There’s a particular kind of morning that Porto does better than almost anywhere else I’ve been. You roll out of bed sometime around nine, the azulejo tiles are already catching the light outside your window, and the city feels unhurried in a way that makes you genuinely forget what day

Barcelona has a way of making you forget that eating is supposed to be a practical activity. You arrive with a sensible plan — see Gaudí, walk Las Ramblas, visit the beach — and somewhere around day two you realise you’ve spent more time eating than doing anything else, and