With its rippling mountains and dewy forests shrouded in the early morning mist, Sintra seems, even more than yesterday, to have been lifted from a page in a fairy tale. With an abundance of palaces, castles and monasteries to choose from, I have a difficult decision to make as I simply do not have the time to visit them all. I ride my motorbike along the cobbled, narrow, tightly twisting streets. Continuing past the iconic twin conical chimneys of the Royal Palace of Sintra and into mist-filled forests. The higher and higher I climb, the tighter and tighter the turns become until I finally feel the warmth of the morning sun. I am above the clouds. I am above the forest. I am here.
The Moorish Castle would not have been many folks first choice. Many more would have continued two hundred metres along the ridge to the wacky looking Palace of Pena or stayed lower to sample the splendour of the Royal Palace of Sintra. For me, I want a castle to look like a castle, not like a wedding cake. The Moorish castle's crenelated ramparts stretch across the mountain ridge and loom high above its surroundings and other adjacent towns; like a proper castle should.
I am here early and, with the exception of a few workers, have the castle to myself. I have always wanted to live in a proper castle and today, in a small way, I am living the dream! With the enthusiasm of a young boy, I scamper along the castle walls. It is clear to see why this was chosen as the observation post for monitoring the coastline. The vistas over Sintra and its palaces to the deep blue of the Atlantic are, like the climb, breathtaking.
Back on my motorbike, I continue westwards along a remote, wooded road. The tree-lined ridge descends to the coastline until I can go no further West. Cabo da Roca is Europe's westernmost point and, despite some tacky tourist additions to the site, it still has a feel of windswept remoteness. That said, when the second coach load of tourists arrives, I take this as my cue to leave.
First, another tough decision needs to be made; stick to the coastline or head inland. I choose the latter. Fourty-five minutes later, I begin to regret my decision as my magical mystery tour takes me through ports, rundown suburbs, across numerous bridges and through many nondescript towns and villages. I have no reason for choosing the route, I guess this time my luck is running low...
Until, that is, I roll into Tolmar. With its historic buildings and pretty riverside park filled with swans, herons and families of ducks, it looks like a good place to stop for the night. I cast my gaze skywards to the crenelated walls of the Covento de Cristo, a beautiful backdrop to this appealing town. Maybe Lady Luck is doing me one final favour.
The Moorish Castle would not have been many folks first choice. Many more would have continued two hundred metres along the ridge to the wacky looking Palace of Pena or stayed lower to sample the splendour of the Royal Palace of Sintra. For me, I want a castle to look like a castle, not like a wedding cake. The Moorish castle's crenelated ramparts stretch across the mountain ridge and loom high above its surroundings and other adjacent towns; like a proper castle should.
I am here early and, with the exception of a few workers, have the castle to myself. I have always wanted to live in a proper castle and today, in a small way, I am living the dream! With the enthusiasm of a young boy, I scamper along the castle walls. It is clear to see why this was chosen as the observation post for monitoring the coastline. The vistas over Sintra and its palaces to the deep blue of the Atlantic are, like the climb, breathtaking.
Back on my motorbike, I continue westwards along a remote, wooded road. The tree-lined ridge descends to the coastline until I can go no further West. Cabo da Roca is Europe's westernmost point and, despite some tacky tourist additions to the site, it still has a feel of windswept remoteness. That said, when the second coach load of tourists arrives, I take this as my cue to leave.
First, another tough decision needs to be made; stick to the coastline or head inland. I choose the latter. Fourty-five minutes later, I begin to regret my decision as my magical mystery tour takes me through ports, rundown suburbs, across numerous bridges and through many nondescript towns and villages. I have no reason for choosing the route, I guess this time my luck is running low...
Until, that is, I roll into Tolmar. With its historic buildings and pretty riverside park filled with swans, herons and families of ducks, it looks like a good place to stop for the night. I cast my gaze skywards to the crenelated walls of the Covento de Cristo, a beautiful backdrop to this appealing town. Maybe Lady Luck is doing me one final favour.
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