Algarve

I will be honest: I resisted the Algarve for years. It had the reputation — beach resorts, golf courses, British tourists turning pink in the sun — and I wrote it off as Portugal’s answer to the Costa del Sol. I was wrong, or at least only half right. The central Algarve around Albufeira and Vilamoura is indeed that, and if that is what you want, it delivers with efficient, sun-drenched reliability. But the western Algarve — the stretch from Lagos to Sagres and up the Costa Vicentina — is another country entirely. Wild, wind-battered, with cliffs that drop into water so blue it looks digitally enhanced, this is one of the most dramatic coastlines in Europe and it has resisted development with a stubbornness that I find deeply admirable.

Lagos is where I base myself — a town that manages the trick of being both tourist-friendly and genuinely Portuguese. The old town, ringed by medieval walls, has narrow streets lined with restaurants, bars, and the azulejo-covered church of Santo António, which is so elaborately gilded inside it feels like opening a jewelry box. The Ponta da Piedade, a short drive south, is the Algarve’s most spectacular headland — ochre pillars and arches carved by the sea, with grottoes accessible by kayak or small boat. I went at sunrise and had the cliffs to myself, which felt like a minor miracle.

Sagres sits at the southwestern tip of mainland Europe, and it feels like it. The fortress perches on a headland above the Atlantic, the wind is constant, and the sense of finality — of land ending and ocean beginning — is powerful. Prince Henry the Navigator is said to have established his school of navigation here, though historians argue about that. What is not arguable is the surfing: the west coast beaches around Sagres — Praia do Tonel, Praia da Cordoama, Praia do Amado — produce consistent swells and attract surfers from across Europe who live in vans and eat grilled fish and seem to have figured out something about life that the rest of us are still working on.

The food along the coast is exceptional in its simplicity. Cataplana — a copper-pot stew of clams, shrimp, chouriço, and white wine — is the Algarve’s signature dish, and every restaurant along the coast has its version. The grilled fish is whatever came in that morning, whole, over charcoal, with boiled potatoes and a salad. At A Eira do Mel in Sagres, I ate percebes — goose barnacles, pried from rocks at considerable personal risk by local divers — that tasted like the ocean condensed into a single bite.

The Ria Formosa — a barrier island lagoon system near Faro — is the Algarve’s secret coast. Boat taxis run to islands like Ilha Deserta and Ilha da Culatra, where the beaches are vast, empty, and backed by nothing more than dunes and the occasional fisherman’s shack. Olhão, the fishing town on the mainland side, has one of the best markets in Portugal — the Saturday morning fish market is a spectacle of octopus, clams, and sardines piled in quantities that make the scale of Portuguese seafood consumption suddenly comprehensible.

When to go: May to June or September to October for warm water and manageable crowds. July and August are hot, expensive, and packed. The west coast is year-round surfing territory, though winter brings serious swells and serious cold.