For the wine lover, Porto offers one of the world’s most romantic views. Standing on the quay by the broad Douro river, with the majestic iron-latticework of the late 19th-century Dom Luís I bridge on your left, a scan of Villa Nova de Gaia on the opposite bank takes in some of the biggest names in the venerable fortified wine to which the city gave its name: Calém, Sandeman, Noval, Taylor’s, Graham’s, the words formed by enormous white letters on the terracotta-tiled roofs of their ageing cellars.
When I first came to Porto around the turn of the millennium, I probably wasn’t the only tourist spending my time filling rolls of film with minor variations of this endlessly absorbing view. But, as I wandered around the maze of atmospherically dilapidated streets, it sometimes felt that way. Fast forward 25 years to this summer and I was one of what felt like thousands of people jostling to find the right angle for a selfie before settling down in one of the many new, busy waterfront bars and restaurants.
