We travel east, leave the Minho, and head for the Trás-o-Montes (beyond the mountains). While the Minho is all about small river valleys and medieval towns, the Trás-o-Montes features rocky ridges, terraced vineyards, and rural villages. In fact, the Trás-o-Montes is just north of the Beira Interior, and the rural castle towns we visited some months ago. It feels just a little familiar.
This brief side trip helps complete a cycle that began more than five years ago (Chasing Nasoni). Our destination is the Casa de Mateus (eighteenth century) by architect Nicolau Nasoni in the town of Vila Real (pop 49,574 in 2021). Nasoni's palette features a kind of 'puffed-up', Italian Baroque, with a touch of Manueline exuberance, and lots of sculptural flourishes (especially along the tops of the facades). It's distinctive and enjoyable.
Bad weather delays our arrival, and we miss our scheduled tour, but there is another in about an hour. Entry to the Casa is through a small wooded lane, which hides the buildings til we reach a large reflecting pool. We are impressed by the 'chess-piece' chimneys erupting from the corners of the chunky white wings.
The capela stands behind the Casa on the north-side and looks like a shrunken Igreja dos Clérigos. The columns appear to be (oxymoronically) a 'dressed-up' Tuscan order, each pair standing on a single, inverted bracket. There is a Serliana arch capped by sets of brackets at right angles, and a pair of urns. And then there is a thick, broken pediment and the Cross. The effect is both heavy (sturdy) and light (ephemeral).
The windows on the external wing blocks are stacked in pairs, with stone balustrades on the upper doors and a floating triangular pediment. The windows facing into the courtyard are all theme and variation, with curly pediments and thin iron railings. In the center court, the windowsills look like flattened pediments, but upside-down (like shadows).
And those big 'bowling pins' anchor every corner.
A scissor staircase focuses the center of the main, west facade, like the stairs at Clerigos. Spear-bearing guards stand ready, next to the family brasão (crest). On the forward-facing openings, there are plumes and finials of all types (including on the guards).
The delay gives us a chance to wander in the gardens and enjoy the terraced landscape and, beyond the formal gardens, views of the vineyards and orchards. Here is Saramago's recommendation:
The traveller returns to Vila Real, and this time he complies with the rituals. The first has to be Mateus, the palace awarded to the eldest son. Before going inside, you should go through its gardens, taking your time. However numerous and valuable the treasures inside, you’d be guilty of the sin of pride to disdain those without: trees which from all the colours of the rainbow eschew only blue, leaving it to the skies; they sport every shade of green, yellow, red, brown, with even a nibble of violet at the edges. These are the arts of autumn, its freshness lies underfoot, it’s a wonderful sight for weary eyes, with lakes to reflect and multiply the pleasure. The traveller thought he must have fallen into a kaleidoscope and become a traveller in Wonderland. (José Saramago, “Journey to Portugal,” 1990; trans Hopkinson-Caistor, 2000)
The south-side gardens are long rectangular lawns with hedgerows and topiary arches, all immaculately pruned. This leads to a group of geometric, formal gardens, that step down to the east. Just behind the Casa is a flower garden, currently in bloom, littered with petals, and filled with exotic plants.
Boxwoods form low muralhas, tiny castle walls with domed, corner towers. The garden path brings us to the east portico. This garden facade is relatively plain, and joins the south (side) facade of the capela, with its tiled cupola and torre sineira. At the bottom of the steps, two small statues act as a rear guard.
He becomes himself again when confronted by the palace. It’s a source of beauty which, thanks to its architect Nasoni, remains intact even when abused by being tastelessly labelled onto umpteen wine bottles. Such vulgarity is indescribable, and if it’s true the traveller has become sensitised to the simplicities of Romanesque architecture, he still remains capable of resisting wilful obstinacies. This was why he didn’t resent its courtly elegance or the stroke of genius in designing a pinnacle flush with the upper level, at first glance wholly out of proportion. The patio looks bashful, an early indication of an inner intimacy. Its large granite slabs give out echoes, and the traveller re-experiences the sense of mystery at other people’s houses. (José Saramago, “Journey to Portugal,” 1990; trans Hopkinson-Caistor, 2000)
The 'saltshakers' re-appear, but there are more utilitarian, squarish chimneys as well.
