Amarante

The Tâmega slides beneath a granite bridge so central that the town grew around it rather than the other way round. Baroque domes rise above willow-draped banks, and the town's famous cakes are shaped like exactly what you think — a centuries-old fertility tradition, and entirely sincere. Amarante is the country at its most disarmingly eccentric.

Amarante's identity hangs on the Ponte de São Gonçalo and the adjoining church and monastery honouring a thirteenth-century saint of matchmaking — pilgrims have touched his tomb seeking love since the convent rose in 1540, and the Festa de São Gonçalo tradition has traded its bolos as tokens of romantic intent for centuries. The bridge itself, rebuilt in the eighteenth century at the medieval ford, reflects its arches perfectly in still water. Beyond the festival, a Baroque quarter mirrors itself in the river, the museum named for Amadeo de Souza-Cardoso holds the modernist the town raised, and conventual pastry recipes guarded for generations still cross the counters. The surrounding hills pour vinho verde, most of it drunk locally rather than shipped — the pours here taste different from anything in shops.