On the cliffs above the Praia do Tonel, with Cabo de São Vicente in the distance.

I have long thought that Portugal is partially what led to my existence — it was during a solo trip to Portugal that my Dad had realised he loved my Mum so much that he would like her company for a lifetime, and Mateus rosé wine was such a popular drink in the UK in the mid-late 1970s that I reckon I was conceived on it!

As my train trundled towards Faro in the Algarve, one week after I had arrived for a holiday in Portugal, I enjoyed glimpses of sand dunes and the sea and was looking forward to a four-day trek along the coast.

Highlights of my first week in this alluring country had been hearing the melodious, sustained screams of swifts circling around in Porto, seeing the Rio Douro lit up at night, watching people joyfully greet a steam train as it pulled into Pinhão station whilst a traditional Portuguese folk band played on the platform, seeing dramatic light over the vineyards in the Alto Douro wine region, drinking port wine at its source in the Alto Douro, touching a cork tree and walking among giant ferns in the Buçaco forest, and drinking water from its source at the São João fountain in Luso (which helped to make up for the effects of the port wine!). In Lisbon I had delighted in views of the rooftops from the Miradouro da Senhora do Monte and Miradouro da Graça, absorbed the sight of the Rio Tejo and Ponte 25 de Abril from the Castelo de São Jorge, enjoyed seeing sea bass being prepared and grilled by the side of a street before eating it for lunch, wandered through the Alfama district, watched street performers in the buzzing Praça Luis de Camões at night, and indulged in petiscos and wine whilst listening to a fado singer, accompanied by two acoustic guitars, impressively pouring her heart out.

I’d booked the Algarve trek through a British holiday company, who had arranged for a taxi to pick me up at Faro train station. Dressed casually in a cotton top, shorts and espadrilles, I wasn’t prepared to find a tall, tanned, handsome guy waiting for me at the end of the platform, impeccably attired in a smart suit. The taxi turned out to be a spacious Mercedes! There’s a particularly brilliant British holiday company which provides good quality maps and walk descriptions for hiking trips — their notes are so detailed that they absolutely minimise the chances of getting lost. A different British company, who was overseeing the Algarve trip, works closely with a local Portuguese walking company, which the taxi driver (or, rather, chauffeur!) represented. On reaching Lagos, where I would start the trek the next day, the chauffeur handed me a mobile phone, a Garmin GPS device, and a thin booklet containing pathetic “maps” and a QR code for each section of the trail but with minimal information about it. If I’d known how little support the company would be providing, I would have organized the trek myself. The chauffeur, C, flirtatiously wished me a happy holiday and ceremoniously drove off.

The following day I set off from Lagos, having managed to get the irritating Garmin GPS device to work. My skin is very sensitive to the sun, and I’d decided to go to the Algarve in September assuming that the air temperature would be pleasant at that time of year. Unfortunately it was between 27–33°C and, as I trekked past several picturesque beaches in the intense heat, I questioned the wisdom of having chosen hiking as a leisure activity in which a day of repeated swimming in the sea, interspersed with reading, a picnic and a siesta, seemed to be a far more popular pastime. As I walked along the undulating path above the secluded Praia do Canavial, I was accosted by an English guy, J — he was out of breath after the steep ascent from the beach, and asked if I had any water. I always carry 2–2 ½ litres with me when on long hikes and knew that I could easily buy more when passing through one of the Algarve seaside towns, so I handed J a bottle and he gulped half a litre. He was extremely grateful, and kept telling me that I was an ‘angel’! To have been out in that heat without water would have been unbearable. The perfect timing of this brief interaction made me feel of value in a year in which my self-esteem had been particularly low.

There was no shade whatsoever on the clifftop path. I’d worn a short-sleeved hiking shirt for the Lagos-Luz section of the trail and, although I had a generous supply of factor 30 sun cream, the sun beating down on my skin made me feel vulnerable. Thankfully I’d packed two loose, light, comfortable, long-sleeved, tops (to wear for the plane journeys to and from Portugal) so I wore those for the rest of the long trek. I’d enjoyed seeing absolutely magnificent rock formations at the Ponta da Piedade, sweeping views over the cliffs, a number of beautiful beaches, and striking vegetation whilst walking on a path right next to the sea. Despite all these delights I felt as if I was missing out so, after completing the Luz-Salema section of the trail, I decided to spend a day on the beach!

After plunging into the refreshing sea and resting in the shade on a sun lounger, I went to a restaurant adjacent to the Praia da Salema and ordered fish (with a glass of white wine) for lunch. The fish was delectably fresh but difficult to fillet. A genial Englishman, who was sitting at the table next to me, witnessed my struggle and patiently reminded me of how to get the fish off the bone. He introduced himself as K, and told me he’d left his wife on the beach whilst he sought the shade. We had a nice conversation. After that another friendly English guy, T, started chatting to me — he told me about his highly successful career in the football industry, and how he’d retired early (in a villa in the Algarve). He invited me to have dinner with him, but I declined the invitation. It occurred to me, later on in the holiday, that this is probably the only chance I’ll ever have had in my life to go on a date with a millionaire! When I did go out for a solitary dinner in Salema, that evening, K and his wife J happened to be sitting at a table just across from me! J came over to my table to introduce herself. She said that K’s daughter had died from cancer in her 30s. When K had been explaining to me earlier how to fillet fish, I was missing my Dad and he was probably missing his daughter. I think this is an example of how, sometimes in life, we have spontaneous interactions with strangers without realising at the time that they are deeply therapeutic.

Having had a proper day of rest in Salema, I resumed the trek. The stretch of coast from Salema to Sagres was especially enchanting, with many pretty beaches, and it was a relief to encounter a sea breeze on the Praia do Zavial. On one beach I saw a group of hikers, and we gave each other an encouraging look of solidarity. After looking at the spectacular rock formations beyond the Praia do Barranco the Martinhal islets and Baleeira harbour, Sagres, finally came into view, which was comforting as the harbour had appeared to be a mirage for several kilometres of the hike.

The last section of the Algarve coastal trek would lead me from Sagres to the Cabo de São Vicente, where there is a lighthouse overlooking the Atlantic Ocean. Cabo de São Vicente is the most southwesterly point in continental Europe — it is wild and windswept! I passed a few enticing beaches on the way there and, as I got closer to the cape, the scenery became increasingly rugged. For three millennia, this was one of the limits of the known world. For the people who sailed from the Mediterranean (Phoenicians, Greeks, Carthaginians, Romans and Arabs), Cabo de São Vicente was the frontier for ‘mare incognitum’ (unknown sea). For this reason it was known as the ‘Finis Terrae’ (the End of the World). However, as I stood looking at the vast expanse of the Atlantic Ocean, having successfully completed a 63km trek, this didn’t seem like the end of the world — rather, it felt as if a whole new world of possibility was opening up.