Storming the Castles

With its prime location near the Atlantic coast and close proximity to Lisbon, Sintra and towns near it have been popular locations for getaways and military fortifications for over a millennium. We spent the better part of our Thursday exploring two of the castles that remain.


View from path between two castles looking back towards Sintra.

They have a combined ticket booth for the Castelo dos Mouros and the Palacio Nacional da Pena, but modern commerce and spectacular view are about the only things shared by these two venues. As a sojourner, you meet Castelo dos Mouros first as it stony walls line a ridge visible from the main center of Sintra. It and elevation shield the Palacio National da Pena from view until you are nearly upon it. From city center you walk up nearly endlessly, up through the winding streets and stores, abandoned buildings of varying degree of salvagability, and along stone walls of retention. It is a bumpy walk in which you remain ignorant of the beauty you will find and the difficulty of journey you will face.

Stony pathes.

In truth, the outer wall entrance to the Castelo dos Mouros could go unnoticed if it were not for a wooden door. Plucked among miles of stone and mortar is a medieval looking, dark wood, revolving door. Years of moisture have accumulated upon its pores and unleash today a subtle musty scent. Passing through the gate, you begin to see for the first time the climb that lies ahead. A stone path traverses the mound, resilient but not enough to the runoff and visitors that have come before us. The green canopy emerges with more detail as a mixture of evergreen, oak, and sycamore that have grown unimpeded for centuries and stand like great Redwood.

Flags flew at half mass in rememberance of the Pope.

Crossing many layers of walled defense as if slicing through an onion, you eventually enter the sweeter, richer reality of the main castle after a five minute walk. First built by the Moors (hence the name) over a thousand years ago and later captured by Christian forces before being abandoned several hundred years ago, the Castelo dos Mouros is a castle in ruins. The bare stone walls and boxy lines create an expectation for Robin Hood’s inevitable return and a seemingly endless number of paths to and fro as well as stunning views of the city. Natural boulders are built upon as a retreating ice left them and are a clear sign of nature being hemmed in by encroaching societies. A great cistern lies at the center of the castle and still holds water that you may need if encroaching marauders should return unexpectedly during your stay. The outer walls of the castle which stand high above the town seem more like the Great Wall of China than any other structure Eric or I had pictures. I am glad that today our purpose for the views can be for pleasure rather than in fear and defense, as was the original intention.

The Palacio.

As the eye sees, the Palacio Nacional da Pena is separated from Castelo dos Mouros by little distance but enormous purpose and style. Originally a convent that was then converted into a royal castle by some of Portugal final royalty, Palacio Nacional da Pena remains placed among lush green gardens and is decorated in an opulent exotic fashion. Today the Palacio functions as a museum intact exactly since the monarchy fell away almost a century ago, a remnant of past politics. When you see the Palacio it is not hard to imagine how intolerant a people could become of such indulgence, but I doubt they had such an intimate tour as visitors are allowed today. The Palacio and the Castelo are both patrolled by security and preservation staff, but ultimately a visitor is allowed more access than I think most of us have had in our best friend’s homes. You are free to wonder, and wonder, and wonder, finding passageways and exterior balconies that seem impossibly within you reach for such a home which is obviously not.

Perched above, a view from the Palacio captures the Castelo in its frame with Sintra in the background.

Fog rolled in and looking up from the Castelo, the Palacio disappears.

The Palacio is grand in a very Portuguese way, with large stone walls lines with elaborate tiles that create patterns only imagined by M.C. Escher. As you wind your way more intimately into the castle, the grandeur increases and you eventually are placed within limitations and camera is banned and rope-lines appear.

Unobstructed access.

When this location was converted from a nunnery to a castle, the original structure seems to have survived largely intact and was built upon as a wasp would build upon its nest, creating new outer reality and defenses for what remains an interior known by many past generations. Walls, ceilings, and a courtyard very reminiscent of many Christian creations have been morphed by paint and by tile into a personal residence with rooms for the king, queen, queen’s attendant, and countless other purposes. Fareast antiquities and oddities are displayed in their own rooms and in such a way that you feel stunned at their beautiful, exotic existence. Personal exposure to these cultures and ornate beings are forgotten, and you feel like a child of Portugal being exposed for the first time to a world outside of your world. A world brought to you by ship and by empire. This fairy tale castle in the sky could provide hours of enjoyment for any child or adult with child like imagination.

Stone and tile walls.

Looking up can be a scary sight if you happen to catch Neptune.

Opulence can be intoxicating, but inevitably reality returns. On our journey through the Palacio, reality came in the form of a security guard. Charged with protection and preservation, but human and tempted by addiction and want, at the top of the top of the Palacio, where no cameras are allowed and the sun strikes you with force, a guard spoke slowly and heavily to the two other tourist on the same large balcony we occupied. “Can you offer me a cigarette?” I think the opulence had been lost on this guard through the wear of time and slow exposure like a vaccine.

The views from the Palacio were utterly amazing. A town lies all around. A sea lies to the side and covers the horizon. It’s easy to see how this location became the prime plot and hard to believe that it will not continue to change hands in the next millennium.

