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Its 3:30 in the morning and I find myself staring at the wrinkled, wizened face of an old lady hanging out of a first floor window in the small town of Foz in Porto, Portugal. In all probability she has to be in her mid 90's and although I am directly under the window, she is oblivious to me, happily gumming away at some local delicacy and watching the multitude of revellers, both young and old dance with each other around the little cobbled street in this old quarter of town. Children, parents, lovers and friends all dance and sing to a flamenco-esque tune a guitarist is strumming away to, drinking the plenitude of free wine and occasionally stopping to stare at the continual display of fireworks and small hot air balloons that make the warm night sky come alive. The cobbled street is one of many in the maze of winding lanes that make up the old quarter. It is narrow, yet wide enough to allow 2 cars to squeeze through if one were driving on the pavement, side scraping along the high walls of the houses located on either side of the street. The houses are of a traditional design, intricately decorated with a fantastic array of mass produced and hand painted ceramic tiling, occasionally speckled with a vine or creeper of some description, giving each building an old worldly charm that is so unique to this part of the world. For a brief moment I pretend I belong here, I pretend that these smiling, strange, happy people are my friends, family and neighbours. I try and imagine what it would be to live in Portugal, a place steeped in tradition and culture as the music and atmosphere that is the festival of San Juan envelopes me and I realize, not for the first time, that travel is in my blood to stay.

Three days earlier I flew into the city of Porto to be welcomed by 34ºC heat and sunshine. Claire (a friend from Cornwall who arrived on an earlier flight) and I were picked up by Anna and Victor, Anna being a good friend of Claire from England and Victor being her ever smiling, ever likable Portuguese fiancé. We were given a brief tour of the town of Foz where we are staying before visiting a bar that overlooks the ocean for some lazy sundowners. Afternoon became evening and we migrated to Farze's premier restaurant overlooking the harbour, dining on seafood and succulent steaks whilst tasting the local gin and wine. Pretty much how any textbook start to a trip anywhere should be.

First impressions of Portugal were excellent and continued to remain so, but I do have a strong love of Spain so there would of course be some form of bias occurring. Porto is an old town with some magnificent architecture and character. The exterior of the buildings are not exactly clean, yet do not seem filthy enough for it to be noticeable, the street have some rubbish and dirt, but not a large amount, there is some graffiti on some of the walls, but no more than any other city. To put my finger on a description I would have to say that the city of Porto looked and felt like a pair of steel-capped Doc Martins owned by a skinhead - practical, well loved and worn in.

In the following days leading up to the Festival of San Juan we stayed in an excellent caravan (owned by Victor's mother) next to the beach. The days consisted of lying around, drinking ‘Vino’ and playing games on the beach in the sun. Evenings were spent with other campers intent on enjoying the lead up to the festival, barbecuing whole sardines (a Portuguese traditional meal) and steaks, drinking wine and trying to fight the inevitable sleepiness brought about by a combination of the sea air and a day in the sun. At 2am the Portuguese music still blared from the loudspeakers of the campsite and children were still running around as if it was mid-afternoon, running and weaving in and out of the adults who were weaving for reasons other than youthful zest.

The festival itself came and went quickly, from 8pm till 8 am it didn’t stop - a family affair where the streets were packed and people were happy. There was drinking alcohol but strangely no fights, the fireworks lit up the night sky in all directions and people ran around hitting each other on the head with squeaky novelty hammers - a strange tradition that started several years ago. It was great stress relief - clobber all manner of people and get away with it in the spirit of fun. Something every country needs. I spotted an old granny with her family in the crowd and went up and gave her a good clouting with my hammer. She turned, smiled and smacked me back with hers - a surreal experience, getting beaten up by a random granny with a hammer. One of the little children in her family managed to whack me in the testicles with his hammer and I beat a hasty retreat before the rest of the family started in on me as well.

And all of a sudden it was over - 3 hours sleep and an inevitable plane ride looming, I packed my gear, thanks to my wonderful hosts for their undying hospitality and good nature and headed back to the delights of the UK where I promptly missed my train from London to Cornwall and have to wait a further 5 hours to catch an overnight one instead.

So, I guess the question you are all asking yourselves is did I like Portugal? Would I go back? Is the pope Catholic? Is a ducks ass watertight? All very interesting questions indeed. Let’s just say it's a place I will visit again if I am lucky enough, hopefully for a longer stay, and hopefully not too far in the future.