If yesterday's weather qualifies as 'not-so-good', today's is down-right bad. We decide to swap destinations, go to Braga tomorrow (views from hilltop churches), and head to Barcelos (pop 120,391 in 2011). Our itinerary in Barcelos involves shorts walks within the historic town and the riverside, so we hope this works out better. Also, there is an enormous parking lot in the town center, the Campo da Feira, so that makes the car-chores less distressing.
The Campo is the fairgrounds, and at the center is a chafariz (fountain, seventeenth century) – quite an amenity for a parking lot (but not fair grounds). Around the perimeter, the local freguesias are erecting 'church-fronts' in preparation for the Festa das Cruzes, and the impending batalha das flores. All manner of imagery is employed: farmers climbing vineyard ladders, bottles of milk, landscape tapestries, flowery garlands, and the brasões. On a day when folks must generate their own color, Barcelos seems to have it down.
Our first stop is the Confraria de Nossa Senhora do Terço, on the north side of the Campo. This is a tiled church interior within nondescript commercial block, marked only by a carved door arch and cross.
In the Igreja do Terço, formerly a Benedictine convent, the traveller saw fit to applaud the eighteenth-century tiles, attributed to António de Oliveira Bernardes, recounting the life of San Bento, told all over again in lavish mouldings across the forty panels of the ceiling. The pulpit is also an object of distinction, refined by the hands of a silversmith. With its gilded polychrome, it is one of the rare instances where the Baroque wins the argument. (José Saramago, “Journey to Portugal,” 1990; trans Hopkinson-Caistor, 2000)
The interior is remarkable, though the lighting, especially the ceiling's, is unfortunate. The roof is a low vault covered with painted panels; the bodies in the individual squares are a consistent size, so the effect is to create a shadowy crowd of people watching over the space.
All the vertical surfaces are covered in blue and white azulejos, with near life-size figures, pastoral landscapes, well-constructed architectural settings. The images are scenes from daily life: building a wall, tending the sick, cleaning a pond, or having a meal. There is a general sense of serenity, except for the poor fellow stuck in the brambles on the back wall.
The south wall has large clerestory windows, which are echoed in the tiles on the north side, maintaining a much-appreciated symmetry. The tile surrounds, though, are streaked with yellow (to simulate sunlight?).
As a Benedictine church, it explains the rules-based life the monks vow to obey. The tile medallions in the wainscot list the rules. The translations and illustrations are cryptic, but very amusing:
O superior deve tomàr individual conhesimen to dos subditosThe superior must take individual knowledge of the subjectsNem sempre hade achar o superior igual procedimento nos subditosThe superior does not always find the same procedure in the subjectsA religião hade se buscar pela fama de sua virtudeReligion had to search for the famous of its virtueSo como amor divino se extingue o amor prof anoJust how divine love is extinguished profane love
The pulpit and the chapels are where the "hands of a silversmith" leave an impression. Angels and grapes spiral up the columns. with a side-lit background of stars. On the left is Nossa Senhora (helping the sick and needy) and on the right is São Bento (we assume; floating arm holding a bell).
The azulejos and the ceiling paintings continues into the capela-mor. The chapels are decorated with flower-hearts and Easter lilies. The lighting is much improved, and the lovely ceiling panels are much more legible. There are lots of female figures; the veiled group in the tile panel on the right is quite intriguing. Meanwhile, the panel on the right depicts men hauling rocks.
In and around the Campo, preparation for the Festa das Cruzes continue, and we find our first galo. Somewhere along the west side of the campo is the Arantes. Like this blog, "Viagem" does not typically venture into food reviews, it's not that kind of travel book, but there is a restaurant that Saramago calls by name:
But the papas de sarrabulho, esteemed ladies and gentlemen, the Sarrabulho meatballs showed that he could never hope to find nor live to eat such a tasty dish again, since it’d never be possible to repeat the human inventiveness contained in such marvellous rustic fare, with its blend of substance and delicacy, the number and fusion of flavours, all from a pig and sublimated in a hot gravy which offers sustenance to the body and solace to the soul. However much the traveller voyages the world over, he’ll never cease singing the praises of those papas de sarrabulho he ate in Arantes. (José Saramago, “Journey to Portugal,” 1990; trans Hopkinson-Caistor, 2000)
We cannot find the restaurant, but we find a pastelaria named Arantes in a block with the sign,"Residential Arantes". The friendly woman in the Pastelaria Arantes tells us the restaurant closed several years ago, after her aunt passed. In its place is "Shop China", a loja chinesa (a common, low-priced variety store). She said that her aunt never wrote down the recipe, so they cannot exactly recreate the papas de sarrabulho. So no papas, but they have farturas.
