Porto

Porto is a river mouth with a city stacked on each bank and stitched across by bridges: on the north side the Ribeira, tall painted houses piled up from the quay to the cathedral on its rock, the granite tower of the Clérigos, the tiled hall of São Bento station and the bookshop that launched a thousand wizards; on the south side, in Vila Nova de Gaia, the long low cellars where the wine of the Douro valley has aged into port for three centuries. Between them the Dom Luís I bridge of 1886 throws two iron decks across the water — trains above, walkers below — and the rabelo boats that once carried the barrels ride at anchor as the last, best advertisement.

The traveller crosses the bridge on the upper deck at sunset and comes back on the lower one at night; walks the Ribeira's alleys and the cathedral's terrace; climbs the Clérigos for the roofs; queues, briefly, for Lello and, not at all, for São Bento's blue tiles; takes the cable car down to Gaia and tastes port in a cellar, or three; rides the old tram to Foz for the lighthouse and the Atlantic; eats a francesinha, the city's molten sandwich, once and with respect; and, with a day, takes the train or the boat up the Douro to the terraced valley where the wine begins.

The Guide's honesty: Porto has been discovered, and the Ribeira and the bridge fill from spring to autumn — the early morning and the upper town are the answers —; the hills are steep and the cobbles are polished, so shoes with grip earn their place; the tourist tram and the funicular are worth their small fares; port is a serious wine with a range from dry white to decades-old tawny, and the cellars' tastings are the honest way to learn; and the city's warmth, its tripe-eaters' pride and its granite melancholy are all real and all part of the same welcome.