There is a specific kind of madness that grips you when you stand at the base of a 75-meter Baroque bell tower in Northern Portugal and decide, on a whim, that you must climb it immediately. It’s a madness born of good food, too much Port wine, and the intoxicating promise of a view that locals swear by, even as they watch tourists huffing and puffing up the stone stairs.

I had arrived in Porto the previous evening, my shoes still dusty from the cobblestones of Ribeira, my head still ringing with the shouts of vendors selling sardines by the Douro River. I had eaten a Francesinha—a sandwich so heavy it should require a pilot’s license—and I had walked until my calves screamed. But nothing, absolutely nothing, prepares you for the Clérigos Tower.

It’s known affectionately and terrifyingly as the "240 Steps." And let me tell you, I have counted them in my dreams.

The morning of my climb, the sky was that particular shade of bruised blue that suggests rain is thinking about visiting but hasn't quite committed. I arrived early, a strategy I highly recommend. The line for the Clérigos Church and Tower (Igreja e Torre dos Clérigos) snakes around the block by 10:00 AM. By 9:15, I was buying my ticket, clutching the paper stub like it was a golden ticket to Willy Wonka’s factory, except the factory was a 18th-century architectural marvel and the Oompa Loompas were my own impending leg cramps.

Address: Torre dos Clérigos, R. de São Filipe de Nery, 4000-427 Porto, Portugal
Hours: Generally 09:00 – 20:00 (Summer), 09:00 – 18:00 (Winter). Last entry is usually one hour before closing.
Note: Hours can shift based on religious services or maintenance, so checking the official site before 2026 travel is always wise.

The entry hall of the church is cool, smelling of old stone and beeswax. You bypass the main altar (which is a gold-leaf explosion worth a glance, but you’re here for the sky) and head for the unassuming door that leads upward. And up.

The first fifty steps are deceptive. You feel energetic. You think, "This is easy. I am a champion. I will run this." You pass the first landing, a narrow window offering a peek of the rooftops, and you take a photo, smiling. You look good. You look adventurous.

By step 100, the stairs begin to turn. They are narrow, spiraling tightly like the inside of a seashell. The walls are thick, unadorned stone. The light changes. It becomes shafts of dusty gold cutting through arrow slits. The air warms. You hear the echo of footsteps from above and the wheezing of souls returning downward. They look tired, but satisfied. "It’s worth it," one man gasps to me, clutching the railing. "I know," I lied, my breath already hitching.

At step 150, you enter the phase of psychological warfare. This is where the humor dies. My knees started to negotiate a mutiny. My heart was playing a drum solo against my ribs. The spiral becomes hypnotic. Up, up, up. You stop looking at the steps and start looking at the dust motes dancing in the light. You start contemplating your life choices. Why didn't I go to the gym? Why did I eat that entire tray of Pastéis de Nata yesterday?

But then, something shifts. The air changes temperature again. It becomes cooler, draftier. You can smell the sky—ozone, rain, and the faint, sweet scent of blooming jasmine carried up from the gardens below. You hear the wind whistling through the gaps in the stone. You hear the bells. Oh, the bells.

The Clérigos Tower houses one of the most famous carillons in the world. As you climb, you are climbing *inside* the mechanism. If you time your ascent wrong—and by wrong, I mean right—you will be ascending when the clock strikes the hour. Imagine being trapped in a stone tube, 60 meters up, when seven massive bronze bells start hammering out a melody. It is deafening. It is glorious. It vibrates through the soles of your shoes, up your spine, and rattles your teeth. It feels like the tower itself is singing. I laughed out loud, a sound that was swallowed by the roar of the metal.

Then, you see it. The final flight. The stairs get steeper, narrower, almost ladder-like. The ceiling drops. You are ducking. You are squeezing past people coming down. There is no escape. You are committed.

And then, blue. Blinding, overwhelming blue.

You step out onto the viewing platform, and the world falls away.

I have been to the top of the Eiffel Tower. I have looked out from the Empire State Building. But the view from Clérigos Tower is different. It is intimate. It is human-scaled. You aren't looking down on a city; you are *part* of it.

Porto unfolds beneath you like a patchwork quilt made of terracotta, slate, and bougainvillea. To the south, the Douro River winds like a silver serpent, choked with the iconic six-arched Dom Luís I Bridge. The Ribeira district looks like a pile of sugar cubes stacked precariously by the water. The boats, the *Rabelos*, bob gently, tied to the shore like sleeping dogs.

I found a spot on the stone ledge, the granite warm from a sun that had finally decided to show up. The wind was fierce up there, whipping my hair into my eyes and tugging at my jacket. It smelled of salt and river mud. I closed my eyes for a second, just to feel the height of it. When I opened them, a seagull was hovering at eye level, staring at me with an attitude of profound judgment.

"Get a room," I told it.

But I couldn't stop looking. This is the best view in Portugal, and I will fight anyone who says otherwise. Why? Because you can see the *texture* of the city. You can see the laundry hanging from balconies. You can see the streetcars rattling along the river. You can see the rooftops of Livraria Lello just a few blocks away. You can see the sunset beginning to turn the sky into a watercolor of peach and lavender.