A Little Snicker in the Morning

The sun rose gently on Pensao Nova Sintra, waltzing through our cracked windows and filtering through the long drapes, over the off-white walls, and onto our twin beds. The little hotel on the hill (but in a valley) was a yellow beacon visible throughout our travels through Sintra.

As a renovated mansion, the Pensao held great charm in its traditional decoration but the true gem of our visit was the helpful staff. We were lucky to begin our days with a light continental breakfast of slightly sour rolls, prosciotto ham, mozzarella cheese, jelly, little pastries, and a variety of drinking options. Portugal is known for its pastelerias which sell a variety of snacks and coffees for all day lounging convenience but particularly for morning dining – no room for Starbucks here. Our hotel got its pastries delivered from one of these shops, and although I don’t know what the particular pastry was that I came to enjoy, I can say without a doubt that its name didn’t matter. It was for practical purposes an un-flattened snickerdoodle. Growing up I would make snickerdoodles with my mom or grandma and remember many a time making the little sugar dough balls, dipping them in cinnamon and sugar, and then flattening them with the bottom of a glass for baking. The Portuguese enjoy the same tastes but without the last step. These were a treat indeed, especially with coffee.

Sintra is a small town perched between Lisbon and the Atlantic Ocean which for thousands of years or more has been a point of interest for the peoples that battled for control of the land. Today, its winding streets of mosaic stone squares connect the otherwise distinct worlds created by prolific greenery, a steep landscape, and the remnants of generations of living. The stones and alleys create a reality that you think only exists in mythic recreations of past times but which are adapted for modern living by current inhabitants. We spent our first afternoon and evening in Sintra wondering up and down streets and alleys and pondering the possibilities of the past and future of each seemingly abandoned building we passed. As lovers of antiquities and grandeur, it is tempting to follow the path set for in Under the Tuscan Sun (book and movie – must see title), but what would we do with a villa in Sintra?

Carriages are not the common means of transport anymore but remain for nostalgia.

A Sintra alley.

If you look closely you can make out a castle on the hill above Sintra.

Painted tile from the outside of a house next to our hotel. Very common in Portugal.

The Simplest of Acts

It is often the simplest of acts that can be the most dangerous – walking the dog, catching a football, or drinking a coffee. On Thursday morning for me it was the morning shave. While Eric and I arrived safely on our flights from Hong Kong through Heathrow, and more or less on time, but one of my bags was not as lucky. As our innkeeper said, “your bag needed a vacation, too.” Unfortunately, that bag contained my toiletries, most of my clothes, and a few other essentials.

After a day without brushing my teeth and any meaningful personal hygiene, I could wait no longer. We went to the local supermarket and emerged with many products. Returning to the hotel at about 10am, I was determined to quickly clean up while Eric waited on the street for our day to really begin. Dashing into our room, I set about cleaning up. Toothbrush. Paste. Razor. Cream. Deodorant.

I think I have become spoiled with triple-blade technology, hi-tech coatings, and the manicure handles of modern razors for when I opened up the old Bic and began to swipe away I met with a sad outcome. I knew instantly from the pain that there was soon to be blood and a great deal of it. In the matter of half a second, I had scarred all of the photos that would emerge from this trip by creating a dime-sized wound on my upper lip.

The inventor of the band-aid did a wonderful thing. I can’t remember his name, but I have read about him before. I’ve read how he took a piece of gauze and some cotton and created a product which few thought had potential at the time. I am forever in his debt, although on this particular day, I was not feeling much warmth towards the healing invention. For when your upper lip is clad in an enormous skin, but not too skin-colored, latex rectangle, it’s hard to think about anything other than how much of a freak you look like.

But the nice thing about starting a day with a good dose of self-mutilation is that there are few places to go but up. And up we went. Through the streets and paths that led up to the castles of Sintra.

Comfy Leather Chair

Big dark wood desk. Pictures and plaques on the wall. A wooden coat rack. A comfy leather chair.

A doctor's office.

With Monday came my first visit to a doctor in Hong Kong. Nothing serious - please don't worry. Just had to get a quick look over before going to Portugal.

My interaction with the doctor began at about 11am when Eric convinced me that I should run in just to be safe. We have a little YWCA guidebook that our friend Donna gave us, thank you!, which is so helpful with things like this. I dialed the doctor and to my utter amazement was instructed to come in an hour. An hour! Keep in mind, this was a specialist, as there are very few general doctor's in Hong Kong from what I could tell and many more specialists. In the States, my adventures with specialists before have taken weeks, if not months, to schedule and usually even longer to bring to a resolution.

The office was but about a 10 minute walk from our apartment, but I took off shortly after calling to ensure I could find the building, etc. I had to be buzzed into the office but could see through the glass door that it was not posh by any means but very presentable, like a house where all the furniture is from the 1970's but is spotless because it's been covered in plastic all these years. I walked up to the women behind the counter, one wearing a surgical-type mask as is common here when one is sick. She greeted me and handed me some paperwork to fill out:

Last Name
First Name
Address
Home Phone
Office Phone
Married or Single
ID #

That was it. No medical history or pressure about payment methods. Just the basics. She thanked me and instructed me to sit down. There were two other groups of patients in the waiting area.

