Boondock Puffins

Porto, as it turns out, is rather proud of its bridges. And rightly so. Chief among them is the Dom Luís I bridge – a hulking double-decker affair designed not by Eiffel himself, but by his overachieving apprentice Théophile Seyrig. Think of it as the Eiffel Tower that decided it wanted a more practical career in civil engineering. Spanning the Douro River in full metallic glory, it’s an ideal place to begin your day – particularly if you enjoy epic views and stairs that make your calves weep.

So, naturally, we set off at sunrise to see it in all its golden-hour magnificence. The city was still half asleep, which made it even more beautiful – and, thankfully, empty. A proper running route, if you enjoy architectural grandeur mixed with mild oxygen deprivation.

Post-bridge, we returned for showers and attempted to embrace culture by going to Porto’s library. Big mistake. It was absolutely rammed—like someone had announced free pastries and Wi-Fi and the entire population had turned up to write novels. We moved on to a recommended café, which, predictably, was also bursting at the seams. Porto is lovely, but it clearly didn’t get the memo about our need for a quiet morning.

So we gave up on the curated experience and went full local, stumbling into a bakery that didn’t appear on any hipster travel blog – and was all the better for it. Two pastries, €2. One croissant, one…thing with cinnamon and layers and possibly some sort of divine intervention. Frankly, the best value we’ve found in Portugal that didn’t involve petrol or a hostel with lemon water.

Back at the accommodation, we got stuck into a few hours of work—first in the room, then camped out like vagabonds in reception after check-out. Still, surprisingly productive, considering we were perched next to someone trying to charge six devices from one plug.

At 1pm, we hit the road toward the Douro Valley and the campsite we’d been quietly romanticising for days. The drive was, in a word, epic. Endless bends. Proper bends. The sort of bends motorcyclists write sonnets about. There were also cobbles, which, while slightly less poetic and slightly more dental, added a certain historic charm. Or spinal realignment, depending on your mood.

Then came the letdown. The campsite was… not what we’d hoped. Imagine a sun-blasted field, no shade, a layout designed by a committee of indecisive cats, and—to top it off—burrowing wasps. Actual insects making holes in the ground like they’d taken out a mortgage. We did what any rational humans would do: made polite excuses and left immediately.

Fortunately, the drive continued to deliver. Even the motorway was a joy. Somewhere around the fifth perfect bend we remembered we hadn’t eaten, so we stopped at a petrol station expecting disappointment and left thoroughly impressed—with iced tea and surprisingly excellent crisps. Portugal continues to surprise.

By 7:40pm, we rolled into another campsite, and this time the stars aligned. Quite literally, as it happens – there was a super blue moon above us. The man who greeted us was an absolute legend, offering gas, a smile, and a kind of serenity you can’t fake. We hadn’t eaten properly, were being harassed by flies the size of golf balls, and had no energy to put up the tent, but still: spirits were high.

Dinner was at the onsite restaurant (because nothing says camping like beef cubes and crème brûlée). Pork baked in an oven, the kind of beer that puts hair on your chest and a much-needed sit-down without insects dive-bombing our foreheads.

Then to bed, beneath the glowing blue moon, flies defeated for now, bellies full, and all trials of the day forgiven.