Porto

Porto, Portugal. A beautiful city, when it's not raining.

It's hilly as all buggery, with narrow, winding cobblestone lanes wedged between a brightly-coloured patchwork of three-, four-, five-storey buildings that wouldn't seem out of place in South America.

The facades are as likely to be dirty crumbling slabs spicked with broken windows as gorgeous patterned tiles that remind me of the china adorning my mother's kitchen.

We ate heartily and cheaply, though not well; I had a very tasty cod, but it was accompanied by fatty potato crisps swimming in the cod's vinegary soup. An earlier meal of calamari disappointed, with undercooked, fatty (again) french fries next to seafood from a freezer. Sunday is a poor day to try and find a decent meal, apparently, so I shan't be dissuaded.