Portugal Day 5 – The Day I Challenged the Douro Valley and Lost

Today began innocently enough. I woke early, feeling the heroic stirrings of a man who refuses to let a minor cold ruin his European fitness streak.  “A quick jog,” I thought, “just to shake it off.” Sixty minutes later I was dragging my limp body along the riverbanks of Coimbra, contemplating my life choices and whether this was how great explorers met their end. It was a beautiful run in the same way that dying on Everest offers “great views.”

Breakfast followed, which I approached like a man carbo-loading for an Ironman he didn’t sign up for. Then we packed into a luxury car and headed for the Douro Valley, home of Port wine, rolling vineyards, and, if I’m honest, a day that would humble me completely. 

Our destination: Quinta do Vallado, a ridiculously scenic, 16-room luxury vineyard straight out of a wine commercial. 

 Think chalet architecture meets sweeping valley views and the faint aroma of expensive grapes. We strolled the grounds, Joni cooed at the pool, and I pretended not to be on the verge of collapse. 

After a restorative nap and spa massages (where I may have accidentally drooled on the table), I decided I was fit to attend a wine tasting, with Joni strapped to my chest like a tiny, adorable anchor and the heavy diaper bag on my back. I imagined a relaxing seated affair, sipping port while the sommelier gently explained tannins.

Instead, they handed me a map and said, “We begin with a short walk through the vineyards.” (The steep, rocky, and hot vineyards)

A short walk in Portuguese, it turns out, translates to “mountain trek under direct sunlight with your baby acting as a space heater.”

Somewhere between the fermentation tanks and the 100-year-old vines, I started experiencing tunnel vision and pondering the odds of fainting gracefully while still protecting Joni. I finally excused myself from the tour stumbled into the air-conditioned wine shop, unstrapped my human kettlebell, and chugged water like a dehydrated camel.

Miraculously, I revived just in time for the actual tasting. The Ports were sublime, liquid velvet, notes of caramel, and the faint taste of redemption. The table wines? Let’s just say they were fine, but perhaps they needed more oxygen… like the kind I didn’t have. 

We capped off the day with a quick room dinner and dessert on our porch overlooking the valley a small victory lap for survival. Joni rewarded us by staging her nightly “midnight rave,” leaving us contemplating future travel. 

All in all, a solid day: I fought the Douro, and the Douro won.