Himself has been raving about Portugal’s oldest chartered town ever since he came back from the Camino – and that wasn’t today or yesterday. So, when the opportunity came knocking, I answered. The town takes its name from the River Lima that runs through it and the bridge that crosses it. Just as it says on the tin – Ponte de Lima.
Legend has it that when a Roman general, Decimus Junius Brutus, was heading to Spain with his men back around 138 BC – before the bridge had been built – the boys didn’t want to cross the Lethes, as it was known then. It was believed that the river was a portal to Hades and that if you crossed it, you’d forget everything you knew. Leading by example, Decimus crossed over and then, from the other side, called his men across one by one, shouting their names to show them that he hadn’t forgotten a thing.
The bridge itself is actually two bridges – the bigger medieval bridge, which stretches from the town to the church of Santo António da Torre Velha; the smaller five-arched, first-century Roman bridge picks up from two arches past the church. They’re beautifully lit at night. In fact, the town seems to have gone LED-crazy with the lights along the river.
We spotted some impressive, seemingly abandoned buildings that had me adding to my Lotto win list. It’s a gorgeous little town, one I’d have no trouble living in, if only someone would cotton on to the fact that plant milk is a thing.
Our landlady warned us not to dally because although there is loads of free parking by the river, there was a festival on the evening we arrived and it’d be bedlam. [Watch that free parking – we got boxed in and had to enlist the help of two police officers, one who had a kid living in Cork – to track down the owners so we could get out – that’s an hour of my life I’ll never get back.]
Vaca das cordas is an annual festival held on the eve of Corpus Christi. It involves a bull on a rope being run around the church three times, tied to the iron grid of the church tower, bathed in red wine, and then run down to the sands. It’s been going on for centuries.
I didn’t get it myself. The bull looked a tad pissed off. And I can’t imagine he was lining up with the other bulls in the pen, eager to be chosen. And the eight lads who ended up in hospital might be rethinking the wisdom of their ways. The town’s website (if the translation can be believed) says:
Today, this tradition is fulfilled in Ponte de Lima in a game of respect. Men and bulls engage in a dialogue of strength and courage, of challenge and of flight, of pain and mutual suffering. No one loses this challenge, because it is a challenge: by the force of the bull, man throws his intelligence; to the lack of wisdom of man, the bull fulfills what is expected of itself!…
Locals work through the night to decorate the streets with flower carpets (tapetes floridos). We spied strategically placed bags of coloured sawdust, which are supplemented with flower petals and shrubs to fill intricate wooden moulds. These temporary works of art are visually stunning.
Unbelievably, we missed the International Garden Festival, another annual event that runs from May to October, but I suspect we may be back.
Ponte de Lima is on the Portuguese Camino route from Porto to Santiago de Compostela and we saw more than our fair share of pilgrims. I found myself playing a game of spot the Camino’er – the blisters and the hobbling were dead giveaways. Every breed, creed, and generation. More power to them.
I had been looking forward to some good seafood, like what we had in Ericeira a few years back, but the food this time was nothing to write home about. The wine, the wine was as good, or better, than I remembered, but the days of a euro a glass are long gone.
Perhaps because the town had partied hard on Wednesday night, there was nothing left in the reserves by Friday. It was deathly quiet. We wandered the back streets and finally found an open bar; we then followed the music till we found another one. When you’re in good company, you’ll always find the craic.
The town lights up beautifully at night. They spare no expense. It reminded me in a way of Mysore Palace – on a much, much, much smaller scale.
It was a great introduction to northern Portugal, a gem of a town. I’ll definitely be back. Maybe for the annual Feiras Novas (New Fairs), which have been going on since 1826 on the second weekend of September. Or the country market, on every other Monday.
Just 85km from Porto, it’s very accessible. Or 123km from Santiago de Compostela in Spain. And it’s close enough to the coast, too. But more on those fab beaches later.
