We had planned for Scotland. Again.
That mysterious unicorn of ours — forever beautiful, never quite within reach.
Not that it’s impossible to get there; it just didn’t make sense this time. We had only twelve days to travel, and Scotland deserves a slower rhythm — time to roam, explore, and let weather and whisky set the pace.
So instead, we picked up where we left off the year before: Northern Portugal.
A quick glance at the weather maps sealed the deal. While most of Europe was shivering under grey skies, the south still promised sun — ten to twenty degrees by day, and cold, crisp nights. A “summer in winter.” This would be a trip of firsts: the first long journey without our kids, and the first with our brand-new off-road trailer.
Spring break was too short to drag the girls all the way to Portugal, and school had to take priority. So, with a bit of parental logistics and grandparental goodwill, we carved out twelve precious days — just the two of us and Roover, our dog.
The trailer represented freedom.
Up until now, our rooftop tent had been both home and anchor — great once pitched, but a hassle if you wanted to drive somewhere for a day. The trailer changed everything: we could unhitch, leave our basecamp behind, and go explore national parks or villages freely.
Of course, towing eleven meters of combined vehicle and trailer also meant new challenges — tight turns, blind reversing, adrenaline-filled mountain passes — but the trade-off was worth it. The freedom was addictive.
The long road South
Without much preparation, we hit the road early one morning, heading for our first stop just beyond Bordeaux — about 900 kilometers away. My philosophy is simple: cover as much distance as possible the first days, so you can slow down once you reach your destination.
Our overnight Airbnb was charmingly chaotic — no electricity in the morning, so we brewed coffee outside on the gas stove as the sun rose over the vineyards. Perfect start.
Next stop: Salamanca, another 900 kilometers deeper into the continent.
Once past Bilbao, Spain unfolded into vast plains — golden fields punctuated by evenly spaced trees, as if nature had laid them out with a ruler. The land grew wilder as we descended south, and by evening we found a small roadside camping spot near the highway. Basic showers, frozen ground, and a handful of travelers.
Among them: a British retiree who could talk of little else but beer and his wife’s nagging. His breath confirmed both topics were connected.
Still, most people there were kind souls — wanderers chasing the same quiet we were.
When I realized every one of them was retired, I smiled. We were already living the life most people wait decades to start.
And for the record: old people don’t sleep in a tent when it’s minus two degrees.
That morning, frost glazed the trailer, our breath visible in the air. We showered in the cold, made coffee, watched the sunrise, and hit the road grinning. If we could handle this, the south would be easy.
Crossing into Portugal
As we passed Salamanca, the land began to change — flat plains giving way to rolling hills. Crossing the border into Portugal felt as dramatic as crossing from Belgium into the Netherlands: suddenly, everything looked different.
We left the highway and took the small roads, winding through villages and forests. Our plan was to take the backroads all the way to the Alentejo, but after 150 kilometers of intense concentration and narrow lanes, fatigue set in. We gave ourselves permission to take the highway for the final stretch.
Bubulcus & Bolotas — A natural haven
Liene, as always, had found us a gem.
Bubulcus & Bolotas, a small eco-camping in the heart of Alentejo, surrounded by endless cork oak fields and wild meadows. A place designed for silence.
Only ten spots for vehicles, all spaced far apart, and the rest reserved for tents accessible only on foot. The single shower building was hidden behind the trees. From our pitch, we saw nothing but bushes, rocks, and sky. Paradise.
It was winter, so the site was quiet — just us, a French nature photographer, and a Dutch woman with her dog. Which, as it turned out, became significant: within hours, Roover had fallen in love. Before we could intervene, biology took over, and the two dogs were, quite literally, inseparable for fifteen minutes. There’s a chance a small Portuguese litter now carries a bit of Belgian DNA. We promised to split the puppies.
The site was run by a Dutch-Portuguese couple — passionate, thoughtful people with a clear philosophy: respect for nature first. Their place instantly joined our very short Must-Visit-Again list (the only other member being Wildlife Sweden).
The trailer proved its worth, too — 20 minutes to set up, 20 to pack. Efficient, simple, perfect. My inner logistics nerd purred with satisfaction.
Days in the Alentejo
We woke each morning to frost on the grass and golden light breaking through the oaks. No alarm clock, no screens, just birdsong and the slow rhythm of the sun. With no kids around, time stretched.
We followed the owners’ advice and hiked to Vimieiro, the nearest village. The path wound through a dreamlike landscape — mossy rocks, low cork trees, bright green meadows scattered with flowers. Everything looked hand-painted.
Vimieiro itself was a postcard: tiled façades, orange trees heavy with fruit, and streets so quiet you could hear your own thoughts. Old men sat on benches, staring curiously at these two tourists walking around in shorts while they wore coats and scarves. We smiled, they nodded.
