Sun, sand and sickness.

Lying in bed, exhausted. 

Woke early (before the sun actually, but had to wait for my sleepy cohort to join the Eyes Wide Open party) and took a beautiful early morning stroll over the sand dunes for our first glimpse of the Peniche coastline! Huge, dumpy rollers were beating the sand on their way to shore and held us mesmerised. 

Back for breakfast in our surf shack before a walk to another beach we'd been told would hold the size better and offer the best wave conditions. 

My damn sickess kept me on the shore and I tried to enjoy the November sun and my book as I watched the hoards of learn to surfers battle the powerful whitewash and Millie attempt to escape them. 

A much deserved lunch (not for me) followed by a walk to another surf shack where we hired bikes and biked the entire Peniche coastline. We scaled rocks, went off roading and stood in awe at the biggest, scariest waves I have ever witnessed. At high tide, there was not a silly soul in the soup. 

Exhausted and only half way round the island, our (read: my) pace slowed and the (now very) scenic trip took place. Beautiful, windy and poor could sum up our views. 

We made it back to the centro to taste a famed 'chocolate salami' which is kind of like a cold, wet fudge with biscuits broken throughout it that can only be authentically tasted in this region. 

After a tiring ride I was prepped and (having left my brand new Swiss army knife at home!) we tucked into it on the beach with our DIY knives, aka our sunglasses. Alas, the 'no tasting' segment of sickness makes an appearance and I give up on eating my body weight of calories of deliciousness, losing myself in the ocean instead and promising myself a slice the moment my tastebuds reappear. 

Final stretch home through the sand dune desert and we collapse in the late afternoon sun, regaling our day's escapades with our housemates near death surfing experiences and underwater washing machine fun. 

Early morning surf again tomorrow (my presence: debatable) before the bus back to Lisbon and relevant civilisation. (Have not seen a 'group' of people since we left and haven't lived in a house so quiet since the Ice Age.) Surf spots on the Lisbon coast of Estoril and Cascais our next eyed up fancy. And maybe a little more Lisboa exploring. 

Hoping I don't keep my roomies up quite so much as I did last night.*

*with my runny nose and murderous throat, of course. 

Blehhhh.

Sick in Peniche. 

No fun. No surfing.  

Just a 13km bike ride. 

Defeat. 

Pathway to Peniche.

Lying in bed in a quintessential surf house, loaded with boards and surf guides, housing dripping wetsuits and grass mats covered in sand. 

Metres from the beach, but arriving as the sun set (before the Dame of the house proved her serious lack of English and we were left stranded at the bus stop in a small town, as it was getting dark and without a human let alone a taxi to speak of). The sand mounds hide the true beauty of the beach coastline from view until first light. 

Current location: a vast desert of sand. 

Loading into a van with like minded surf enthusiasts met minutes before, hip hopping our way in a sand ridden, beat blasting oldie through the dark night to a supermarket, as Portugeuse as can be with fish filling the air before the hand brakes been pulled. 

Admiring boards, marvelling the days reminisced conditions and learning swell sizes (11ft!!), wind directions, tidal changes and contemplating the possibility of leaving the sand to breaks with names like 'Supertubes'. 

From an early morning spent in a massive flea market, browsing stalls with the locals for cheap clothes, old school books and one of a kind records. Admiring the traditional Portugeuse tins (and having to leave them due to already bursting suitcase size) and instead adding authentic Swiss Army knives to our market haul.

Attempting to retrace our footsteps back to the centre and becoming wonderfully lost in the enchanting old streets of Alfama, chancing upon golden views of terra cotta roofs, palm tree adorned mansions and vast horizons of the big blue. Dodging the rumbling trams down steep streets until we hit small cafes for lunch and cool drinks. 

Then once again putting our life on our back and navigating the underground world of metros to arrive in a strange parking lot that leads to the bus station. 

Our heads roll back and despite our greatest attempts to keep our eyes open and our focus on the beauty of the passing landscape, we're jolted awake at each stop, only to be lulled into mindlessness all over again - dreams of salty air, sand filled hair and the freedom of a clean faced wave dancing across our closed eyelids. 

