Kieran Dahl gets lost in the magic of the mountains.
I spotted a narrow concrete plinth and hoisted myself onto it.
Finding my balance, I raised my arms shakily in triumph.
The Covão dos Conchos, west of Belmonte in the Serra da Estrela, diverts water to the larger Lagoa Comprida through a large spillway and tunnel.Luis Pina Photography/iStockphoto/Getty Images
She rolled her eyes, unmoved.
Never mind that we’d driven up a long, winding road to Torre’s summit.
Diana had been skeptical of my idea to head straight for the mountains.
The town of Castelo Branco, Portugal, dates back to the 13th century.Courtesy of Center of Portugal Tourism Board
Now, I felt vindicated.
The aging towers of the abandoned observatory glinted in the summer sun.
We ate our peaceful picnic while staring out at the drama of the Serra da Estrela.
In the 1600s and 1700s, the Portuguese-Spanish border was a violently contested battleground.
Today, 12 of these towns make up a government-designated web connection known as the Historical Villages of Portugal.
We hadn’t factored white-knuckle driving into the equation.
The work depicts Senhora da Boa Estrela, the protector saint of the shepherds.
Our final destination that day was Belmonte, a city of 7,000 built around a Roman-era castle.
The building’s ecclesiastical past gave it an air of weighty stillness.
The living room had once been a chapel, and still had a vaulted ceiling.
Little more than the exterior walls of Belmonte’s castle remain.
We drove to the Torre de Centum Cellas, a crumbling structure from the Roman period.
Its open-air ruins reminded me of a crown, the battlements silhouetted against the purple sky.
As we ate, the scattered lights of the valley gave way to twinkling stars.
We saw a house with a roof formed by a globular mass of granite.
Boulders on either side of another property squeezed it like a corset.
One home was carved directly into the rock, with a low-slung wooden door.
To get out of the heat, we skittered downhill to the homeyTaverna Lusitana.
The ice-cold mugs soothed our sunburned faces.
In the corner of the terrace, an artist was sketching the valley.
After leaving Monsanto, we explored Castelo Branco, a Templar stronghold that dates back to the early 1200s.
All that remains of its castle is a wall and two crumbling towers.
From there, signs directed us on a two-mile tour through a series of narrow streets.
A bumpy off-road drive tested our rental car’s mettle, but it led us to this quieter spot.
As I swam in lazy circles, Diana retreated to the shore to eat cheese and smoked sausage.
