Journey to Portugal by José Saramago

The traveller heads south. He crosses the Douro at Vila Nova de Gaia, entering lands which it'd be safe to say are different, but this time he spares the fish a further sample of his sermon. They wouldn't be able to hear him preach from such a high bridge and in any case these are city fish and don't go in for homilies. Great treasures are buried beneath this bank to the left of the river: what we can see on the terraced slopes are but their visible signs, vines which on January days like these are bare of all their leaves and as black as burnt roots. On this side of the Vilanova de Gaia the wide channels descend, flowing from the trodden grapes and their must, and here subtle essences of wine are filtered, decanted and laid down in cellars where men come to guard the bottled sunlight.

Just as well they don't guard it all. On the main road to Espinho the only shade is that cast by the trees. The sky is clear, without a thread of cloud, and if the breeze were less stiff it'd be like a summer's day. The traveller didn't pause in Espinho. He saw the deserted beach at a distance, with its clashing waves, its spray seized and pulverised by the wind, and continues directly on to Esmoriz. These are minute details devoid of interest on our itinerary, but it's worth remembering that the traveller is also devoid of wings, he covers the ground like any other pedestrian, and he wouldn't be right not to mention the places he passed through. Now he's off to Feira, famous for its castle, most of all for its keep with its conical turrets which, to the traveller's eyes, give it the air of a palatial home, not in the least bellicose: merely the peaceable estate of some local landowners.