An enthusiastic young man with a Harvard sweatshirt gives the tour of the interior. We begin in the central hall, up the scissor stairs. Before the tour, he insists that we understand that the popular Mateus wine is not made here, though it does have an image of the Casa. The wine sold here does not have that name or image.
The quality of the interior is reminiscent of the Casa da Prelada and the Casa de Despachos at the Igreja de Francisco, both in Porto and both by Nasoni: clean and comfortable (not too 'Baroque'), with interesting geometries and finishes – and an individual flair that accompanies Nasoni's work. But the color in the rooms comes from the art and the curtains, rather than house paint.
The rooms here are in amazing condition and very nicely presented (excellent wire management). The rooms are filled with flowery images from the gardens and vineyards, and dark furniture. Matching carved wood transoms stand over each doorway lintel and hide the curtain hardware, and add to the dialog of pediments.
In the south wing, the portraits contain facing human and vegetal figures. The cherubs stretch branches with blossoms between them. A collection of religious artifacts lives at the north; a beautiful missal (Venetian, eighteenth century) is open to In Solemnitate Corporus Christi.
Cibávit cos exádipe frumenti, allelúja: & de petra, melle faturávit cos, alleluja, alleluja, alleluja.
He fed his body with the first grain, alleluia: and from the rock he made his body with honey, alleluia, alleluia, alleluia. (Google Translate)
Sounds more like a recipe for beer than wine.
The ceilings are particularly appealing; chamfered corners add the dome-like geometry. In the longer rooms, the ornamental hubs stretch to create a garland of leafy, floral forms.
Saramago is especially excited to visit the biblioteca, with good reason:
There in the centre is what he is waiting for: its painting, furniture, statues, engraving all give it the precise atmosphere of a secular sacristy struggling with the heavy erudition of a library. Here lie the plates to the original engravings by Gérard and Fragonard for The Lusiads, while for those given to patriotic raptures, there are original letters signed by Talleyrand, Metternich, Wellington, even Alexander, Czar of Russia—ail grateful for the gift of a book in a foreign language they couldn’t read. With the greatest respect, the traveller decides that what Mateus has best to offer is still Nicolau Nasoni.The world isn’t properly organised. It’s no longer just the complicated matter of the haves and have-nots but, in this particular instance, there’s the serious crime of omitting to bring the Portuguese from all over the country to absorb the formidable imprint of these terraced slopes, covered from top to bottom with vines, while the geography of the supporting walls follows the curves of the mountainside, so rich in colours the traveller has no possible way of enumerating them, and together comprising the grounds to Mateus’ stately home, reaching to the far horizon, including the woods abutting the Tuela River. It’s an unpaintable painting, a symphony or an opera to the inexpressible. (José Saramago, “Journey to Portugal,” 1990; trans Hopkinson-Caistor, 2000)
We drive into Vila Nova in search of almoço. We soon find the Capela Nova (Igreja de São Paulo, seventeenth and eighteenth centuries), another by Nasoni. This stands somewhere between the capela at Mateus and Clerigos. Pairs of Tuscan columns stand proud of the facade on solid bases, with a broken frieze under a continuous cornice. These act as gateposts for the main portal and oculus. A tide of circular steps spills into the intersection.
Though dedicated to São Paulo, São Pedro stands atop the church holding the papal cross. Angels are just below him. One holds keys, the other a shepherd's crook, and the pair looks very much like the Mateus sentries.
Ovium (sheep) is chiseled in the cartouche over the door; above that, Tu es pastor (you are a shepherd). Perhaps all this is a nod to the Igreja de São Pedro just a few blocks north. While the two saints are closely associated, São Pedro has taken over the facade.
However, inside, the painéis de azulejos tell the story São Paulo, with some fantastical imagery. On either side of the entry vestibule, two small panels show São Paulo saved from a shipwreck. A longer panel shows São Paulo witnessing the flight of Simon Magnus: São Paulo and São Pedro pray to end the flight and bring the sorcerer crashing to Earth.
