A night...and day on the tiles.

I survived the cellars and, might I say, it was like frolicking in a vat of mead except, thank goodness,  it was port. After some considerable and serious recovery,  and a great deal of reflection, it occurred that one can't go past a Good Friday without some sort of pilgrimage to a construction of God.  I have never seen such suffering and blood letting than I did in the churches of Porto. Amazing iconography...so dark, portentous and reminiscent of my old gothic friend Nick Cave, the old churches of Portugal are indeed amazing. The tiles that embrace each haven of worship tells a story of epic proportions that one can only marvel at the skills of the craftsmen that dedicated themselves to the construction of these glazed wonders. In benediction and supplication, the only suitable honour is the consumption of a sweet dram of Benedictine...that sumptuous liqueur made of herbs, roots and sugar with a base of Cognac.  These churches must be seen to be believed...and I feel blessed.