The solider was Martin, later to be St. Martin of Tours.
St. Martin has ever since been eulogized as the source of unexpected lovely weather.
In that nation ofsunseekers, the warmth is treated as a fleeting miracle.
Credit: Courtesy of Comboios de Portugal
I was there, in that happy sunshine, eating that fish and drinking that wine alongside them.
The golden-leafed trees lining the river’s promenade were the only sign it was truly autumn.
“E dia de Sao Martinho.
Courtesy of Comboios de Portugal
Comem-se castanhas, prova-se o vinho!”
goes the local rhyme: It’s St. Martin’s Day.
Let’s eat chestnuts, let’s drink wine!
But my partner and I had no time for more chestnuts; we hada trainto catch.
A large group shuffled aboard at Campanha, and we passed through the rest of suburban Porto.
Pulling away from the city, you’re free to feel the industrial tendrils stretch and snap.
You shoot into the countryside, and the distant green becomes a blur.
A glance over the countryside shows that the country suffers from a poor development plan.
People can build anywhere, so they do.
Between 1986 and 2007,some 80,000 houses were built per year one every five minutes.
Such overbuilding makes stretches of unbroken nature all the more splendid.
Wrapped in these festive colors, the terraces were like celebrations of themselves.
Nothing was hurried on thisperfect little train.
The steward then leapt aboard as the train hooted and we resumed our journey.
If it had been another era, there wouldn’t have been much argument.
When partying was great!"
the question felt perfect for the climatic schism of St. Martin’s Summer.
In five years, perhaps, Vila Nova de Foz Coa will be a fine place to visit.
For now, it has the barren feel of a forgotten town.
Short of soliciting the citizens ofFoz Coa to join us, we were out of luck.
Feeling slightly defeated, we instead bought figs and olives and settled down with a beer at a cafe.
At suppertime, we ate at a restaurant where the steak was cooked to perfection.
Needless to say, we were the only guests.
In the morning, the mountains had a bluish tinge and were covered with shreds of fog.
After a skimpy breakfast, we walked back to Pocinho, arriving into town just as the MiraDouro had.
Soon, I was dozing in the light streaming through the window.
Slowly, I realized it was coming from the sunny steps of Sao Bento station.
We had arrived, with another fine day of stolen summer still ahead.
