Porto stacks itself up from the Douro in granite and azulejo, and the first thing to do is get above it. Walk the upper deck of the Dom Luís I bridge — the metro shares it, so keep left — and stop halfway across. Below you the Ribeira crowds the north bank, rabelo boats sit moored for show, and the whole river bends off toward the sea in a haze of red rooftops.
The port lodges are all on the south side, in Vila Nova de Gaia, and you can taste through three centuries in an afternoon. Graham's sits highest, with the widest view; Taylor's has the peacocks and the garden; Sandeman puts the man in the black cape on every wall. Book the tawnies over the rubies if the day is warm — they come chilled, and they suit the terrace better.
Come back across the lower deck as the light goes. Golden hour in Porto is a real event: the sun drops behind the river mouth and the whole west-facing city — tiles, towers, the Serra do Pilar dome — turns the colour of the wine you have just been drinking. The Ribeira terraces fill, someone starts a guitar, and nobody is in any hurry to leave.
When you are ready to move, a VW T-Roc automatic is the honest choice here — tall enough to see over the walls, small enough to thread out of the medieval knot around São Bento, and an auto box is mercy on hills this steep. Point it upriver on the N108, which shadows the Douro east through Entre-os-Rios, and the city releases you slowly, one vineyard slope at a time.
Give the drive an hour before dark and pull over at the first proper miradouro past Gondomar. From up there the river is a slow bronze ribbon and Porto is just a glow behind you. This is the run the whole day was building toward — the bridge, the cellars, the golden hour, and then the road out along the water.