over the border to França – and a day of surprises

The morning we left San Pedro our questions about Antonio senior’s story were answered. The casa project had been devised with two friends 10 years ago, one of whom was an architect – hence the high design values. Antonio moved from Madrid (where his wife still works in an infant school) for the usual reasons –wanting a lifestyle change. But unforeseen costs during the renovation pushed the project over budget and the resulting bank loan (which he has had to extend) means the gritty prospect of entering retirement with an unresolved debt. This, and health concerns that might lead to Antonio junior inheriting a debt in a milieu that he has not chosen (he has been helping out but his heart is not there), have forced Antonio senior to put the business on the market. Aiee. Yet again the Juan-and-Rebecca casa-rural project flickers. Aren’t we the ideal profiled couple? Language skills, appreciation of the area, aware of unexploited potential (improved meals, bike hire etc) But Juan is wisely not giving it air time. We embrace Antonio warmly and drive on.

França looks a short distance over the border, driving via Puebla de Sanabria through Portugal’s northern border. But the endless zigzag mountain road makes the journey quite long enough. The village is a comedown after lovely San Pedro: a raggle-taggle mix of old and decaying houses, no shop or infrastructure of any kind. Surrounded by densely forested hills our lack of maps is a barrier to exploring on foot. We are driven by necessity to continue on to Bragança.

The reason for coming to this area was to sample Montesiñho National Park, the main tourist attraction. So how is it that there is no info at the tourist office; the directions we were then given to the park office were wrong; a policeman subsequently gave us fantasy directions; the building – when we found it – was so badly signed that we wandered around it in vain; and the relevant office was unmanned? It all speaks volumes about the value put on the park and/or the budget available. But we pilfer a pile of leaflets which are a basis for a walk the following day.

The heart of Bragança is the citadel, which is fed by grand, steeply inclining terraces of houses. In another era it might have been the "Bath" of NE Portugal.  Now it is a mixture of renovated buildings and devastating decay. Amid innumerable cats basking in the sun and occasional food shops selling fruit and veg for an impossibly low 50c per kg are museums housing collections of photos (Georges Dussaud's wonderful collection of 1980s Trans Monte farming communities ) and art.

Occasional renovations suggest all is not lost

an abandoned shop

Up at the citadel Juan’s day is made by finding a souvenir shop selling chestnut baskets. One more for the collection.

Later in the day we look for a place to have supper, wondering if there is sufficient demand in Bragança to guarantee a decent meal. Remembering Coimbra a few years back we raise our gaze to the first floor, which seems to be where most restaurants are located. We look at a menu as a passing local tells us that the restaurant is good value. Juan starts to protest at the smell of boiled cabbage. But I have an intuition about the place and we venture up the stairs, mildly bothered by the threadbare carpet. At the top we are confused by two signs to the restaurant, one taking us through an ornate antechamber with antique tables loaded with books and plants. We are greeted by a courteous waitress – though “waitress” seems the wrong word for someone so regal. Entering the dining room is like walking through a C S Lewis wardrobe. One dining area leads to the next, with a door onto a first-floor terraced garden.

We settle in a corner and contemplate our options. The wine menu is beyond weird: bottles varying from 8€ to 192€, presented on pages that look as though a dog has got the better of them. It is becoming clear that the décor is out of sync with the cuisine, and what we see on the menu will not be what we get. After much hesitation we order… the die is cast… My melon and port is ginormous – a full half sphere; Juan’s chicken soup just about edible after he has chased the waitress for some salt. I fare better for the main course (partridge) but am baffled by the doll-sized portions of cold salad surrounding the bird. The wine, however, is a pleasant surprise – cheap and cheerful and delicious. As is the chocolate cake which (taking no chances, now) we share.

As we eat we are pleased to see that this isn’t another Portuguese disaster story – the place is filling up with couples a little older than us. I watch their underwhelmed expressions at the arrival of dishes that don’t quite conform to expectation. The whole experience is like a dream – the opulent surroundings, a sense of faded glory and keeping up appearances. As we leave, the passer-by who had tipped the balance in our choice of restaurant reappears as a second member of the waiting team. He catches sight of Juan’s basket and is enchanted. He asks us to wait a moment and goes off in search of something. Returning, he suggests that what it needs is a bottle of wine. And promptly places one there. We skip out of the building, delighted by the surreal evening – an early celebration of our 15th wedding anniversary.