Nostalgia descends as I open my suitcase. The moment is akin to an epiphany. Memories replay in full sensory surround: gilded ceilings, faded vintage stamps, crisp hotel sheets and slowly cooling coffee. Shards of stories and swirling thoughts coalesce into new ideas. Holiday daydreams, postcards from Portugal… What was, what is, and what can be all existing in the same breath. A neverending wave of wanderlust splashed across each and every canvas.

High in the foothills overlooking the Atlantic, writers, poets and visionaries meet. At Monserrate Palace, muses are many. Cocooned in Gothic architecture, Indian influences and Moorish motifs, rooms overflow with gilded lace and sacred artworks. Pathways to this sumptuous sanctum are flanked by wisteria and jasmine. I am at the mercy of the butterfly effect, penning poems to palm trees and sketching birds of paradise. As the Portuguese have proverbed; God gave humans creativity for things like this.

Cheers fill the air as stalls overflow with music, laughter, beer and grilled delicacies. I’ve arrived at the Saint Anthony Festival, Lisbon’s ode to the treasures of the sea. Here, it’s cool to be a fish out of water. Scents of the ocean vivify the winding serpentine streets and fresh flavours say ‘olá’ to vibrant colours. It’s oceanic bliss; a city-wide salute to these salty little splendours. A reminder to preserve your spirit. And when you feel the call, to swim against the tide.

Tag! You’re it! Time to toss the tiaras and dash through gardens like the wild faeries we are. It's a rose garden revolution; a cherubic coup d'etat. A mesmerising uprising that only takes a moment. Shoes off, hair unravelled, princesses with pluck become barefoot sprites. As pretty as a picture with the heart of a huntress, and the Palacio De Estoi garden as our picturesque playground. Find us blissed out in a bed of roses, climbing trees or skipping through scented paths. We fly with wings imagined, so catch us if you can.

The masterpieces of Mother Earth and mankind keep close company in the Queluz Palace gardens. It’s a joyous symphony of earth, stone and colour where the wild romances the refined. I wander through elaborate tilework celebrating botanicals in bloom. Flowers make melodies with Venus, Neptune and Bacchus. Marble statues curl tenderly into falling waters. It’s a love story that breaks all the rules, one where craftsmanship and natural beauty walk hand-in-hand.

The June sun tickles my eyelids early and she never sets before 9.30pm. After a long, warm day I seek serenity at the PestanaPalace. My opulent chamber is a sweet serenade to the senses. Angelswhisper calming wisdom from fine frescoes. Golden cornices frame sprawling artworks and bring order to my tangled thoughts. The hypnotic domed ceilings lull me into a sublime slumber, where I dream in mint magic and rose mist.

After another mad day as a market magpie, I get swept up into a motley crew of vendors heading out for a hoot. We tumble down the stairs of an unmarked, side street bar. Hands are coarse, hair is messy and smiles are big and broad. Pull up a chair, grab a cerveja. Guitars belt out folk music in tribute to traditional lore. Let hearts thump, cockerels crow and faith, luck and justice be ours.

Sunshine cascades through towering windows and the incandescent tiles of Queluz Palace come alive one by one, as if lit by their own personal spotlight. The effect is otherworldly. I am hypnotised and humbled. Each intricately painted ceramic square is an artwork in its own right. Pieced together, like so many puzzles, the fragments form fables from the homespun to the heavenly, stretching out together in a panorama of Portugal. Centuries of Azulejo stories cemented on ceilings, walls and now etched into my soul.​