Boondock Puffins

Today was Porto day – home of port wine, a thousand bridges, and apparently the place that inspired Harry Potter (because of course it did; everything these days has a Potter link, doesn’t it?). Anyway, we were off to the City of Bridges, though our day began, somewhat optimistically, with a run along the Camino de Santiago.

Now, the Camino is normally a moving pavement of weary pilgrims and shiny new trekking poles, but this early in the morning it was blissfully empty. Just us, a cool breeze, and the quiet hum of crickets who were clearly better at mornings than we were. We even managed to remember we had a drone with us—yes, the same drone we’ve lugged halfway across two countries, nervously hiding it in our bag like contraband. Today, we actually flew the thing. Miracles do happen. The results were spectacular—rolling hills, quiet paths, the sort of shots travel YouTubers pretend just happen naturally, without forty minutes of panicked beeping and arguing over Bluetooth pairing.

Post-drone glory, we tucked into a hostel breakfast that was, predictably, a bit bread-heavy – but redeemed by homemade jam that tasted like it had been prepared by someone’s actual Portuguese grandmother. And then we were off, destination: Porto.

The road in was smooth sailing, nothing hair-raising. But here’s the thing – nobody tells you that Porto is secretly Europe’s motorbike metropolis. Every other shop seemed to sell helmets, gloves, sprockets, jackets, boots, bikes, or the sort of aftermarket exhausts that make dogs cry. It was like motorcyclist Christmas. I half expected the local cathedral to have a sideline in chain lube.

Now, parking in Porto is a sport in itself. We were directed to an underground ramp so steep it could double as a bobsled track. Honestly, it felt like descending into the Batcave—but with fewer gadgets and slightly more sweat. We survived, parked without dropping the bike (a small victory in any city), and headed out on foot to explore.

Porto, as cities go, is busy. Noisy, too. The kind of place where you feel like something is always happening – somewhere, someone’s trying to sell you sunglasses or a boat ride. And it was hot. The kind of heat that makes your backpack feel like a furnace and your eyebrows sweat. But despite all that, the place is spectacular. Cobbled streets, tiled buildings in cheerful decay, and a river that does a very convincing impression of the Seine if you squint and drink enough port.

Which, incidentally, is exactly what we did. We found a rooftop bar and indulged in the holy Portuguese trinity: port, pastel de nata, and a view. It was all very civilised, until a pigeon landed alarmingly close to our snacks and we were reminded, yet again, that birds are not to be trusted.

After that little interlude, we returned to our hotel for what we’ve come to call a “picnic dinner,” which is just fancy branding for cold meats and cucumber on the bed while watching the Tour de France on mute and responding to emails. It’s both glamorous and not, in equal measure.

Porto, in the end, won us over. Yes, it’s busy, and yes, the heat could melt your shoelaces, but the city has charm by the bucketload. There’s the Dom Luís I bridge (Eiffel had something to do with it—because bridges, apparently, were his side hustle), the beautifully chaotic Ribeira district, and São Bento Station with its ridiculous number of tiles. You could easily spend a week here and not get bored. Or, at the very least, you’d get fat and mildly lost in a very picturesque way.

One thing’s for sure: it’s impossible to leave Porto without feeling like you’ve absorbed a bit of its character—half romantic, half chaotic, entirely unforgettable.