout the afternoon and, yes, shortness prevails. If you spot a tall man in Portugal, you can bet your bottom dollar he will not be Portuguese! This is not being heightest or sexist, it's reality as my observation concurs with further research undertaken - it is true, Portuguese men are amongst the shortest in the world. They are also incredibly friendly, helpful, chatty and effervescent. Tick.