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.