Onwards and upwards

I woke up at six having slept fitfully, with the background noise of two ships moored alongside as the erratic sound track to a night's sleep. Then we were on the move again, but I dozed for another hour before opening the curtains. We were in a narrow gorge with turbulent water, surrounded by giant slabs of schist reaching above us. One of the slabs I noticed has a human head carved on it.

At seven thirty we entered the Valeira lock with 33 metre ascent. I got up and made my way to the front lounge, as the sun deck was closed for transit. Not only were the ship's masts laid flat, but also the ship's wheel house had to be partly collapsed to squeeze under the bridge over the hydroelectric barrage. I saw the captain open a hatch above his head and stand up at the wheel to see ahead, popping up and down like a jack in the box, too fast to catch on camera! There was barely a hands width between the top of the wheelhouse and the bridge it passed under. 

We entered a high sided natural basin where the river took a left turn into another high sided valley. Just then the sun appeared above the ridge. Fish were jumping alongside the ship, both in the lock and in the basin beyond. A scent of liquorice in the hazy morning air. Wonderful.

Then breakfast in a busy dining room, full of people sharing travellers tales. The internet was down, and when it return it ran very slowly. Good connectivity can disappear in mountainous areas where cellular reception, even for the ships powerful antennae, can be patchy.

We reached a railway bridge crossing in a wide stretch of river meeting another Riviera ship going downstream, and moved very slowly for about fifteen minutes. The navigators probably know that normal speed cannot be sustained when passing in certain locations without the ships being disturbed by each other's wake. It meant we were half an hour late arriving at Pocinho lock 22 metres high. The air is still, so haze from wildfires hangs in the air, though the smell of smoke is diminished. There was little wind, so the early morning haze over the river was as much residual wild fire smoke as it was mist, and not dispersing quickly. Not a momentous day for photography, except to record the disturbing impact of global heating our environment. 

We docked at a river port called Vega de Turron, a gateway for regional tourism in the Upper Douro region. Many of the Douro cruise ships stop here overnight. It's just across the Spanish border. You can see Portugal on the opposite bank of a tributary river which marks the border at this place.

We opted to be served lunch in the ship's restaurant today, and had a cooked meal neither of us really needed given that there'll be another five course dinner this evening. Clare had fish, I had piri-piri chicken and chips, and wasn't impressed. On the other hand, having fresh fruit for pudding does make it possible to digest. Lots of protein and fruit seems to suit me at the moment.

At half past two we were taken up into the mountains on the west side of the river to visit an ancient hill village called Castle Rodrigo, three quarters of an hour's drive from the ship up a road which took us up three hundred metres above the river on a constantly winding narrow road, lined with vineyards, olive groves and almond trees, patterning the landscape in beautifully varied ways. At the end of the climb we reached a rolling plain, similarly farmed but with expanses of rocky heathland. The range of colours in this different landscape was of itself a source of delight to see.

The village had once been a strategic border town between the kingdom of Leon and Portugal, until it lost its political significance. The citizens took it upon them selves to destroy the palatial castle and all that remains of it now are the ruins you can see. The 14th century church is unusually dedicated to Our Lady of Rocamadour, a reminder of the establishment of the church by a French religious order back in the day for whom the Provencal town of Rocamadour was home base. It was a key location on the pilgrimage route to Santiago de Compostela from France back in the day. It was a small place, just right for a short visit for a group of elderly tourists, a place you can buy locally made products, almond sweets, olive oil, wine, products crafted out of cork grown in this region. If the temperature hadn't been 39C, it would have been a pleasant outing, more than it was an endurance test in the heat for some at least. We were back at the ship in need of a shower and cooling drinks by half past five.

At seven, another gourmet feast with a new selection of excellent red and white wines. It's not been possible to get more than half my usual amount of exercise this past few days, and I certainly paid for it this evening, with a terrible sharp pain in my right ankle, symptomatic of leg muscles not getting enough of a warm up and stretching with so much sitting and not enough distance walked. There was a quiz after supper. We went straight to our rooms, having had enough experience for one day, and needing an early night. Tomorrow a dreadfully early start for Salamanca at eight fifteen. Heaven help us!

We received a briefing about today's visit to the mediaeval hill town of Castel Rodrigo, and a second one about Sunday's visit to Salamanca, which centres on the Plaza Major and the Cathedral fortunately. The down side is an hour and three quarters coach journey both ways, starting at eight fifteen.