This exhibition can be considered as a journey to the past. A past where the train still moved slowly, where people smiled and opened their doors to unknown travellers and offered them a hot soup to heat their soul, where rituals of pressing grapes were still celebrated with human heat stifling cold away.
An image of Portugal that many are unaware of, but still prevails in the vine's terraces. An image that contrast with Douro's bridges and dams, roads and highways that wind through North's land, signs of stubborn modernity that persists in remembering us that the past already passed.
It's never late to travel to Douro and dive in Porto's wine memory's river. We'll find certainly a piece of our own history.
Text: Antónia Barroso
Dedicated to my travelling companion Antónia Barroso. José Gonçalves
Translation: Sofia Quintas