There’s a word we keep coming back to when thinking of Portugal's south-western coast.
Unspoiled.
It can be rugged and remote, washed by restless seas, or home to pebble coves or long beaches of soft golden sand that are still, somehow, largely deserted.
And don’t get us started on the sunsets.
Frequently overlooked, we sent our own Freya Wille on our Costa Vicentina walking holiday, which also spans some of the famous fishermen’s trails, to find out more about this quiet and lovely corner of the world.
Freya’s story
I spent my last morning in Portugal on the terrace at Vale Fuzeiros, a rural valley overlooking rolling hills of orange groves. The familiar coo of wood pigeons was reminiscent of home, but the chirping of cicadas reminded me of where I was: in the countryside of the Algarve.
Although not the hottest in March, I still felt comfortable and entirely at peace. Reflecting over the past four days as I sipped an espresso loaded with sugar and watched the swallows skim their bellies across the surface of the swimming pool, I tried to shortlist my favourite moments. The fields dotted with palms. The cliff-top tracks covered in wildflowers. The sea stacks that seemed to defy gravity – not to mention the refreshingly unhurried pace of life, which gave me time to think as well as explore.
I decided that the strongest memory I'd carry was the welcome.
In the Alentejo, Idaliah, the owner of the Casa do Adro opened her door to me with fresh juice and oozy chocolate cake, paired with a kiss on each cheek. Stepping inside, I found her entry room decorated with hundreds of photos of family and friends, as well as local guidebooks from over the years, and an impressive floral arrangement. Upstairs, huge photograph albums were stacked upon a vintage coffee table, each containing the history of the hotel told through articles, photographs, and warm notes from previous guests. In the kitchen, a fridge was stocked with local beer, the veg drawer packed with oranges, ready for squeezing.
Up next, I headed to Três Marias in the Alentejo; a stout, white-washed building with an open front and a wide veranda. Behind the low rows of bedrooms, each with access to the garden, sat the pool and sauna. Further still, was the donkey and ostrich pen, friendly to approach and peaceful to watch, and beyond them, a large barn packed full of ceramics that shadowed two brick kilns.
It’s a special place, and as I sat down with the owner, Baltazar, at a wooden table and chairs that spilled out from the patio and onto the olive groves, he recounted stories from over the years and in particular his love for the landscape and nature. Sweeping his hand toward the sun-drenched hills, he proudly stated, "People come here and they say, ‘it’s beautiful, it’s like being in South Africa, it’s like the safari plains.’ They're wrong; this is Portugal."
Life here is slow and romantic, and below the melting pink sky, an electrical hum of anticipation broke through, and I felt that I had stumbled into something magical. It did look a little like South Africa. Parts of it were reminiscent of the plains.
But it was, most certainly, Portugal.