Sintra, Portugal – the Royal Retreat
Lord Byron called Sintra, “perhaps the most delightful in Europe.” Other notables were equally impressed. Hans Christian Anderson visited in 1866 and said, “The most beautiful and most lauded part of Portugal, is without doubt, Sintra.” Even now, the village is reminiscent of the Black Forest, spiced with a heaping cup of Arabia. Blended with a pint of fantasyland, the mix makes for a delectable feast.
We arrived by train from Lisbon at mid-morning, in time to see three school buses of Portuguese children happy to be out of the classroom and on a field trip to the National Palace. Their youthful enthusiasm brought back memories of my first field trip. This group, in their T-shirts, blue jeans and all manner of tennis shoes could have come from any city across the U.S. Only their language gave them away. Luckily, we made it into the palace just ahead of the horde.
The National Palace of Sintra is above all a tangible symbol of the Avis dynasty which spanned two centuries from 1385 to 1580, considered the golden age of Portugal. The Palace is the best example of a medieval royal palace in the entire country, thus popular with natives as well as tourists. It was inhabited until the end of the monarchy in 1910.
Rising like two champagne bottles side by side, the most striking feature of the palace are the conical chimneys. Not unlike King Ludwig’s castle or the Eiffel Tower, these chimneys are depicted on all kinds of tourist mementos from plastic key chains to hand towels. They dominate the village skyline and have become an easily recognizable Sintra landmark.
As with other palaces in Sintra, the National Palace is a frivolous hodgepodge of architectural types. Obviously, Portuguese kings were never restrained by the notion that a palace had to be constructed using only one style or design. Casting conventional wisdom to the wind, these Sovereigns built precisely what they wanted. The result is a style unto itself, which would make a by-the-book architect cringe. Yet, it is without question, impressive. The curious shape is due to numerous alternations carried out through the decades.
Guided tours, some in English, are offered for a small fee. Among other things, you get to see the inside of those bottle-shaped chimneys. The sweet scent of orange and lemon trees cling tenaciously to every space, while well-kept courtyard gardens and splashing fountains retain the atmosphere of a Moorish alcazar.
Three rooms with creature names, the swan room, stag room and magpie room are noteworthy. The ceiling of the magpie room is painted with a number of black magpies clutching the phrase “Por Bem” (translated: for the best) in their beaks. The guide relates how the king had them painted to represent each of the Queen’s ladies-in-waiting, as he found them to be entirely too talkative. His majesty was caught kissing one of the ladies and didn’t appreciate their prattle about the ill-timed incident. The ceiling was to be their constant, hovering reminder.
The stag room has fine examples of azulejos tiles, in the typical colors of blue and white. Azulejos, found everywhere Portugal, are glazed, ceramic tiles, usually small and square in shape. Other colors are used, but blue and white predominate. Both utilitarian and decorative, these tiles are considered the height of Portuguese artistic achievement. Three centuries of refinement have made azulejos a distinctive national art form. Like pieces of a jigsaw puzzle, individual tiles are often assembled to create a complete picture. In the stag room, the azulejos tiles depict hunting and momentous battle scenes. Once again, the ceiling is adorned with creatures, this time 72 stag heads, each bearing as a badge the arms and names of Portugal’s leading families. This room is considered to be the loveliest room in the palace.
As we left the palace a light rain began to fall, so we headed to the nearest cafe. A strong cup of coffee seemed just the thing to fend off the misty weather. Upon entering we spotted Patrick, a lanky Swedish fellow we had met two days earlier at our hotel in Lisbon. The miniscule breakfast nook of our 18-room hotel was a perfect place to meet our fellow wanderers. Patrick let us share his table on our first morning. Although he usually traveled alone, we got the impression he quickly made new friends along the way.
At the coffee shop we sipped and chatted with Patrick until the rain let up an hour later. We talked travel. In his country, six weeks vacation is the norm, even when you begin a new job. He shuttered at the idea of our American version of going on vacation, for only one or two weeks at most. We were amazed to learn his urge to wander had taken him all over the world and he was only 27!
We decided to visit the Moorish castle next. Sintra has so many exceptional sights it’s difficult to choose. In fact, Patrick told us he was planning to make at least three more day trips to Sintra, during his four week stay in Portugal. We left our new friend at the table and found the first available taxi.
The “castle” is misnamed. More aptly described as ruins on a weed-covered mountain peak, only crumbling stone and overgrown mounds remain. Yet, the dominant emotions from the distant past have clung to the spot. This once impressive fortress is believed to have been built in the eighth or ninth century. Legend has it an immense fortune still lies buried somewhere beneath the ramparts, hidden by the Moors during their hasty flight from Alfonso Henriques’s Crusaders. On a clear day you can see all the way from the ruins to the sea at Cabo da Roca, the most western point in continental Europe.
We continued our precarious journey upward, despite the ferocious winds which tugged at our clothing and hair. Our goal was the view from one of the still-standing towers. There was nobody in sight. But, who should already be at the top, sitting casually in the tower, Patrick! Somehow he beat us to the summit. I’ll never know how he managed to arrive before us. But, there he was perched like a grinning gargoyle with a fancy Nikon in his lap. In my bewildered state, I accused him of flying to the top of the mountain.
We sat on an ancient, broken wall with Patrick and savored the brief outbreaks of sunshine mixed with powerful speaking winds. Between our disjointed conversation, we listened to the articulate silence, unbroken by car horns and punctuated only by an occasional bird or the rustling swish, swish of tall grass. A few others picked their way through the weeds, but they too respected the serenity.
Feeling pleasantly lost in time and space, we stayed for an hour. Finally, it came time to leave and we found a vacant taxi, heading back down the steep, narrow road. Patrick decided to stay on to take more pictures. Sadly, we didn’t see him again. I don’t suppose I will ever again sit on a mountain top in rural Portugal, chatting with a Swedish computer programmer. Such is the extraordinary nature of travel.
Back in the center of town we decided to do some shopping, as our gift buying time was getting short. I gave in to the temptation to buy a painted tile with a gaudy, rainbow-colored rooster, the symbol of Portugal. It seemed tawdry at first, then began to grow on me. Like Portugal herself, the tile was exuberant. Eventually it found a home on my kitchen wall, where everyday it reminds me of Portugal’s royal retreat.
The guidebooks did not exaggerate. Sintra is the fairy tale village they described. There are tourists to be sure, but the essence of the town, rhapsodized by poets, hasn’t been altered. It grows wiser and perhaps a little melancholy, with the swiftly passing decades.