Coffee: €1.60 for two.
Perfect espresso, served by a man who insisted on giving Roover four glasses of water from his hands. I couldn’t understand a word he said, but kindness speaks fluently.
Stone circles and shepherds’ secrets
The Alentejo is rich with ancient stones — menhirs, dolmens, and stone circles older than Stonehenge. Most are tucked away on private land, hidden under olive trees. Farmers know them as well as shepherds once did.
With GPS coordinates and local hints, we set out to find them.
The first stood atop a hill, guarded by an old olive tree. A farmer on a quad caught us crossing his field — I expected a scolding, but he smiled, shook my hand, and waved us on.
We climbed hill after hill until the dolmen appeared: massive, silent, perfectly placed to overlook the valley. Standing there, I tried to memorize every detail — the light, the moss, the distant lowing of cows who crept closer to inspect us. I promised myself to return here, if only in memory, on some grey weekday back home.
Later, we found another site hidden in a meadow of yellow flowers — a circle of stones that looked straight out of Asterix & Obelix. We picnicked there: Gouda cheese, salami, mustard, the essentials of happiness.
Most villages we passed were ghostly quiet, their bars filled with locals chatting over pastries and Delta coffee. We always sat outside, watching life unfold in slow motion. One site, the largest and most touristy, was supposed to be Portugal’s Stonehenge. But it felt lifeless — trampled ground, bus parking, dust. We walked around twice and left. Sometimes mystery only survives where there are no signs.
South to the Algarve
After four serene days inland, it was time for the coast. The idea of ending by the sea sounded right — salt air, wide horizons, a change of scenery. But as we approached the Algarve, dread crept in. The names alone — Costa del This, Riviera That — make me itch. They conjure images of overcrowded beaches, cheap souvenirs, fried food, and drunken noise. Still, Liene wanted to see it, and she deserved that.
Reality exceeded my worst expectations.
Plastic towns, dirty streets, fenced beaches, garbage, water parks, fake pottery shops. The beaches themselves were beautiful — I saw that through my drone lens — but the surrounding chaos made it impossible to enjoy. We lasted fifteen minutes before escaping inland.
We stopped at Café André, regrouped over coffee, and pulled out my Garmin Overland GPS. A network of off-road trails appeared on the screen like an invitation. Within an hour we were bouncing along dirt tracks toward the wild Costa Vicentina, the western coast.
And suddenly, everything was right again.
The road ended at a hidden cove where only a few locals and a French traveler sat quietly. Liene laughed, waded into the icy Atlantic, screamed at the cold, and came out grinning like a kid. Roover chased waves. I just watched — grateful.
Back to the Wild
We spent our last nights back in the hills, under a vast open sky.
The coast may be photogenic, but the inland feels alive — raw, honest, and human. The Algarve, for all its fame, is crumbling under its own success. Even in winter, water is scarce. Wells run deep, reservoirs low. The region depends on tourism, but it’s a fragile balance.
By contrast, the outback feels timeless. Real.
And that’s exactly where we belong.
Turning north
Rain arrived on our final morning, pushing us gently toward home.
We crossed back into Spain, through the vast emptiness of Extremadura — one of Europe’s least populated regions. Endless rolling plains dotted with cork oaks, black Iberian pigs grazing under them, distant mountains. It felt like the Wild West of Spain, and I fell instantly in love.
We spent our last night near the Basque border, just above San Sebastián. Fourteen days, thousands of kilometers, a full cycle of sunrises, frost, fires, and laughter. The trip felt far longer — in the best possible way.
The off-road trailer had proven its worth. We’d found our rhythm again — flexible, simple, and true.
Reflections
This journey confirmed what we already knew deep down:
our way of travelling isn’t a phase — it’s who we are.
The cold nights, the early mornings, the frozen fingers lighting a stove — these things don’t bother us; they ground us. They remind us that freedom lives outside comfort.
Tourist highlights rarely impress us anymore. We’d rather take a forgotten dirt road into the mountains than stand in a line at a “must-see” spot. Solitude suits us.
And being just the two of us — that mattered.
It was only our second long trip alone since having kids, and it felt essential. We didn’t leave to escape them; we left to reconnect with ourselves, so we could return stronger, calmer, closer.
This trip reaffirmed something simple yet powerful:
we choose how to live. We decide our rhythm.
We may not follow the flow — but at least we know which river we’re in.
And we’re sitting on that rock together.
Portugal: summer in winter.
A short journey, a long reset.
And another quiet confirmation that we’re exactly where we need to be.
Full travel journal can be read here: Portugal: Summer in Winter