We return to the Minho on IP4 rather than the faster A4. As the weather clears, we enjoy the views of the Serra do Marão and the valleys below the highway (A4 uses a túnel under the Marão). We arrive in the layered and picturesque town of Amarante (pop 56,264 in 2011, top image) under blue skies.
The Museu Municipal Amadeo de Souza Cardoso is installed in the Convento de São Gonçalo de Amarante (sixteenth century). The artwork is of some interest, but out attention stays with the architecture, one of the claustros.
The legend of São Gonçalo tells of a Dominican friar who, after visiting the tombs of São Pedro and São Paulo, made a pilgrimage to Jerusalem. On his return, he begins to build the bridge over the Rio Tâmega. When the workers are thirsty, he split open a rock and gives them wine; when they are hungry, he calls on the fish to jump out of the river.
In any case, the present-day Ponte de São Gonçalo (nineteenth century) and the Convento create a photo-worthy focus for the town. The tile-roofed dome of the church, and the other buildings and churches stratify the banks and the hills, and it's impossible to take a bad picture.
Saramago describes the Igreja de São Gonçalo de Amarante (thirteenth and sixteenth centuries):
The traveller takes a walk around the church and the cloister which once belonged to the convent and, in his heart, found he could love Amarante, knowing at once that this love would last forever. He remained unconcerned at the three wicked Portuguese kings outside on the verandah not to mention the fourth and wickedest, the Spaniard: Dom João III, Dom Sebastião and Dom Henrique, the Cardinal and the first of the Spanish Philips. Amarante is such a lovely town that you forgive it its perverse sense of history. So there we are, with the kings, because they were around when the place was built. Reason enough. (José Saramago, “Journey to Portugal,” 1990; trans Hopkinson-Caistor, 2000)
From the bridge, we come around to the largo and find the kings, who may be wicked, but the Varanda dos Reis (loggia) above the plain block wall is fantastic. Construction equipment lines one side of the largo. This space is a deep, canyon: tall buildings and walls, and a 'shadow' of the church facade embedded in the pavers. We agree with 'the traveller': it's lovely, and truly lovable.
The tripartite elevation employs a Composite order below two levels of Corinthian columns. Amusingly, small heads pop from the frieze above each column. The outer columns do not reach the third level; over-sized finials cap each pair. The inner columns reach three levels, but the top pair are spiral columns. Brackets replace the center columns on the top level over the main door – elaborate double-brackets with Corinthian capitals on top. Thus, the columns create an unusual syncopation as they go up.
São Francisco (holding a small skull) is in the left-hand niche. São Domingos (this is a Dominican church) is on the right. São Gonçalo is in the center niche, over the door.
On the western wall is the Fonte de Praça da Républica (twentieth century), and the escadas up to the Igreja de Nosso Senhor dos Afiitos (our Lord of the afflicted, also Dominican, eighteenth century).
We enter from the side, which is, in fact, the front. Only from inside do we realize the facade on the largo is on the south transept, and the Varanda is above the chapels. The front of the church faces a blank wall.
The main nave is a barrel vault, with a dome at the crossing; all the ribs and straps are painted, including the small dormers over the quatrefoil clerestory windows. The stonework at the crossing, however, is real, as well as the ribs in the dome.
The chapel archways are a stout, grey Ionic order. There are no side aisles, though the side chapels are deep enough to permit a passage of archways.
Gorgeously painted Doric columns frame the capela-mor, while triglyphs (used as brackets) support the barrel vault and dome. Painted Ionic pilasters stand just behind and above the almost-free-standing Doric columns, with São Pedro and São Paulo on top. And the polychrome continues into the window surrounds and the altar's arch creating an Oz-like passage between two worlds.
The base of the left-hand column dates the start of the work to 1540. The altarpiece a totally over the top, with cherubs, gilt carvings, angels, Corinthian columns, heraldic emblems, and lots of swirly things. A wide stair splits the composition. A back-lit Crucifixion is at the center, with São Francisco de Assisi on the Evangelist side (north, with stigmata), and São Domingos de Gusmão on the Epistle side (south, with small dog; this government site may have it backwards).
