OPORTO
How am I to give you an idea of the quaint picturesque old town of
Oporto? It dates back to Roman times, when it was already a busy
seaport, and it is now only second in importance to Lisbon itself.
It does not at first sight present such an imposing appearance as
Lisbon, that dazzling white city throned on its seven hills and looking
down in calm dignity on the bright blue waters of the Tagus. But
whereas the southern capital is disappointing when you see it nearer,
Oporto grows on you more and more, with its steep, dark alleys and
old-fashioned balconied houses, its gardens and fountains, and busy,
bustling wharfs. The heart and soul of Oporto are to be looked for by
the riverside, the narrow green-watered Douro flowing swiftly along
between high granite cliffs, to which cling the white and yellow houses
with their many-tinted, red-tiled roofs.
The river is always crowded with shipping, from full-rigged ocean-going
merchantmen to dugouts shaped from a single tree; broad-beamed boats,
with graceful lateen sails, and narrow boats, with high peaks at bow
and stern; large flat-bottomed wine-boats from the vineyards far up
the river; rowing-boats, sailing-boats--in fact, boats of every size
and shape and colour.
The quays swarm with people hard at work loading and unloading cargo.
Women pass up and down along narrow planks from shore to ship with
baskets full of coal balanced on their heads. Longshoremen and idlers
look on, contentedly smoking. Groups of boys may be seen playing cards
or throwing dice, and younger urchins, of similar tastes but fewer
possessions, gambling excitedly with buttons. Here also are barefooted,
brightly-dressed fishwives, and girls selling fruit, children at play,
chestnut-sellers with their little charcoal stoves, rough brigand-like
men rolling barrels of wine ashore, strings of pack-mules, and ox-carts
waiting to be loaded, each with its pair of pretty browny-yellow oxen,
under their high, elaborately carved yokes.
It all forms the most charming medley of movement and colour against
a background of tumble-down overhanging houses with projecting gables
and painted balconies. There are vine-trellises offering leafy shade,
clothes hanging out to air, rows of fine old trees, and here and
there glimpses of the ancient river-wall. In this wall are many deep
recesses used as wine-shops, or as general stores, where the sailorman
may satisfy his numerous requirements in the way of oilskins, ropes,
blocks, and all the many articles smelling of tar, so dear to the
seafarer’s heart.
This is Oporto as seen from below, down by the water’s edge; but the
best view of the whole town is to be had much higher up, where the
great bridge of Dom Luiz spans the narrow gorge. From this point of
vantage you may look straight down on the river and on the busy wharfs
far below; you may see the narrow, rough-paved streets that lead by
flights of steps up the hillside, the many churches, the solid square
towers of the cathedral on the hill, the old Moorish walls, and the
odd little gardens--bright patches of colour in unexpected nooks and
corners.
Beyond the bridge, on the south side of the river, stands the ancient
convent of Nossa Senhora da Serra do Pilar, Wellington’s headquarters
in May, 1809, when he so successfully drove the French army under
Marshal Soult out of Oporto.
Six weeks earlier, after a three days’ siege, Soult had assaulted and
taken the brave old city, which had gallantly, if foolishly, refused
to surrender. Its fall was followed by hideous scenes of rapine and
slaughter. The French gave no quarter, and the hunted people fled down
to the river in thousands, hoping to escape by a bridge of boats that
stretched across to the other bank. So great a crowd proved more than
the bridge could bear. It sank under the weight, and over 18,000 men,
women, and children were drowned, or butchered by the French soldiers.
It was, however, a short-lived triumph for the arms of France. Three
weeks later Sir Arthur Wellesley, the future great Duke of Wellington,
landed at Lisbon, and before he had been in the country ten days he was
on his way north to retake Oporto.
On the morning of May 12, 1809, he was already on the south bank
of the Douro, but without bridge or boat by which to pass over. So
safe did Soult believe himself to be, with the steep cliffs and the
swift-flowing river between himself and the English, that he never
contemplated the possibility of a crossing, and Sir Arthur was able to
carry out one of the most daring plans in the annals of war.
By the aid of the inhabitants two boats were at last secured, and
twenty-five British soldiers rowed across in broad daylight, just above
the town. Under cover of artillery fire three companies of the Buffs
were next ferried over. They climbed by a track up 200 or 300 feet of
rock, seized an unfinished building, and held it with great bravery
while more troops were hurried across. Gradually the tables were
turned. The English became the attackers, the French slowly retreating,
till after some two hours’ fighting Soult and his army took to their
heels, leaving bag and baggage, guns and ammunition behind them. Sir
Arthur Wellesley is reported to have said on the evening of the 11th
that the next day he would breakfast in Oporto. He did breakfast in
Oporto and dined there too, on the food that had been prepared for the
French general!
The markets of Oporto are very attractive. The chief one is the Mercado
do Anjo, which lies just to the north of the fine church of the
Clericos, whose lofty tower may be seen from most parts of the town. It
is a picturesque spot, and presents a busy scene in the early mornings;
but as I write it is another market-square that rises before my mind’s
eye. It was the first I saw after landing in Portugal. I could not drag
myself away from it, and the fascination of it seems to hold me still.
There were low, shady trees in the middle of that little square, and
white booths beneath them, covered with fruit and flowers, cakes and
vegetables. The open-doored shops at the sides were windowless, and
had piles of goods heaped on the pavements in front of them, and
spreading out well into the road: shining pots and pans; gay coloured
kerchiefs--red and yellow, blue and green; rolls of sombre woollen
material and lighter-coloured cottons; and, most inviting of all,
the many heaps of pottery. What may not be purchased here for a penny,
or even for a halfpenny? Jugs and jars, mugs and plates, basins, bowls
and dishes, all of a dull cream-coloured ware, with simple brightly
painted designs boldly splashed upon them. Next to them, and more
tempting still, are the unglazed, red-brown earthenware vessels used
all over Portugal for carrying water. Beautiful in shape and colour,
they are of Moorish or Roman design; some with quaint twisted handles,
others with long narrow necks, some few with spouts, and all so cheap
that the smallest coin in your pocket will pay for two or three of
them.