Prep.

Blasting Beyoncé as I pack, pack, pack post intense tennis sesh. Getting distracted watching huge jet trails dance across the bright blue sky. Thats me... tomorrow!

Aaaand new apps! Have apps, will travel. 

Journals from the Sky.

Heathrow bound with blocked ears, nose and head, a few too many trips to the toilet, excessive water consumption and constant yawning and swallowing. 

Wahoo! 

Entertained with books, magazines and a particularly addictive animated movie, Monsters University. 

A much appreciated sleep in this morning (with the daily morning sounds and smells of the shops and restaurants beneath opening and the early bird tourists littering the streets somehow passing through my sleepy head) before breakfast and we were out the door. 

First mission: journey to the famed Pasteis de Nata shop, nothing but the finest custard tarts Portugal has to offer. 

A picturesque coastal train took us to Belem and after a small spot of Lost Syndrome, we made it to the small suburb and into the cafe. 

Packed with camera wielding, khaki coated tourists, we squeezed into a table amidst the bustle and ordered custard tarts, hot chocolates and a (still nameless) sugar coated donut with a custard centre. A naughty lunch and purely divine, with perhaps the best hot chocolate I've ever had. 

Lost again, we somehow managed to locate the train station and after being shunned by the first we headed back to Lisbon to spend our Euros! 

Amoreiras shopping centre was the location for the next few hours where we could have been in any mall in the world. 

Gazing at the last of Lisboa's enchanting captivating mayhem before we were loading ourselves up with our heavier baggage, (the constantly increasing weight of my pack is both concerning and baffling) and busing back to the airport. 

Customs difficulties, lost boarding passes (the irresistibility of free perfume samples got the better of me) and off we went. 

Goodbye Portugal, obrigado. 

Hanna vs Lisboa Customs.

Customs: 1. 

Portuguese (and first ever personally owned) pocket knife down. 

Yet the tall, red headed passenger currently sitting next to me is still carrying her (apparently invisible-paint coated) knife safely tucked in her cabin bag, untouched. 

And unused. So far. 

Two more sleeps!!

😀✈🎒👍

Late Night Incoherencies.

As I pack up my 13 month English life, my thoughts are accustomed to the next few weeks of experiencing the cultures and customs of a world unseen.

Morocco. Italy. Hungary. Poland. Czech Slovakia. Austria.

On to Singapore, Australia and HOME.

I am a lucky, lucky girl.

It is hard to say goodbye to another home and set my back on a tribe of friends but placing yourself in the wind and trusting your sails is liberating. An adventure into the unknown is unmatched.

Flying into a land you have never touched foot on, walking down streets with no clue what hides around the next bend, pushing your vision to the brink to track every movement, every moment. Afraid to miss a beat and unable to peel your thoughts from the constant inability to place your current location.

There is a bliss in the unknown.

It is unpredictable and unique and we don't all get the chance.

You have to let everything go, trust in your surroundings, others and yourself. It is a testament to what you know and more so what you don't. You have to let go, you have to allow the push and pull and feel the drag, not fight it.

The art is in the movement of flow.

Struggling.

Mondays.

Morning strolls with nothing but the direction of the wind to worry about. 

Seeing strangers whose faces can now be named and talking early morning story. 

Tracing foreign footprints down the rocky coastline before scaling the cliffs awkwardly to avoid incoming tides. 

Relaxing in the semi-sun before the cloud sets in, blending into the sand dunes and creating gloomy views across the stormy ocean. 

Fun, bumpy surf truck rides with Germans to middle-of-the-road bus stations with empty vending machines and glum grandmas. 

Keeping watch as the barren west coast idled by under the intermittent rain and road side markets. 

'Home' to familiar Lisbon with its people, smells, sounds and omnipresent sardine advertisements. Struggling to keep my knee caps in their sockets under the somehow increasing weight of my 'backpack de life' on the metro. 

Then, voila, Rossio and a bed. Nighttime strolls through hazes of rain and roasting chestnuts to see the ocean before the smell of a hostel doused in all-you-can-eat tapas. 

The nose still runs but so do I. 

Tomorrow beckons a clearer head (nose and throat) for a beach side trip to Estoril and Cascais and, fingers crossed, a dip in the ocean, board beneath. 

Backtrekking.

To Lisbon. 

So glad to be back to (relative) civilisation. 

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.