I stayed up there for forty minutes. I took the obligatory selfie (which required holding the phone at arm's length to avoid capturing only my own chin). I watched a proposal happen near the eastern railing—a young man, trembling, dropping to one knee while his partner laughed and cried. I listened to snippets of a dozen languages: French, German, Japanese, English, Portuguese. Everyone united by the climb, united by the view.

But the descent. Ah, the descent. If the ascent is a test of stamina, the descent is a test of vertigo. You are facing the wall, stepping down into the void, trusting the stone steps that are worn smooth by centuries of feet. The spiral seems endless. Your legs shake. You grip the rope banister until your knuckles turn white. You emerge back into the nave of the church, blinking in the dim light, feeling like you’ve just returned from a journey to the moon.

When you finally step back out onto Rua de São Filipe de Nery, your legs feel like jelly. You have earned a reward.

You cannot climb the Clérigos Tower and not eat. You just can't. The body demands fuel. The mind demands a celebratory glass of wine. There are several places nearby that offer not just food, but context.

One of my favorites is a short walk away, tucked into the side of the hill.

Cafeína Caffe
Address: R. de Cedofeita 18, 4050-171 Porto, Portugal
Hours: 08:30 – 19:00 (Mon-Sat), 10:00 – 18:00 (Sun)

This place is cool without trying too hard. It’s the kind of spot where the baristas look like they’re in a band and the coffee is serious business. After the adrenaline of the tower fades, you hit a wall. A caffeine wall. I ordered an iced latte and a slice of carrot cake that was dense, moist, and topped with a cream cheese frosting that could solve international conflicts. Sitting on their small outdoor terrace, watching the world rush by while I regained my ability to form sentences, felt like a victory lap. The smell of roasting beans mixed with the scent of rain on hot pavement. It was perfect.

But if you want the view, and I mean the *other* view, you need to cross the bridge.

The Yeatman Hotel (The Terrace Bar)
Address: Rua do Choupelo (Santa Marinha), 4400-088 Vila Nova de Gaia, Portugal
Hours: 12:00 – 23:00 (Bar), Kitchen usually 12:30 – 22:00

Getting there is part of the fun. You walk down from the tower, through the bustle of Aliados, and head toward the river. You cross the Dom Luís I Bridge on the upper deck (watch out for the metro train, it comes roaring through with startling speed). The walk offers a reverse perspective: now you are looking *at* the Clérigos Tower. It pierces the sky, a proud needle of blue and gold granite.

Once in Vila Nova de Gaia, you hike up the steep hill to The Yeatman. It’s a luxury hotel, yes, but the bar is accessible to the public (reservations recommended for dinner). You sit by the infinity pool. And there, framed perfectly, is the entire city of Porto. The Clérigos Tower stands center stage. You can see the winding streets you just climbed. You can see the smoke rising from grills. As dusk settles, the lights begin to twinkle. The tower is illuminated, looking like a beacon.

I sat there with a glass of Vinho Verde, crisp and slightly effervescent, watching the sun dip below the horizon. The air turned cool. The lights of Porto reflected off the river. I touched my calves, still humming with the memory of the 240 steps. I felt a profound sense of belonging.

Porto is a city of hills and secrets. The Clérigos Tower is both a secret and a shout. It says, "Look at me." But it also says, "Come and work for it."

Here is the honest truth about the 240 steps: they hurt. They are steep. The stairs are uneven. There are no handrails in the middle, only rope. It is not accessible for those with mobility issues (there is no elevator, unfortunately). If you are claustrophobic, the spiral might trigger something primal. If you are afraid of heights, the open rail at the top will make you weep.

But if you can do it, you must.

I have a theory that the best memories are tied to physical effort. We remember the hikes that made us sweat, the climbs that made us dizzy. We don't remember the elevator rides. The Clérigos Tower forces you to earn the skyline. It strips away the tourist facade and leaves you breathless and raw.

I climbed it twice during my trip. Once in the morning, once at sunset. The morning was sharp, full of the promise of the day. The evening was soft, romantic, glowing with the amber light of streetlamps. The morning was about conquering the city. The evening was about falling in love with it.

If you go in 2026, here is my advice, free of charge:

• Go Early. Be there when the ticket window opens. You want to have the platform to yourself for at least ten minutes. That silence at the top, just the wind and the city waking up, is spiritual.
• Wear Sensible Shoes. This is not the place for heels or flip-flops. You need grip. You need support. You need shoes that have mercy on your arches.
• Hydrate. There is a water fountain at the top. Use it.
• Look Down. Everyone looks out. But look down. The pattern of the roof tiles, the geometry of the streets, the tiny people scurrying about—it’s a masterclass in urban design.

The Clérigos Tower is more than a tourist trap. It is the heart of Porto. It was built by the Brotherhood of the Clérigos, a group of wealthy clergy who wanted to show off (and also bury their dead in the attached church). It was designed by an Italian, Nicolau Nasoni, who clearly loved drama. It survived sieges, wars, and the turning of centuries. It has watched the city change, watched the river flow, watched generations of lovers meet and part.

When you stand at the top, you are touching that history. You are adding your own breath to the wind that whips around the bell tower.

I left Porto the next day. My legs were still sore. I found a small stone, a tiny chip from one of the steps, in the tread of my boot. I keep it on my desk. Sometimes I pick it up, and I can still smell the rain and the river. I can still hear the bells.

Do not hesitate. Book the ticket. Count the steps. And find your view.