Baleal, Portugal: we have arrived. 

Sintra Heaven.

A 40 minute train journey (through graffiti- laden neighbourhoods) takes us to Sintra, a small town north west of Lisbon and home to some of Portugal's most stunning architecture. 

Walking up mountainous hills (as opposed to those less mountainous ones) and getting lost amongst the haphazard streets of Sintra's colourful houses, avoiding the stray cats and dogs who call it their own. 

Reaching the castles and palaces atop the highest of mounds and admiring the view which seemed to stretch on and on past the depth of my eyesight. 

Following the tree lined pavements dodging (and sometimes not) wayward vehicles fighting for their road space with the horses, tuk tuk's and strange car/bike hybrids that made smart cars look like a roomy alternative. 

Finding a mesmerising park that was every child (and most adults') playground, underground caves, tunnels and century old grotto's entertaining our mainstreamed brains. Outstretched across hectares of dense bush, we found ourselves feeling our way through pitch black underground passages only to emerge in a completely foreign space with a beautiful water feature backdrop. 

A 27m well pulled us down into the depths of the earth only to heighten the experience labelled as 'the intense journey from Earth to Heaven'. 

Heaving our feet back to the train station and riding 40 minutes back into Lisboa with the beginnings of a setting sun flashing before us, our heads unashamedly lolling with the weary marks of a day well spent, and many pavements well trekked. 

Dinner in a bad restaurant with an awful delay, moody waiters and a stunning portrayal of why Portugal is an economic PIGS. With our chairs faced outwards in European fashion, we people watched and traced the views of a romantically lit, mild evening with our hungry eyes. 

What else to do, but follow up a mostly untouched meal with a trip to the Pastelaria for a Madeira pastry and a subsequent mouth explosion. 

Walking through the bustling centre, the many stands roasting chestnuts lifting the smoke and aroma into the night air and leaving a sweet, hazy Lisbon alight in our memories as we attempt a sleepy escape from the long day. 

Portugal

 Most famous invention: The Hot Air Balloon

Population: 10.7 Million

Capital City: Lisbon

Memorable event: Earthquake of 1755. Estimated Richter scale of 8.9. Followed by tsunami and fires (took place on November 1st, All Saints Day during Mass so candles had been lit across the city and fell during the earthquake.) 

Famous export: Cristiano Ronaldo

Food: Custard Tarts

Exit: Saida

Thank you: Obrigado

Random: best busker I've seen yet. A violin playing puppet with a Venice sunset backdrop. Crowd pleaser. 

Iceland.

Beautiful, cold, tranquil, remote, out of this world, other planet style majestic wonderland. Can't stop staring. 

First day Blue Lagoon relaxing amongst rocky outcrops straight from Mars. Braving the cold and admiring the beauty, stretching for miles amongst the diverse and unbelievable scenery. 

The scarcity of people is baffling and coming from London, unsettling. 

Cannot wait for the other-world ness of the next few days.

This almost untouched country is raw and breathtaking. 

Resting weary eyes from over excited, eager vision early, though hours after the arresting colours of a 'must be seen with the naked eye to believe' sun set. 

We are definitely not in an English frozen food store.*

*search Iceland UK if confused...

Monument.

Climbing 331 steps to commemorate a fiery devastation. 

221m high, the exact length from Monument where the fire itself began on Pudding Lane. 

Shameless selfies with nothing but wire barriers and stunning panoramas of beauty. 

Views from above will never get old. 

This is the centre of the world, isn't it? 

Monument.

Climbing 331 steps to commemorate a fiery devastation. 

221m high, the exact length from Monument where the fire itself began on Pudding Lane. 

Shameless selfies with nothing but wire barriers and stunning panoramas of beauty. 

Views from above will never get old. 

This is the centre of the world, isn't it? 

I didn't think it would be this hard...

Cosy Sundaze.

When human cramming boasts its benefits. Going to miss this!!