You sweep them away as with a flood; they are like a dream, like grass that is renewed in the morning

We booked late one night in the cold reaches of December to fly to Porto for new year. The train across the countryside to Lisbon framed the run-down, salmon-coloured buildings through rain-misted windows. We walked up and down the criss-crossing sloping streets endlessly, ran to catch the boat back and forth across the river, ate oranges just picked, sheltered in beautiful bookshops, and cat-spotted on street corners. I slept what seemed like longer and longer each day, but felt almost deliriously tired as we wandered around, starting to spot faces in knotted tree trunks, odd backyard swimming pools and potted plants in bird cages.