The problem with trying to see an entire country like Portugal is that, after a while, it all starts to blend together; one town and an ancient church start to look like the last, sort of like waterfalls along Iceland’s Ring Road. Whirlwind road trips will eventually turn your head around.
By the time we got down to the Algarve and began exploring the southern coast, we had seen so many visual delights, absorbed so much cultural whiplash, and driven so many miles, we didn’t know whether we were coming or going.
And as we drove along a confusing network of narrow, two-lane roads that paralleled the coast through small historic/resort towns — Sesmarias, Albufeira, Quarteira, and Tavira — overlooking the fluorescent blue Atlantic Ocean and its African-baked water, we got lost in the shuffle. We were roundabouted out.
To break the vicious cycle, we visited a dear friend from D.C. who now lives in a very upscale gated community called Verdelago. It was like nothing we had ever seen, a new-age town built on a prime wetland forest section of the fragile Algarve coast near Tavira, where extreme environmental protection and design standards had been incorporated into virtually every aspect of life. It was entirely “green” and “natural”. They didn’t even use paint. And I’m sure the world will be a better place because of their heartfelt commitment to saving the planet, but what I found most laudable was that the developers supplied nice apartments in the adjacent town for the people who worked on the premises. That’s a lesson every luxury resort and town — like Aspen and Telluride — should take to heart immediately. The worker bees in all of the fancy-pants vacation wonderlands around the globe need an affordable hive to call home when they aren’t making honey.
Lagos
Parking is a key factor when exploring a Portuguese city — or any busy city, I guess. These days, AI apps like Claude will instantly plan a walking tour of the best sites in a logical sequence and tell you where to find the most convenient free parking. It took all the guesswork out of exploring every strange city we visited and saved lots of time. Frankly, it was like magic.
And it helped with all sorts of things. My phone locked up one day, and we used Inna’s phone to ask Claude how to fix it. DONE! Early one morning, our rental car wouldn’t start in Carvoeiro, and Claude told us what to do (Jimmy the steering wheel). Another time, we were hungry while driving through the rural Alentejo region, and Claude directed us to a great place in the middle of nowhere for a tasty lunch. AI has made guidebooks totally obsolete.
This was our first time exploring a foreign country with Claude, and I’d say traveling without our new friend would have been like driving with a dirty windshield. Another thing we really liked was that, unlike a standard guidebook published years ago, Claude’s travel tips were always up to date.
Claude had Lagos totally covered. He directed us to park for free in the large Lagos marina overflow lot, and from there it was a short walk to the heart of the age-old city. We waited at a cute pedestrian drawbridge as it opened to let several tour boats pass through. There wasn’t a car in sight. Walkers ruled the waterfront!
Lagos was the capital of the Algarve until November 1, 1755. On that morning, while the pious were in church, the Great Lisbon Earthquake struck. Lagos didn’t just shake; the tsunami that followed essentially erased it from the map. The city was so thoroughly leveled that the administration eventually packed up and moved to Faro, which had the good sense to be slightly further inland. Most of the ancient walls we saw were actually the survivors of that morning, or the somewhat optimistic reconstructions that followed.
Lagos is a city that has spent the last five centuries trying to come to grips with the fact that it once practically owned the rest of the known world. To the casual visitor, it is a pleasant jumble of sun-bleached walls and surf shops, but beneath the SPF 50, it is a place of heavy ghosts and high-stakes history. And if you turn your back on the Atlantic and walk into the town, the real story begins.
The historic center of Lagos is compact and easily walkable within a two-hour window, which was about how much time we had after getting a late start. Claude had mapped out a very interesting walking tour for us to follow, complete with historical footnotes and dining and shopping suggestions.
