I'm off the plane, through security and at the reception of the car rental office within thirty minutes of landing. I'll be back here in nine-and-a-half hours for my flight home. The clerk at Europcar asks if I need full insurance cover on the rental vehicle. The answer is yes, but the temptation is to decline. It's an extra £85 and the flights weren't cheap. Caution presides over recklessness.
The temperature gauge on the dash reads 39.5°. Heatwaves ripple above the tarmac of the Autoestrada do Minho, the dual carriageway from Porto to Braga. I settle in at 130kph behind a Peugeot 208 with a Portuguese number plate. If the locals are going this speed, it must be ok. It's a thirty-seven minute drive from the airport to the factory. Thirty-two at 130. The windows are open, air-con is on overdrive and Dire Straits are playing through the AUX.
Time is distance divided by speed. Nothing hammers that equation home more than the sight of debris in the road 200 metres ahead on a dual carriageway. It looks like part of a wheel arch in the middle of the lane. The driver of the Peugeot 208 holds his line, straight over the top of the debris. At 130kph and still acclimating to driving on the wrong side of the road, the logical option is to follow suit. I pass over the top of the stray wheel arch without contact as the 208 pulls off into the lay-by with a punctured front-right tyre. I take the next exit to Barcelos, thinking about the extra £85.
The narrow roads wind up into the hills. On one side, red-tiled roofs, empty bus shelters and the occasional road-side tasca, selling espresso, beer and local snacks. On the other, cornfields and views of Braga in the distance. I pull up to the factory door and get out of the rental, half unsure if I'm in the right place. A voice calls out from a second story window and shortly after, the metal slats of the warehouse roller-shutter begin to wind upward. Rute, the Garment Technologist who I've been emailing since September, steps out to greet me.
Inside the factory, it's clean and meticulously organised. Quieter than I expected. There are two people cutting fabric on a laser cutter. Eight seamstresses working at sewing machines. A petite woman at the ironing station. Two people in the office and Rui, the Factory Manager. After introductions over espressos, I sit down to review prototypes for a t-shirt and shorts that we've been working on. We're using a type of ribbed-weave fabric that I've not seen used for training-wear before.
In silence, I inspect the prototypes: the fabric, the stitching, the labelling. There are some minor adjustments, but fewer than expected. The sleeve on the t-shirt will be shortened slightly. Pocket bags on the shorts will be changed to a lighter-weight, more breathable mesh. The drawcord in the waistband will be swapped for a more durable alternative. Sewn-in care labels will be replaced with transfers. Design edits, rather than issues with the workmanship. I take the prototypes with me to measure and test back home. In a couple of weeks, Rute and Rui will take our comments and prepare final prototypes.
