FROM RURAL PORTUGAL TO THE GOLDEN SANDSTONE CITY OF SALAMANCA AND BEYOND
“Once more unto the breach…….” I thought, as I left the relaxation and security of the known, in my son’s lovely house in a Portuguese village, and set off again into the unknown, those 1000km in reverse. But in spite of my apprehension, I seem to want the excitement of the unknown, so am taking a different route back.
The windy road alongside the tramline, that takes a small tram from Sintra to Praia das Macas, took me up through green forested hills where the castellated wall of the Castelo dos Mouros stood out on the top of the hill, stark against the blue sky.
Then it was through the lovely old centre of Sintra and onto the highway taking me north-east to the Spanish border. Tree-covered hills, mostly pines and eucalyptus, stretched out on both sides. A sign to Portalegre set my mind wandering to a different Porto Alegre, in Brazil, where my two youngest children were born. Yes, I have two Gauchos! The landscape became rockier and wilder as the road tunnelled its way through the Serra da Estrela, again bringing back memories, this time of delightful holidays with the children staying in a local posada and exploring the serra.
The border crossing into Spain went by almost without noticing: a small sign on the roadside and my smart phone going forward an hour was about it. And in spite of the time change, we arrived at the campsite of La Pesquera, just across the River Aguedo from Ciudad Rodrigo, in time to visit this wonderful walled city. Walking over a beautiful stone bridge, apparently originally built in Roman times, I reached an entrance to the city through a massive wooden gate in the walls.
Built in the 12th century, the walls surround the city, which perches on a hill above the river, a magnificent defence against its near neighbour. The castle, built in the 14th century by Henry II of Castile, the first king in the dynasty of Isabal la Catolica, has been turned into a parador. On this wet, cool late afternoon I seemed to be almost the only visitor walking along the wall’s perimeter – apart from a French family. When Wikipedia later told me the importance of Ciudad Rodrigo in the Napoleonic Peninsular War, I wondered if this had been the reason behind their unfriendliness?! It seems that Wellington took the city from the French by storm in 1812, and was then rewarded with the hereditary Spanish title of Duque de Ciudad Rodrigo.
Back in the campsite, I watched a young guy arriving by bike, choosing a pitch, erecting a small tent and in a few minutes sitting down in a comfortable chair having a drink. And I compared it with my faffing around, going in and out of several pitches trying to choose one without too much mud, taking ages plugging in the electrics which I always struggle with, heaving up the pop-top, erecting a table etc etc: note to self, you have to get quicker at this!
I also needed to be quicker with my trip, as I looked at my messages and found one from Brittany Ferries: instead of cancelling the crossing, they were bringing it forward by about 17 hours! Luckily I could still make Santander easily in the time, just without so many stops.
But I wasn’t going to miss Salamanca, that beautiful cathedral and university city of golden sandstone – known as La Dorada, the golden city. My usual worry was where and how would I park George? I knew his height was “about” 2 metres, but what if I was a centimetre out, going into a multi-storey? From Google I chose one in the old city centre and hoped for the best; following signs, I arrived in a square – but where was the car-park? Risking causing a traffic jam I jumped out and asked the guy in the car following me; with a friendly smile he indicated round the corner. Quickly back to get in the car – but Toby leapt out into the road before I got there. Now consumed with embarrassment, with cars beginning to hoot from round the corner, we finally made it to the carpark. Where, to my great joy, a smiling attendant said they parked for you! Worries over – and even more delight when I returned after an hour or so to find that I was charged the princely sum of €2.25.
I wandered down narrow streets lined with decorated sandstone buildings, to reach the monumental Plaza Mayor, considered one of the most beautiful in Spain. Built out of sandstone in the baroque style in the 18thcentury, every façade is decorated with intricate carvings. The square was filled with people wandering around, wrapped up in warm clothes to protect against the cold wind – I hadn’t factored in the cold in this city on the high Castilian plains. Until the mid-19th century, it would have been filled with people watching a bull-fight.
Another sandstone-lined street took me from the Plaza Mayor to the cathedral – called the New Cathedral, it was completed in the 18th century. I struggled to find the Old Cathedral – until I realised it had actually been incorporated into the New Cathedral. I was shocked to read that, some twenty years after its completion, it had been badly affected by the devastating Lisbon earthquake. I’d just driven that distance – Lisbon is nearly 500 kms from Salamanca.
In a café in the Plaza Mayor, a cup of Spain’s brilliant, thick hot chocolate warmed me up; then it was time to return to the van and get back on the road. The route to Salamanca had taken me past meadows filled with holm-oaks, with their huge, rounded crowns. One of the joys of this trip has been the varying landscape and unexpected sights, like these meadows, dehesa, of holm oaks, or encina, which reminded me of the cork oaks of the Alentejo in Portugal. But these holm oaks are grown for their acorns, beloved by Iberian pigs which graze here and then produce the famous Iberian ham. The round, symmetrical crowns look so natural that I was interested to read that, to prevent the crowns becoming too big, and risk branches being broken when winter blizzards cover the trees in kilos of snow, a drastic pruning takes place every 25 – 30 years.
These tree-covered meadowlands, grazed by small cow herds as well as pigs, gave way to vast, cereal-growing plains as we headed further north in the direction of Leon.
Next stop, another cathedral city, albeit much smaller: lesser known Zamora. Ringed by well-preserved defensive walls, it has a lovely position above the banks of the Douro River. Parking easily in a small square near the river, where there seemed to be usual Spanish insouciance about parking regulations, Toby and I walked along a path bordering the river, admiring the 14th century stone bridge with its sixteen pointed arches.
A steep path the other side of the road led us up to the old city centre. Sadly it had started to rain quite heavily, so a quick wander round the wet streets had to be it for today. But it was enough to enjoy the exterior of one of the twenty-four – yes, I said 24!!! - Romanesque-style churches for which Zamora is famous, the most Romanesque churches in the whole of Europe.
Still to be visited another day is the cathedral, with its huge domed roof; but I was able to admire the defensive walls and the remains of the castle as I drove slowly past. I also passed the green space generously allocated by the town council for campervans to park for the night, providing many facilities for free. With a park beside it, a forest nearby to walk in and near to the city fortifications, I’d planned to spend the night there before Brittany Ferries changed my plans. Again, next time – or maybe next time I would treat myself to a night in the splendid Parador. Like all the Paradors of Spain, it’s in a magnificent ancient building, this one in a 15th century Renaissance palace.
But I was staying neither in a campsite nor a parador; instead I was headed for a hostal in a rural area near Leon. As I headed off the highway and onto small, winding roads, the unexceptional countryside wasn’t enhanced by the incessant rain; and as I travelled further off-the-beaten track, something that would usually delight me, I wondered what on earth I was doing. The small village I arrived at had nothing to recommend it, not least the hostal I’d booked at; so when the door was firmly closed and there was no sign of life, I left with a sigh of relief. Not before I’d done a quick search on Expedia for a dog-friendly hotel not far from Leon but in the countryside; and came up with the delightful and delightfully-named Domus Oncinae in the tiny village of Oncina de la Valdoncina. The village may have been nothing to write home about, but this tiny hotel was a joy. Opened just two years ago, as an auberge on the Camino de Santiago, it offered a brilliant place to relax for the night in a period building of great charm and comfort.