“The best ones are right under the rocks，” said Nuno Aramac， before slipping under the water like a seal. The two of us had swum to the base of a cliff where we were collecting goose barnacles. I say “we”， but it was actually Nuno who was doing all the work， scraping away at the rocks with a chisel-like tool， ducking and diving then popping back up waving a handful of strange sea creatures and grinning.
　　 The spectacular stretch of Atlantic coast just north of Lisbon， with its rugged cliffs， crashing waves and near-empty stretches of sandy beach is famed for two things： surfing and seafood. The most-prized of the latter is the goose barnacle， beloved of food writers. “One of the most beautiful foods on the planet，” wrote Guardian food blogger Charlie Skelton，“the bright enamelled head with its ruby lips sits atop a snakeskin sleeve which pulls away to reveal a glossy， lucent finger of flesh， marbled and grey at the neck， bright orange at the tip.”
　　 Sit on the terrace of any local eatery and order fish that was caught hours before， and cooked with just a splash of olive oil and lemon. The fact that you’ll end up paying about half what you would for a similar meal in the UK makes it all the sweeter.
　　 I ate clams in white wine at the cafe on Adraga beach—said to be one of the most beautiful in Europe; worked my way through a platter of bass， bream， mussels and prawns at more upmarket Mar do Inferno， at the most westerly point of Europe; and， most memorably of all， tucked into giant scarlet shrimps at Azenhas do Mar， a restaurant set into the cliff in the village of the same name.
　　 Having eaten my own body weight in seafood， it was only right to try the area’s other big draw： surfing. Nuno， my barnacle-picking guide， is also a talented surfer and agreed to give me a lesson. I met him and his family at their little house on Praia Grande， the largest beach on the Cascais-Sintra coast. The sea was unusually calm， perfect for a beginner like me， so after a quick rehearsal on the sand， we waded into the water. Suddenly the gentle waves seemed a little less so. And after 20 minutes of me battling through surf， only to come back to shore squealing while lying flat on the board， Nuno had some friendly advice：
　　“It’s much easier if you dive under like a fish， instead of fighting through them，” he said.
　　 I’m sure he was right. Too bad we never found out. Feeling the rush of water over my head， as he encouraged me to duck beneath a wave， I panicked and accidentally headbutted him. The lesson ended there， with poor Nuno joking that I’d changed his profile and me fearing I’d broken his nose. 　　 In this region north of Lisbon， the coast is only half the story， though. The Sintra-Cascais natural park extends inland， encompassing sand dunes， vineyards， wooded hillsides and， at its centre， the town of Sintra.
　　 One of the oldest properties in town （an estate dating back to the 12th century） is now occupied by a most unusual hostel， the Almaa. The Almaa’s rooms are Spartan-inspired and its dark corridors have a touch of Scooby-Doo spookiness， but the nine acres of garden and the old stone reservoir-turned-natural swimming pool are lovely. And manager Joao de Mello， who runs the place as sustainably as possible on a shoestring， is a mine of information. It was Joao who arranged my surf lesson and also introduced me to local guide Maria Joao Martinho.
　　 Leaving the hostel， Maria took me first to the Neolithic ruins of Adrenunes， hidden down an overgrown track. Once a sacred site， they offer 360-degree views of countryside， coast and， in the distance， Cascais and Lisbon.
　　 In the mid-19th century， King Fernando II built his own summer palace， he named Pena， on the highest point of Sintra. Incorporating a 16th-century convent， the palace clashes Turkish-style domes with gothic facades.
　　 Pena is considered the finest example of Portuguese romanticism， but it’s not the only wildly extravagant residence around here. A long line of well-travelled nobles and wealthy businessmen made Sintra their home so， in just a few square miles， you find an astonishing mishmash of styles.
　　 The layers of history， the fairytale woods and winding forest roads lined with ancient fountains and chapels give Sintra a magical quality which is still attracting creatives， be they millionaires looking to convert a quinta or penniless artists like the woodworker Jo？o introduced me to， who is living in the forest as he builds an intricate wooden sculpture inside the crumbling walls of an old bottled-water plant.
　　 Even in the town itself， you sense this alternative vibe. Café Saudade， a former cake factory on Avenida Miguel Bombarda， serves as a creative hub， offering free concerts， exhibitions by local artists and even a knitting club. Restaurant A Raposa looks more film set than dining room， with its petal-strewn central table， hand-painted ceiling and lace place settings.
　　 A certain eccentricity was tangible too at the second place I stayed： The House of the She Pine Tree， eight miles outside Sintra. Run by the d’E？a Leal family， who trace their roots to the founding of Portugal， She Pine Tree is part-guesthouse， part-museum devoted to the owner’s father， Olavo Correia Leite d’E？a Leal， who was， in the words of his son Tomaz， who now runs the house， “a scandalous dandy， a provocative wit， a shocking bohemian”， not to mention painter， poet and playwright who had six children with three wives and a successful career in advertising. 　　 His son， Tomaz， is the perfect host， insisting guests help themselves to G