Braga was a town which unexpectedly surprised and delighted at every single turn. Truly a most unexpected discovery teeming with opulent architecture and flair. Most sadly crumbling structures with magnetic facades remaining. It was so much more than a bustling mini metropololis of monotoned tiled apartment complexes I'd been so accustomed to seeing upon the outskirts of town. Outskirts that we mainly skimmed past on our way to other points of interest, away from the town.

The Rua Dos Arcos. It took us some time, wandering and a few conversations with the locals attempting to locate this place. A place only hours prior did we learn about after hearing a recanted tale about my late grandfather. I had suspected such a place was coined only by himself and it turns out such suspicions were correct. Not its actual name but a name my grandfather coined for this place. A place that left quite the impression on him, perhaps creativly at that. In this tale it told how enamoured he become with this stretch of road after a mission to a nearby church to collect a bell for their village church. He was that enamoured every time he found himself going to or through the town he insisted on passing through. When I first heard this story I wondered if this was a place he drew inspiration from. And after setting eyes on such a site I myself no longer have any doubt on such questions.