She adds that Saramago stayed at the hotel, in a room overlooking the Campo. So we miss the restaurant and find something else.
Inside, the church is spectacular. Entering from the west side, and stepping to the center aisle, we walk under the massive pipe organ, topped with angels and trumpets. Then, we turn and see the altar and the dome (top image). The church is filled with the gruesome imagery of the Via Sacra, except perhaps, the fresco of the Accession (the bottoms of Christ's feet, upper right panel), which is literally 'uplifting' – are those His pants He's carrying?
The quality of the illustrations in the altar are unusually good. In the left-hand panel, the atmospheric, greyed background of buildings and protesters is particularly effective.
The worship space contains studded leather benches rather than pews; the design of crests, embossed in circles and squares, add texture, along with the diamond pattern of the pavers.
The dynamism of the central-plan space is emphasized by in-ward facing doorways and artwork. Near the altar, two offices are occupied by chatty co-workers, who carry their conversation back and forth between the two rooms. The star fields in the tiles over pediments and the dark doors add sparkle. But the image of Christ being nailed to the Cross over the right-hand door is horrifying.
Because of the circular design, the side chapels stand forward from the altar, with curtained windows, in addition to the lantern in the dome, giving natural light. An unusual assortment of bench-seats, benches, and choral risers are arranged there.
In the tile, female angels accompany the left-hand chapel (one takes the hammer), and male angels the right (one holds the ladder).
An ambulatory connects the two chapels, forming a U-shaped buffer around the domed space. This is lined with azulejos on both the inner and out curved surfaces, sparking a conversation between the angels and saints on the inside and scenes of Christ's Passion on the outside.
In the side chapels are two, now familiar, 'festival float style' figures: Nosso Senhor dos Passos and Nossa Senhora de Soledade (my goodness! the sword in her chest). The carved and painted attendants carry the floats on their pillowed shoulders.
It's colors, suffering, salvation, and celebration all in one.
Outside, both the colors and the rains continue in the Largo da Porta Nova. Perhaps we are in the best city for a rainy day. Another tiered chafariz centers the Largo in front of the Templo, along with another galo. The flower beds radiate rainbows made of blossoms
On the other side of the Porta are more flowers in the Jardim das Barrocas. Then, before we leave the Largo, one more galo, a rustic, old fashioned rendition near the Torre Medieval.
We follow the Rua de Dom António Barroso to the Igreja de Santa Maria Maior. Workers are installing lights and decorations as the rain intensifies. When we arrive, the church is closed, and we are wet. We stand in the portal, which provides little cover, and choose the closest place for lunch.
We treat ourselves to a long, enjoyable meal at Turismo as we wait out the weather.
After we've eaten and lingered, we retrace our way to the church, past the Pelourinho in its own flowered garden. There are limited views of the Ponte Medieval (fifteenth century) and the Rio Cádavo. Somehow the combination of a medieval bridge, a Gothic church, and a ruined palace suggest Barcelos is another Amarante. But the look is not quite the same. Rather than being concentrated, with directed views, the riverside is open, spread wide, and though very pleasant, doesn't hold together.
On the raised level of the old Castelo, we find the Padrão do Senhor do Galo (fourteenth century) and we get the official story:
Barcelos's gallows were outside the town, nearby the ancient road. One day, a St James pilgrim entered an inn, locally famous for its landlady's beauty. The woman immediately fell in love with the handsome man, but since he was on a pious journey, he didn't notice the lady's passionate intents. She plotted then a vengeance, stung for the lad's indifference, and concealed a valuable cup in the pilgrim's luggage. In the following morning, once the theft was detected and the sheriff called, the silver cup was found in the man's sack. Brought before the judge who was preparing to lunch an enormous roasted rooster, the pilgrim swore innocence, but faced with the evidence and according to custom, the judge sentenced the alleged thief to the gallows The man suddenly inspired by Divine intervention, said to the judge:- I am innocent and the proof is that this roasted rooster will sing my innocence.In the precise instant that the man was hung by the neck, the rooster stood up and sang. The judge hurried then to the gallows and found the pilgrim hanging by the neck, but the bond was limp, because St. James held the hangman by the feet.
Saramago's version of the story is much longer, but acknowledges the trafficking of the figurines, Portugal's original Funko Pop:
History has nothing to add regarding the fate of the miraculous cockerel, whether it was consumed in an act of gratitude, or whether they took it off to venerate it in a chapel until time alone consumed its bones. What is sure, thanks to the undeniable material evidence, is that its image is conserved in a sculpture at Christ’s feet at the crossroads by Our Lord do Galo, and was returned to the oven in the form of its many descendants made of baked clay then exhibited in all the fairs of Minho, and in all the rich variety of colours a cockerel could or should possess. (José Saramago, “Journey to Portugal,” 1990; trans Hopkinson-Caistor, 2000)
The image on the Padrão shows the pilgrim with his staff and passport on one side. On the other, the accused hangs above a straining St James, as the galo crows at the foot of Crucifix.