I had brought a magazine to read as I was about 30 minutes early. Two paragraphs in, the nurse peaked her head out from behind the door and said my name. I was surprised but glad to go. I walked through the door, expecting I don't know what, but certainly not what I saw.

It was the doctor. Right there, about 5 feet away from me, sitting behind his enormous, dark wood desk. I was greeted and instructed to sit in a leather chair next to the desk as if I were coming for an interview at Doctor's Office Inc. And so the exam began. It was quick, to the point, and thorough but also so efficient that I found myself nervous. In about 3 minutes, I had described my problem, been examined (right there in the chair), a tentative diagnosis made, and instructed to wait back in the lobby.

Wow! It was crazy fast, so I sat dazed in the lobby. Another patient was called in, and exited. And another in, and another out. The nurse brings me a pamphlet (in English and from the U.S.) describing my ailment. 5 minutes pass. It's my turn again. In. Diagnosis and treatment. Exit.

I passed another few minutes waiting for the nurse, because in Hong Kong, most medicines are actually dispensed by a doctor as well as prescribed. Pharmacies are basically for over the counter medications. So, shortly, the nurse called me back up, explained the medicine, and gave me the bill. That was that. It was over.

It's hard for me to describe how different, and more satisfying in many ways, this doctor's visit was for me than the specialist visits I've had in the U.S. I didn't worry about paperwork, scheduling, or anything. It was how doctor's visits should be. What you need, when you wanted, and for a good price. Granted, my doctor could have benefited from a little bedside care lessons on how to engage the patient, but at least I know he was there for business.

What travel advice would you give?

Eric and I are off tomorrow for an adventure in Portugal. He has a business meeting there next week so we are going to fly out for a few days in advance to see some sights. I'll stay on while he is in the meeting. I figure I can work from there about as easily as I do from here, and then I can go sightseeing in my down time.

I say all this in the way of introducing a conversation I had with a woman I met Saturday. Let's call her Jane. I am talking with Jane, and it comes up that this Portugal trip is coming up. It's a small world as Jane's in-laws live in Portugal, and she and her husband return at least once a year for a couple of weeks to visit. Positive thoughts rush through me. Perhaps she can provide that one sage piece of travel advice for Portugal I've missed in my pre-travel reading. Perhaps, perhaps.

Then, Jane leaned into me like a boss to a favored employee getting the secret scoop at the company Christmas party and softly said, "Well, I am a little embarrasses to say this and all, but I must advise that you take some bran with you to Portugal."

I hope I kept a straight face. I really do. Honestly, she said it so softly and we were in a pretty noisy place, that I thought I had misunderstood her, but I didn't.

Bran. Jane thinks that I need bran. She suggested a small pouch packed in my suitcase would do quite nicely.

Bran. The universal sign of old age for the young. The butt of so many of my jokes about my father. B R A N. When did I get old? How did she know? Is it that obvious any more?

While I do enjoy a bit of regularity in my life, and although I am sad to admit, have actually taken a bran-like substance before, I certainly hope this is not the first thing that one thinks of when meeting me. I was expecting something about the great little town of Sintra or the coast line full of great beaches. I got bran.



Laugh if you like. In fact, I hope you do. That's about all I can do with it. I can't bring myself to bring bran with me on the trip. It's just too much of an admittance of defeat before even beginning an adventure. You can't be a bran adventurer.

Sounds of Nature?

One of the blessings of our apartment's location is its proximity to green space. We are within a few minutes walk of the Hong Kong Zoo and Hong Kong Park (where the aviary is that I have posted about). Well, for a long time, I thought that the zoo had these really exotic birds that I would here in the morning and at night if our windows were open.

Needless to say, I was not hearing birds.

Video File
(click above)

While you may not be able to see it from the video quality, I wanted to post this for the audio. It's the orangutans inside their cage. They go absolutely nuts, supposedly when aroused.

I think I'll just keep pretending that we have some really loud-lunged birds here.

The Rocket

Restaurants in Hong Kong have a strange obsession with an otherwise "no-body" salad-green. It's not romaine. It's not iceberg. It's not the green onion. It's arugula - otherwise known here as "rocket." I bring this up because tonight Eric and I went to what has become one of our more normal spots for eating out - Pizza Express. We don't have a "Regal Beagle" yet but there are some contenders, but I digress...

Rocket is everywhere in Hong Kong. It's the only leaf in many salads, it's the topping on a sandwich, in pasta sauce, and of all places, it's at home with a wide variety of pizzas. This is nowhere more the case than at Pizza Express where it regularly covers the cheese on a couple of their varieties and tonight was the main ingredient in a bruschetta that I ordered. Now, I am open to a lot of things, but I must protest that I am getting a little tired of my salad invading my other courses. I like a little bit of a separation in genres here, but I seem to be losing my battle. This blending of groups is not without precedent in foreign cultures, as I remember from traveling to Japan that they had a somewhat similar obsession with corn and western food. Anytime you saw a pizza in Japan, it seemed to corn on it. I even saw a corn soup at Wendy's in Tokyo.

Rocket. Blah. I've had enough.