From the north, too, comes the wine we call port. Vineyards flourish, and wine is made in all parts of the kingdom; but that which is imported so largely into England, and which is handed with dessert in so many English houses, is made only from the grapes grown on the steep hillsides of a tract of country on the banks of the River Douro, some sixty miles above the old seaport town of Oporto. It extends a long way up the river, and for a few miles to the north and south, through the valleys and gorges of many small tributary streams. It is a mountainous country, and from the water’s edge to the high hill-tops there is nothing to be seen but vineyards, rising terrace above terrace in dull, unvarying monotony. The vines are grown as bushes, and have none of the beauty of those in many other parts, where they are trained over trellises, or allowed to ramble at will up pollarded trees. You may have often seen the rich tawny red wine on the dining-room table, but I wonder if you have ever thought of all the labour that went to produce it. The construction of the terraces where the vines are to grow is in itself a mighty piece of work. Each terrace has its strong retaining wall, built with the stones taken from the soil, and when the vines have been planted, they require constant care and attention. In the autumn the low-growing shoots have to be removed and the roots uncovered. Pruning begins at the same time, and occupies the whole winter. The ground has to be dug in March, when all weeds are cleared away, and the earth is hoed into little mounds to protect the roots from the hot rays of the sun. Next comes the training and propping of the branches, which are secured by willow or rush ties to stakes driven into the ground. A second digging takes place in May, when the earth is once more levelled, and during the summer the vines have to be sprayed with sulphur to keep off a dreadful blight called _oidium_, which would otherwise do great damage. At last, towards the middle or end of September, the vintage begins, and this brings with it the hardest work of all. Bands of men and women arrive from far-away villages in every direction to help with the work, singing and dancing as they come, as though out on a holiday jaunt.