The túmulo of São Gonçalo is on the left-hand side of the stairs. By local legend a source of fertility, the feet and face of the figure on the tombstone are well worn from 'rubbing for luck' (a set of wax breasts appear to be on the small altar there).
It goes without saying that patience is a cardinal virtue. They say of St Gonçalo that although they built the bridge before the present one, way back in the thirteenth century, he was kept waiting five hundred years before he obtained his tomb there, despite all the generous collections taken up for it. The traveller repeats this in a jocular fashion, a well-tried way of compensating for the shock he receives when, on entering the chapel with its exceptionally low roof, he comes up against a massive and recumbent statue, painted to look alive. Since the place was in semi-darkness, his shock was of relief. The feet of the miracle-working saint were well-polished by the kisses and caresses of those imploring his favours. One assumes the favours were granted, since there was no dearth of offerings, in the form of a variety of miniature wax heads and legs and arms deposited on the tombstone. They were obviously hollow, since times are hard and genuine wax dear, so adulterated material was clearly employed. Yet it’s not these objects but faith that saves, in particular a great faith in this St Gonçalo de Amarante, who has a reputation for marrying off old women with the same facility as St Anthony, who after all went down in history for waving his wand over young girls … (José Saramago, “Journey to Portugal,” 1990; trans Hopkinson-Caistor, 2000)
The ceiling is, indeed, very low, and filled with images from São Gonçalo's life: scenes on the bridge, splitting the rock (a quite large one), and calling to the fish. We can only assume he is satisfied, staring at those same images for eternity.
The other capelas and the rest of the church are filled with delightful details and touches. There is enough variety to make each unique, while they support a coherent whole. Like the village that grew around it, the church is layered and picturesque – it's absolutely charming.
Sandwiched between the Igreja dn the Museu is the Claustro Velho. The severe Ionic arcade continues here, but under the arches are wonderful Manueline vaults.
On the opposite end of the east arcade is the the sacristía. During his inspection, Saramago is distracted and offers this lesson:
The traveller returns to the church, taking a side corridor leading to the sacristy. What he can’t figure out is where the rock and roll is coming from. Perhaps from the main square, or perhaps from a neighbouring addict. In provincial towns, the least noise penetrates everywhere. The traveller takes a couple more steps and listens. Seated at his desk a man, either clerk or sacristan, it’s impossible to figure out which, is making entries into a heavy ledger, a small transistor radio at his side. It is this which is responsible for the music filling the venerable sacristy with nasty and convulsive sounds. Nothing surprises the traveller any longer, but he desires to know what depths the subversion has plumbed. So he enquires: “Would you mind if I took a glance in here?” The sacristan raises his head, looks around affably, and replies: “Of course. Make yourself at home.” And while the traveller takes a turn around the sacristy, examining its painted ceilings, the paintings of artistic note, a gross St Gonçalo, a glutton with an embonpoint, the radiophonic rock and roll draws to a close and another tune begins, affecting an inventiveness it lacks, the inventions pure repetitions, neither trimmed nor developed. The traveller says thank-you, the sacristan continues writing, neither asks but both concur that it is a beautiful day, and the music plays on. Perhaps soon it’ll play a waltz.The traveller still regrets not having pulled up a chair at the table where the sacristan was working away at his writing, remaining behind to chat, knowing so much of life and musical tastes: how much there is to lose through not speaking to people! (José Saramago, “Journey to Portugal,” 1990; trans Hopkinson-Caistor, 2000)
Disappointingly, we could not find the image of the 'gross' São Gonçalo – perhaps the traveller refers to the sacristan as the 'glutton'? Often with Saramago, there are too many words, but very few personal insults.
Before returning to the Pousada, we grab some groceries at a nearby supermercado. For the first time in a long time, Siri becomes confused and sends us into the hills of Amarante, then loses track of our location. First, we end up just above our destination. Then we go all the way around the other way, and end up below the store with no way out. We turn around in a neighboring yard, split the difference between the two 'wrong directions', and find our way to the parking lot.
Hard to know how to feel about our next road trip if Siri is not clear, but this is still a good day.
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