We began our stroll around the city center at the Igreja de Santo António. If you want to see where the local guilt and gold intersect, head to the “Golden Church”. From the outside, it looks like a modest, slightly tired chapel. Inside, however, is a dizzying, hallucinogenic explosion of talha dourada — gilded woodwork so thick you suspect the walls might collapse under the weight of the bullion. It was the military church, funded by officers who returned from the “Discoveries” with enough gold to make Midas blush. The ceiling is a masterclass in deception, like one of those clever three-dimensional scenes painted by a sidewalk artist that makes you think you are about to step into a pond or walk across a bridge; in this case, it was designed to make you think you’re looking into a vaulted heaven, when in fact, it’s just a very clever flat board — a fitting metaphor for the era’s colonial ambitions.
Next up was the Mercado de Escravos (Old Slave Market), and then the Ponta da Bandeira Fort. Near the waterfront sits a quiet, unassuming building on the Praça do Infante D. Henrique. In 1444, this was the site of the first major slave market in post-medieval Europe. While the statue of Prince Henry the Navigator stands nearby looking stoically out to sea, this building marks the grim ledger-book reality of those voyages. It’s often missed by those rushing to catch a grotto boat tour, but it is the fulcrum upon which the modern world actually turned. Portugal ran the world’s slave market, starting in 1444, and that’s a sin far greater than any the mighty Catholic church could — or should — ever shake its holy redemption stick at sanctimoniously.
After getting thoroughly depressed at the slave market, we wandered past the seaside fort and then cruised aimlessly through the cobbled lanes around Praia da Batata, gaping at the colorful tiled buildings that looked like porcelain china.
After a few hours of exploring the city, we walked back to our car at the marina and scored an amazing focaccia lunch from the friendly owner of the Scartuccio food truck, parked by the clever pedestrian drawbridge over the narrow, canal-like Bensafrim River that separates the historic old town from the newer Marina de Lagos area.
Our old buddy Google then led us on a squirrelly drive up through the narrow, twisting back streets of Lagos. At the top, we were treated to a view that the Carthaginians liked. The Monte Molião hilltop has been home to everyone from the Phoenicians to the Romans, all of whom used the bay to salt fish for export. Even 2,500 years ago, Lagos was primarily a place that processed things — tuna, silver, and later, people — to be sent elsewhere.
Our final destination was the Ponta da Piedade coastal trail, arguably the best walk in Portugal, where the cliffs look as if a particularly dramatic Baroque architect in love with the color orange sculpted them into weird shapes.
We hiked for several miles, eventually turning around at a cliff-top lighthouse. The area was a maze of boardwalks and trails, many of which dropped down to the water or led out to scary, vertigo-inducing overlooks above a psychedelic ocean. There were lots of people, but so many trails headed off in every direction that it never felt crowded.
Lagos has had to reinvent itself every time a new landlord took over. Today, the invaders arrive by budget airline rather than caravel. The city thrives on a peculiar mix of historical gravitas and vacation-town amnesia. You can have a craft beer in a square where 15th-century maritime charts were once argued over, and then walk through a city gate that stood firm while the ocean tried to reclaim the town.
Lagos is best enjoyed with the understanding that every charming, cobblestoned alleyway sits atop layers of unimaginable wealth and equally unimaginable catastrophe. It’s a town that has been discovered several dozen times over, and yet, somehow, remains remarkably good at hiding its best secrets in plain sight.
We really liked Lagos and the entire Algarve. It’s like a European La Jolla with warmer water. It has a fantastic year-round climate. It’s reasonably priced — some might say underpriced. Goods and services are plentiful. They have a top-notch public and private transportation system, good food, outstanding beaches and hiking trails, stellar golf courses and water parks, museums and big-box stores, and super-friendly people who speak pretty good English. Lisbon is nearby (a 2.5-hour drive), and from there, all of Europe is your oyster. If the Algarve were a stock, your broker would be telling you to BUY! BUY! BUY!
And you know what? People will. They already are. In twenty years, the Algarve will probably be unrecognizable. I’ve seen this song and dance many times in the U.S. — Telluride, Moab, Naples — and the Algarve will be marketed and consumed like every other piece of paradise. Prices will rise. The locals will be squeezed and then driven away. It is as inevitable as the winds from Africa. I’m grateful that I got a chance to see it before the gates went up like fortress walls around the palace, and they refashioned what was once unique into something sadly predictable.
