The Sé (Cathedral)

A gargoyle hidden from street view shrieks from the north tower of Lisbon's Cathedral, which dominates the tram line's ascent into Alfama, forming a wedge between two streets.

Crennelations on the facade make it appear more fortress than church. Its first stone dates to 1147, when Christians retook the city from the Moors. Excavations tend to confirm it was the site of a mosque.

During the civil war of 1383-85, the populace, mistrustful of the bishop, whom they suspected of siding with the Castilians, decided to put their doubts to rest by throwing him out a window of the northern tower. According to Fernao Lopes, a chronicler of the time, his body was devoured by wild dogs.

Sexpartite rib vaulting like this is an ancient miracle. Could it be replicated today? I think we all doubt it.

Lancet windows shaped like collar stays, thermometers, wherever your imagination leads you.

Chapels radiate from the ambulatory. Some exquisite Gothic architecture here.

Resting comfortably atop her tomb, Maria Villalobos has eternity to read the Book of Hours, her pup nestled near her feet.

Is it Lisboetas' most beloved church? I have no idea and wouldn't begin to know how to find out. But I learned long ago in Italy that there is little correlation between where a bishop happens to be seated and where people's affinities lie. On the day I visited the treasury was open, but I saw no evidence of reliquaries containing teeth, bits of hair or shriveled up saints' hearts, just a bunch of dusty books and frayed vestments.

Behind the altar, a pale yellow arch gives way to an expansive apse.

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Diary

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336 hours in Lisbon

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