In July 2025, I was lucky to attend my cousin’s Canadian-Punjabi-Portugese wedding in the peaceful mountainous region of Arcos de Valdevez. Reuniting with friends and family in such a surreal setting made for a truly memorable experience, with some of the spontaneous plans becoming my favourite memories of the trip.
Landing in Porto after an afternoon flight from London (no mean feat on the first day of the summer holidays, surrounded by families eager to escape), we celebrated arriving into a brand new place, the anticipation of the weekend ahead bubbling up inside us. Sitting in the back of a taxi and driving an hour north, we were enchanted by the Portuguese countryside: miles of beautiful mountain ranges, warm with the late-evening sun.
Before the wedding on Saturday, we had two days to settle in, reunite with family members from across the globe – Canada, the UK, Portugal and India. This was as exciting and chaotic as you can imagine, especially with 50 of us attempting to get takeaway pizza delivered to a riverbank outside our hotel, as the space inside was too small to contain us all. We chatted with uncles and aunts, long-lost cousins, and nieces and nephews; late at night, once the oldest and youngest had gone to bed, a few of us followed live music to a nearby bar to drink, dance and party into the early morning.
Note to self: waking up hungover on the day of a wedding probably wasn’t my finest idea. But, undeterred, we soon shook it off and got ready for the day, the fizz of excitement palpable in the air at breakfast, in hotel rooms, and across corridors, where every door was open, people ran to and fro with armfuls of fabric, decided it was too hot, and ran back again with cooler materials.
Woefully underequipped for such an onslaught of demanding guests, the hotel had a single iron, which was passed from room to room, to the point at which we lost track and the receptionist had to come with me on a mission to retrieve it. A forward-thinking member of our group had somehow acquired a steamer and decided to donate it as a gift to the hotel once we’d left.
The natural effect of all this running, ironing, steaming and the July sun was an increasingly rising temperature, and by the time we’d all dressed for the reception, everyone was slightly bedraggled. But the day had barely begun.
It took some work to arrange families and friends into presentable groups, but we managed to take pre-ceremony pictures of guests in their finery next to the scenic riverbank, before shuttling everyone in minibuses to a tiny mountaintop church. Though it would have only been a 10-minute walk under normal circumstances, the incline of the slope and guests’ footwear made for a bad match, so we eagerly accepted the ride instead, bustling in like a herd of colourful peacocks.
One fantastic surprise was the pre-ceremony buffet: we’d never seen such a dinner – it turned out to be one of the seven or eight courses we had that day. Seafood, fresh cod and prawns, sandwiches, salads, crackers, desserts, drinks of all varieties – this got the party started. Shading from the heat of the sun in the trees, we ate and drank merrily, chatting away to our lovely hosts, meeting the bride’s side of the family and thanking them for their generosity.
The ceremony itself was lovely: atop the mountain was a tiny church, whose bells rang out across the valley to celebrate. Bridesmaids resplendent in lemon-coloured chiffon radiated enthusiasm, and the couple looked magnificent. It was an understated ceremony, simple and beautiful, with a live band and accompanist, even with pauses to fetch umbrellas to keep everyone cool.
Afterwards, we applauded, we laughed and celebrated, and after a few more photos, we made our way to the reception venue. No doubt this was the craziest part of our trip. Travelling 45 minutes up small, winding mountain roads in 35-degree heat with 10 other passengers in a crowded minibus without air-con, it was an experience not easily forgotten.
When we finally emerged onto land again, my uncle and I burst into hysterical laughter, brought back from the brink of a near-death experience that would forever bond us and the thought of which would send us into a frenzy. Suggestions were made of T-shirts emblazoned with the slogan: “I SURVIVED THE DEATH BUS” – this was universally agreed to be a good idea.
But, if we thought the pre-ceremony lunch was special, we didn’t know what would be before us. At the most beautiful venue I’ve ever seen, with magnificent views of the mountains and cloudless skies, we could roam freely across acres and acres of land, snapping pics in photo booths, admiring the view, or enjoying the pre-dinner cocktails in a dedicated building I can only describe as about the size of a large yacht, with more seafood and an entire room dedicated to the bar, with drinks around the circumference.