Museu Arqueológico (outdoor museum) and the Paço dos Condes de Barcelos (fifteenth century) share the top of the Castelo with the Padrão:
But the traveller, who’s paying a visit to the Archaeological Museum (you know his penchant for old stones), is inclined to protest at other similarly unjust sentences, for example the business of labelling the pieces on show here by means of little tiles embedded in the artefacts themselves: an example of the worst affectation of folkloric painterliness. (José Saramago, “Journey to Portugal,” 1990; trans Hopkinson-Caistor, 2000)
Reading the "Viagem", the comment about the tile labels made no sense. Seeing them now, we understand the offense. But they are hardly the most distracting part of the exhibit, as a local artist (Dinis Ribeiro) has installed several spider-like steel sculptures, obviously inspired by Louise Bourgeois.
We wonder if the aranha, like the galo will travel. We sure hope they don't make an alarming sound.
The traveller feels outraged. To get over it, he walks onto the bridge to take a look at the river, which on his arrival he’d barely noticed. Here the Cávado is exceptionally lovely, flowing between high banks which impose a modicum of respect from the necessities of urban life. It also boasts a water-mill which, viewed from the far bank, lends a touch of humanity to the aridity of the upper city wall, the ruins of Paço dos Condes, a more harmonious weight of stone than the parish church. Little by little the traveller’s pulse drops to a calmer level. This entrance into Barcelos establishes the lousy judge of museums as the direct descendant of the one who sentenced our Galician to death. (José Saramago, “Journey to Portugal,” 1990; trans Hopkinson-Caistor, 2000)
The artifacts in the Museu are allowed to gather moss and mold. Should we be concerned about all the tombs that no longer have covers? The ghosts of Barcelos are alive, and this would make a great setting for a haunted house. Perhaps the aranhas are a fitting compliment.
In the drizzle, the broken rooms are enchanting and we, too, develop a "penchant for old stones".
More Dinis Ribeiro pieces are in front and in the lobby of the Câmara Municipal (fifteenth to eighteenth centuries). On the other side is the Largo Dom António Barroso, a small formal plaza that steps down to the Cávado and offers views to the Ponte and the Casa de Azenha.
The side door to the Igreja de Santa Maria Maior (fourteenth century) is open, though the lights low. There is a cleaning crew inside preparing the church for the busy days ahead, but they allow us we to explore. It is an early Gothic church, with screens of pointed arches separating the two aisles from the nave. These arcades are adorned with Baroque tiles, which are difficult to read in the low light.
Unfortunately the traveller, after another turn about Barcelos, has to be on his way. First to the Gothic parish church, for once well restored so he could appreciate the successful blend of old and new, though what remained engraved on his memory was the adorable Santa Rosália, reclining in her niche, as fresh as her flowery name, and so feminine that sanctity scarcely became her. (José Saramago, “Journey to Portugal,” 1990; trans Hopkinson-Caistor, 2000)
We looked for Saramago's "Rosália, reclining in her niche", but found none like her. There is a reclining female image, but it's in the tiles at the back (well lit), and apparently depicts the Dormition of the Virgin.
Perhaps the best chapels are the two flanking the altar. With no tile work, their Gothic vaults shine, and the stained glass gives the finishing touch. Those two look the part.
The rest of the interior is fascinating, but it's dark and active. We take our pictures and try to stay out of the way. As we are leaving a woman tells us that the lights are on, and waves us toward one of the side chapels. This may be the Capela do Santíssimo Sacramento; there is a Cross laid on the floor, and purple flowers in all the wine goblets.
About the only "flowery" thing we find is the marvelous rosácea (rose window, restored twentieth century), certainly, this time, showing the Doze Apóstolos encircling the Salvador do Mundo.
Back in Guimarães, the weather is dry, and we take a walk before dinner. We grab some gelado (dessert first) near the Largo da Misericódia. We find another Capelas dos Passos de Paixão de Cristo (eighteenth century).
Then head to the Largo do Toural, which has a map of the town in the calçadas. The Basílica de São Pedro (eighteenth century) is there, along with the Chafariz do Toural.
We continue along the wide, curving Jardim Público da Alameda. The Convento e Igreja de São Francisco (fifteenth century) is just off to one side. We are all smitten with Guimarães, such a charming city. We end as we began – with bright flowers on a gloomy day.
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