The Fortaleza de Valença
As you know, due to unfortunate circumstances, we didn’t make it to Tui last month for hubby’s birthday. Now, he is healing and we’ve managed to get out and about in August. One of our trips was to Valença, just across the river Miño/Minho in Northern Portugal.
Valença is a wonderful place, full of history. The old town is contained within 600-year-old fortified walls, the Forteleza de Valença – but our first stop was the market…
It was my friend who suggested a visit to Valença market, one of the biggest in the region, to find a wedding gift. On each Wednesday, come rain or shine, Valença market opens its stalls to hundreds of customers from both north and south of the border. We passed stalls with jamón and bread, stalls with plastic toys and furry barking toy dogs, yap yapping madly, bedding and towels, shoes piled haphazardly in teetering heaps, and clothes from kitchen aprons to ball gowns. There are also plenty of ceramics stalls, and that’s where I was headed.
“These cobbles are not wheelchair friendly, are they?” I said, as S bumped Mum along in her newly acquired vehicle.
She’d already had to get out of her chair to clamber over a metre high bund, half way across the car park (we, of course, had been forced to park at the furthest point from the action). She’d also had to climb a flight of steps up to the market itself as the long concrete wheelchair ramp was around 1 in 5 and had a huge step at the bottom. The cobbles rattled the chair and Mum’s back, and we had to keep hauling it out of the channels – thoughtfully provided to remove rainwater. Sadly, rainwater is something in short supply in Northern Portugal and Galicia this year so the ditches merely served to launch Mum from her seat across the cobbles.
Despite the boneshaking, Mum enjoyed poking and prodding the goods and I found the perfect gift – which I cannot reveal until it has been handed over to the party in question.
It had to be done...Portuguese custard tarts are delish!
We lunched at a busy restaurant near to the market. The menu was short, the waiter overworked and disorganised.
“Four soups, three beef and one pork please,” we asked.
He wrote the order down and vanished, returning some time later with paper place mats and three glasses. I’m not sure why, as there were four of us. Still.
A little while later, he reappeared to take our drinks order.
“Red wine and water, please. And another glass.”
He disappeared, only to re-emerge with drinks and our main meals.
“You can have the soup afterwards,” he said, mysteriously, plonking down the meat and potatoes.
“Soup for dessert? That’s different,” said S.
“I’ve had cherry soup. That would be a good dessert,” I replied.
“Melon soup is scrummy,” added my friend.
“I think I’d prefer it before dinner,” said Mum.
The food was good, the meat tender and flavoursome, but we were still a glass short.
“Why don’t you have a glass,” Mum asked S, looking worried.
“This is my glass,” was his reply. He lifted the wine jug to his lips, laughing.
We did get the fourth glass, after a time, but the soups remained elusive, dessert flavour or not. When the waiter brought the bill, I cheekily asked for a discount as we never received our starter. He simply laughed.
“I don’t think there ever was any soup,” observed my friend. “I didn’t see a tureen go to any other table.”
“Ha. I think you’re right. It was imaginary soup.”
Tui castle, across the Miño
After lunch, and a good laugh at the mysterious invisible soup, it was time to check in. I’d booked a hotel within the old fortifications, overlooking the river Miño. Across the river was Tui, where we should have been last month, its large hilltop castle dominating the town. On the Portuguese side, the hefty fortifications hinted at earlier conflicts between the countries.
Impressive fortifications
The only entrance to the Fortaleza de Valença, is via ancient stone gateways.
“It’s okay,” said my friend, “we used to make it through with the big van. We did have to fold in the wing mirrors though!”
There was a long queue waiting for the traffic signal to attempt the first of the entrances to the old hillfort. The deep gouges and lines of multi-coloured paint attested to the narrowness of the first arched gate.
S did a wonderful job of scraping through, without any scrapes on the car, and we entered the walled town.
It's a narrow squeeze
The narrow, cobbled one-way road wound anti-clockwise through busy streets towards the second, inner walls. Each of the two entrances into the Fortaleza consist of double arched, gated openings through the thick stone walls. Between is a covered part, just greater than a car’s length. It was full of sheltering pedestrians, who had stoically ignored the red signal to play chicken with the cars. The second set of gateways was narrower than the first and had a lovely bend at the far side. I later saw a car coming the other way, stuck, unable to go forwards or backwards and blocking the traffic. I would not have wanted to be him!
The only entrances into the old town
Within the second set of gates, the streets were, if possible, narrower and busier. August visitors thronged the usual tourist-orientated shops, whose goods spilled out onto the pavement. Beach towels flapped from railings and ‘antiques’, or junk, filled the space in front of the shops. People walked or pushed buggies along the centre of the road, or stood taking the obligatory selfies – oblivious to the traffic wending its way slowly past.
Hubby is feeling better!
We took a stroll, after checking in. My friend did some essential clothes shopping (so she says!), whilst Mum, S and I sat at a table in the square, enjoying a free show from a talented busker.
The café had been heaving, all tables taken, and Mum was flagging from walking. We’d already deemed the old town not to be wheelchair friendly. Cobbles and steep hills do not make for a happy mother, or pusher.
“Sit here, Mum.” I pulled out a lone chair, after checking with the table’s two occupants that it was free. I moved it away from the table and sat her facing the busker. Within less than a minute, the couple had vacated their table, leaving it free for us to commandeer.
“I count that a success, then.” I grinned.
The one on the left is for sale...mmm
The waiter took an age to arrive, but we were happily listening to Ben E King, The Beatles, and Oasis.
A little while later, when the busker’s set had moved on to The Police and Dire Straits, our friend rejoined us, bags bulging.
“I love that frock,” I commented, pulling a green silk dress out of her bag.
“I got this scarf to go with it,” she said, showing Mum.
“I’d get you a drink, but they are not terribly good at noticing customers dying of thirst!” I said, waving my hand at a young waiter.
He lolloped over, cleaning cloth in hand.
“I wipe your table for you,” he said, collecting the empties.
I started to say it was our mess, but closed my mouth.
An hour later, after appearances by Michael Jackson, Bob Dylan, and the return of The Beatles for an encore, we signalled for the bill.
“That’s not right,” said my friend, handing over a fifty euro note. “I think he only charged for one round.”
“They have those fancy electronic ordering pads so it must link back to the till. I’m sure they’ll correct it there.”
“Or he’ll ask the other waiter,” added S.
It didn’t, and he didn’t. I felt slightly guilty about our reduced bill but decided our gain made up for our non-existent soup earlier.
“Swings and roundabouts,” I said. Then… “Run, Mum.”
Until next month, take care…