Well and truly sated after hours in the sun and heat, we got down to the business of enjoying ourselves and the party. This was probably my favourite part of the day, chatting and sharing stories with cousins, aunts, uncles, nieces, nephews and new friends. A particularly charming octogenarian Italian man from the bride’s side invited me for a dance later, but (perhaps it was for the best), we mainly kept to our respective sides.
You’d have thought that after hours of eating and drinking we’d be finished, but oh no. About 7pm we finally headed inside and I don’t exaggerate when I say we probably ate another seven courses throughout the night. Everything from sweet to sour to salty, seafood to desserts, with drinks all around, it was a fantastic celebration. Speeches were made, tears were shed, and more impressively, a huge shower of fireworks lit up the sky outside as the summer sun set late into the night.
There were two buses scheduled back to the hotel: one at midnight, one at 2am. Bearing in mind the DJ only started setting up at 11:50pm, most of us felt it’d be rude to leave him there. So, we were fuelled up, the dancing began, and another bar opened.
I’d like to say that was the end of things, but even the 2am ride home was an event in itself. Bhangra blared from the speakers and drunken teenage cousins swayed unsteadily on their feet in the back rows, despite multiple verbal warnings to sit down or get thrown around. Nevertheless, in one piece we finally made it back to the hotel, to say exhausted goodbyes in the lift and collapse into bed.
The day after the wedding, I met an old schoolfriend who lived close by – a long-anticipated reunion, both of us giddy with excitement and a year’s worth of catching-up to do while on her turf. My unwitting tour guide for the day kindly drove us to Viana do Castelo, the beautiful coastal city. There, we had a leisurely lunch, and spent time at the main sites. Children ran around fountains, giggling with delight as the cold water and sea breeze cooled them off from the heat.
We roamed around a museum on a 17th-century fishing vessel, which, throughout its many chambers, told the history of the region, its fishing heritage and showed us the trading routes that were integral to putting Viana do Castelo on the map.
After shopping around the local markets for trinkets, passing colourful houses and bohemian alleyways, we visited the Santuário do Sagrado Coração de Jesus Cathedral. No doubt it was walkable, but in 30-degree heat, we opted for the 5-minute drive up the mountain instead. Passing by exhausted runners, joggers and walkers, we realised there’d been a half-marathon that day, and could tell how much work they’d put in to summit the mountain. We laughed about taking the easy – and much less virtuous – way up.
At the summit, we took in the sights, a heart-stopping vista of the Atlantic and the buildings making up the picturesque city dotted beneath us. This, I thought, is what it’s all about! Outside the cathedral there was even an antique water-fountain that still operated, giving relief to runners, shade for tourists and water for thirsty dogs whose owners had persuaded them (or was it the other way around?) to make the climb.
We spent the rest of the afternoon on a nearby beach, posing for pictures by a luminous green lighthouse and topping up our tans for an bour or two. It was the first time since we were teenagers that we’d been able to lie around and catch up with nowhere to be, and a comforting thought that we’d remained so close.
As afternoon faded, we drove back inland to meet up with everyone again, via the historic Ponte de Lima. One of the oldest bridges in Portugal, this was set in a wonderful historic town, with gorgeous views of the river and medieval buildings surrounding it. A lovely place that remains nestled, in my memory, between miles of welcoming countryside, quaint houses and dirt-track roads. Perhaps I could live here, I found myself thinking more than once.
We arrived back to our hotel at dusk,saying hello to the family and joining a few out for dinner. It was a lovely way to end a trip that’d been full of joyful reunions, exuberant celebrations and partying – the only right way to celebrate a couple who were so wonderful and had been so generous. We’d eaten, said our farewells, and headed to bed, desperately in need of a week-long sleep but ready to head home with memories (especially of the bus) that would come up whenever we saw each other next.