At breakfast the next morning the television was reporting on snow in Vila Real, which was where we were headed and beyond. Cars drove slowly across the screen on slushy streets and pudgy-faced, rosy-cheek'd kiddies played with the fluffy stuff like it was Natal all over again. Once fed and fortified, we acquired a rental car with a few hiccups (this is where Josh and I exchange knowing glances and shake our heads and chuckle... maybe) and sallied forth and east to higher and vineyer elevation. We had reservations at a particular quinta (vineyard estate) that could only be accessed via said snowy mountaintops (oversized hilltops) and tiny, curving roads that cut over ridges with expansive vineyard views and through silent, delicious-smelling forests in turn.
In fact, I'm convinced that the Google lady took us on a more scenic route than necessary (foreshadowing another route to come in a few days, hah), but we were grateful to her and did manage to get to the right place in good time. It was a beautiful establishment with many gorgeous living spaces inside and out, not to mention stunning views, an old chapel, and hiking trails to be explored. We were some of the only guests there even with the off-season deals, which at times made it feel like our personal vacation house (which it was the second night when we were, in fact, the only guests there). I went for a pre-dinner walk in the glow of the late sun and came across an orange orchard behind a beautiful old stone wall. It was called the "Roman orchard" and would have been authentic were it not for the ancient Roman grill and trash cans. As the sun sank, I climbed higher amidst the vines to remain in its reach and saw the valley undergo a magical transformation. Slowly each golden stripe was shed until only the crests of the hills were crowned in light, and then that too was gone and evening settled from bottom to top in quiet blues, the flamboyant hues switched off for the night, later to be replaced by stars.
Daylight came with much mist and frost, and we were well along on our several-hour Very Nice Walk before the sun started warming the air. A path for visitors toured the outer boundaries of the estate, leading along its elegantly etched slopes and lines and lines of vines. The clipped vine stumps (not producing in February) were oozing slime, which Josh declared to be both tasteless and gelatinous. (The olives were also apparently inedible when plucked from the branches.) An abandoned chapel down near the water showed little sign of use, though handprints on the dusty door told that we hadn't been the only visitors of late. Shale-heavy stone walls bore signs of time and had collapsed in places and been practically mashed together under its own weight in others. Veins of rose quartz also ran through the hillsides and made for sparkly discoveries when the sun hit it just right. We came across some people clipping back the last of last year's vines, but otherwise met no one.
My favorite were the hidden orchards, layered and overgrown with yellow and purple wildflowers, stacked in old stone walls, the trail several times vanishing under the long green grasses. The orange trees were heavy with ripe and ripening fruit, and in many places it had already fallen and was demonstrating every stage of pungent decay -- though the fresh ones were delicious as the frothy, freshly squeezed juice served at breakfast that morning. Such trees were happily rooted close to rushing streams, as well as olive-bearers and prickly pear(er)s.
Later we embarked on another breath-taking mountain drive to the little town of Pinhão, crossing through the even littler and picturesquer town of Covas do Douro, among others, all tucked away in the vineyards and ready to spring into existence around each bend in the road. Pinhão itself was very thoroughly explored due to the hours we had to kill before any dinner would be served anywhere, so we walked from one side of town to the other and up and down the river several times, drank a lot of coffee with and without pastries, wandered into shops and did our best to communicate with the locals. Josh wanted to look at some new glasses frames but the only common language we had with the optometrist was French, so I jumped into interpreter mode between the two of them and felt exhilarated upon leaving the shop later once the nice lady had pulled out every pair of frames in the house for our inspection. It had been a while since my last excursion into that lovely language and I was thrilled that it had come back so easily, though she probably would have been more happy if we had actually bought something.
It was well after dark by the time we ate and departed, making the drive back on the winding roads extra exciting. The convenient part was that headlights can be seen infinitely better around corners in the dark, though with the exception of a curious dog (in the night-time) I don't think we passed a single soul the whole way back.
