Standing on a train platform and waiting with anticipation, we are alert for the train to Sintra to arrive. I check and re-check that we are on platform three. It doesn’t make the train come any faster. Once the train arrives, we select our seats near the large windows and in view of the display board that will announce stops. The ride is only forty minutes but it is our first time venturing outside of Lisbon. Anticipation is high as I catch a glimpse of the aqueducts. The ride is uneventful and before we know it, we are queuing to exit the Sintra station.

It is a barrage of tuk tuks and tourism office representatives at the train station gates. We are overwhelmed by picture cards shoved in our faces. We try to walk away as quickly as we can, but we need information. I ask a man how to get to the national palace. He says left and then follow the road to the right. We follow the road but I can see the national palace (it’s smokestacks are unmistakable) on the right. It is tempting to go right. Bu the tourist office man said to turn left, so we turn left. On the road We pass a man dancing and yelling “Carnivale”. He is having a great time but seems a little crazy. We cross the street and hope we are not lost. We climb another steep hill and wander around the hillside some more. We are good at wandering around. A castle peaks out further up the mountain. Palatial homes dot the hillsides along with statues and Moorish architecture. I find a throne to sit on among the pieces of public art that line the roadway.

Eventually we reach the national palace of Sintra. We enter and follow the tour path. A palace has sat on this spot since the 8th century under the Moors. By the 1100’s, during the 2nd Crusade it was again under Christian influence. Subtle arches still whisper of Moorish roots. Numerous additions bear witness to the reign of Portuguese royalty.

Upon entry, we are agog at the painted ceilings. Swans wearing crowns hint at the marriage of John I and Philippa of Lancaster. Their initials entwined, linking Portugal and England. There are mermaids and sailing boats looking down from above. There is even a room crowned by magpies. It is said that King John had one magpie painted for each lady at court to shame them for gossiping that he had kissed one of the queen’s lady in waiting.

The rooms are not overly large, but the views to the sea are lovely. As you move through the palace you move through additions planned by subsequent Kings. There is tile and ceramic art. Priceless furniture in a fairytale setting. I realize that life in a palace is not always glamorous. Endless narrow staircases, no indoor plumbing, cold rooms in winter, hot rooms in summer…but always on a grand scale.

In the 16th century wing, King Manuel ordered construction of the magnificent coat of arms room. Beautiful tile and intricately painted domed ceiling merge into a fantastic whole. The coat of arms of each noble family emblazoned on panels under the royal seal. In a not so subtle message, the noble houses are depicted as stags in the King’s hunting lodge. In one stroke, their importance is both affirmed and put in context. I am silenced in such beauty.

We press on to a chapel under restoration and more modernized sections of the castle where the last of the monarchs set up residence. Always a romantic, I prefer the older sections. Although indoor plumbing has its appeal. Perhaps the most fascinating room of all is the massive kitchen. The entire room is a massive oven. The two large smokestacks vent this room. Every surface is a stovetop or an oven. Fires could be built directly on the floor under massive spits. I try to imagine the heat endured by the army of cooks who kept the fires burning and the food flowing. I look up into the giant smokestacks and realize how many people this palace supported.

Humbled, we make our way outside to wander the garden along the hillside. Sea views through graceful pines tease my senses. But we are hungry, so we begin our quest for food.

We read several menus and reject them. He won’t eat seafood. I don’t want tourist fast food. We move deeper into old town and find a simple room tucked behind a wine shop. Charcuterie, simple cheese, Portuguese sausages, bread, olives and jam…..perfection on a plate. Good music and good food replenishes our energy.

Rejuvenated we decide to visit Quinta da Regaleira also known as the Palace of Monteiro the Millionaire. It doesn’t look too far away. Looks can be deceiving. We trek ever upward. We reach the gates to property but the entrance is up the hill. We round the corner. Upward still. We rest by the side of the road. Upward still. We finally find the ticket booth. Upward still. I want to find the Templar Initiation Well. Upward still.

We reach the well and the climb is worth it as we encounter an inverted tower leading into the earth. I feel like I am in a movie as I start a descent. Water drips and flows. Daylight fades with each downward step. I climb down and then down some more. We find the bottom of the well and underground caverns.

Caves and garden follies dot the hillside. Waterfalls and statues of Greeks gods great us at every turn. There are miles of trails but we are tired and we haven’t yet visited the house. So we head downhill and encounter a fantastic chapel. It is small and enchanting, like a fairytale encounter.

The house is large and whimsical. We trudge through appreciating as much as we can nearing exhaustion. It is all a blur really. My husband sits down and I trudge on over hills and around small lakes. The day is warm and I am determined to conquer all.

All good things must come to an end, so we head back to the train station. Down the hill and to the town. Through the narrow lanes lined with shops. Down the hillside to the national palace. Up the hillside and past the fountains. Down again along the ravine. We pass the dancing man. He is hoarse and dancing a little slower, but still smiling and chanting “carnivale”. Perhaps we have been in a fairytale after all. We should catch that train before the clock strikes. I don’t want to find out what happens when he decides to chant “rumplestilskin”.