Settling into a chair out on deck, my book lies unopened. I can’t take my eyes off the passing scenery, where the morning sun picks out a colour chart of different shades of green on the verdant vineyard slopes stretching to the water’s edge.
Silvery schist, the slate-like stone that lines the hills, glints in the light and the vista is dotted with remote farmhouses perched on hillsides and signs for port houses. Most instantly recognisable is Sandeman’s brooding figure of a caped man wearing a wide-brimmed hat.
As we continue our gentle meander along the river, it’s hard to believe the Douro was once a treacherous waterway that caused many
