One of the most popular is the one that's packaged up by holiday companies. It's all about endless sunshine, golden beaches, affordable beer and grilled fish sizzling over charcoal; whilst retired accountants from Basingstoke tell everyone that they've "gone native" despite still insisting on Heinz Baked Beans and HP sauce arriving in each care package from Blighty.

What about the mythological Portugal? You know, the one that the locals speak of from time to time. A Portugal where beautiful women emerge from ancient wells, where werewolves roam the hills, where witches fly through the darkness, where dragons guard forgotten treasure and ghostly funeral processions wander country lanes looking for fresh souls to squirrel away for all eternity.

Ancient wonders

Frankly, the mythological Portugal sounds less like southern Europe and more like a planning meeting at the BBC's costume department. Take the Moura Encantada, for example: an enchanted Moorish Maiden. She's everywhere, it seems. There seems to be one in every ruined castle, every lonely spring, and every tiny village claims that theirs is the prettiest. Apparently, “she” spends eternity sitting on rocks, brushing her impossibly golden hair with an equally impossibly golden comb, waiting for some unsuspecting bloke to break the spell that imprisons her.

Now chaps, if history teaches us anything, it's this: When an impossibly attractive woman you've never met before suddenly appears in the middle of nowhere and offers you treasure, eternal love or unimaginable riches. Run. She's either mythical or she’s called Veronica, and she's trying to sell timeshares. Usually both. The catch, naturally, is that you must complete a task like answering impossible riddles and surviving in a pit filled with lots of hissing snakes. Keep looking behind you, otherwise that timeshare is going to be hard to wriggle out of.

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Then there are Portugal's werewolves. Or Lobisomens as they're called hereabouts. Hollywood gives us enormous hairy beasts capable of ripping Land Rovers apart with their bare claws. But Portugal gives us José from the next village who's been cursed because he happened to be the seventh son. He's wonderfully understated for a werewolf. By day he fixes roofs whilst, by night, he's terrorising sheep and goats. By breakfast he's just buying bread as though nothing weird ever happened. The cure is equally charming, almost benign. Someone merely has to recognise him and call him by his baptismal name. Imagine the conversation. "Morning, António."

Then, BANG! Curse lifted. Job done. No silver bullets or dramatic orchestral soundtracks. Just administrative efficiency. How very Portuguese!

And then we encounter my personal favourite. The Santa Compaña.

This is a ghostly procession of the souls of the deceased carrying candles through lonely lanes after midnight. It's rather like the Women's Institute holding a sponsored walk from beyond the grave. Should you encounter them, there are strict rules. Don't speak, don't look directly at them and don't accept anything they offer. Most importantly, don't become the poor unfortunate soul leading the procession. Apparently someone has to carry the cross.

So, if anyone tries to hand it to you. Panic. Your social calendar has just become extremely repetitive, because you just might be doomed to lead this procession for all of eternity. Great!

Medieval nation

Now let's talk dragons.

Every self-respecting medieval nation needs dragons. Wales has one on its flag, England borrowed Saint George to deal with theirs. Portugal simply hides its dragons inside caves, castles and mountains where they guard treasure for a few hundred years. One suspects that Portugal’s dragons became convenient explanations for everything. Missing goats? It was a dragon. Strange noises? Dragon again. Your neighbour mysteriously acquiring twenty extra goats?

Clearly a dragon-related issue.

Case closed.

Portugal also possesses enough witches to frighten away most drunken tourists. These witches aren't always ugly old hags stirring suspicious stews. Many appear to be perfectly ordinary Portuguese ladies. Some become birds, others become cats whilst several transform into swirling clouds of mist. Which makes identifying them rather difficult.

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Then there are the Trasgos. Tiny goblin-like creatures responsible for moving household objects.

Finally, an explanation! For years everyone has insisted that I simply misplace my spectacles. Nonsense. It’s those bloody Trasgos. They steal one sock from every washing machine load too. Where's the television remote? Trasgos, of course. Why are my reading glasses always in the fridge?

You guessed it. It's all down to a bunch of tiny supernatural hooligans with far too much time on their hands.

Superstitious society

The Atlantic coastline has its own collection of aquatic oddballs, including mermaids, sea spirits, enchantresses and some other rather odd women who tend to sing from rocks to lure unsuspecting sailors towards certain doom. Personally, I suspect many Portuguese fishermen preferred blaming such mythical women, rather than admitting they misinterpreted the weather forecast.

So, Portugal has never completely abandoned its myths. They're not believed the way medieval villagers did. Today, they're simply respected; just in case. Because here, every family seems to have an aunt who once saw something strange. Or a grandfather who definitely knew where buried Moorish treasure lay but unfortunately died before mentioning the exact location.

When it comes to myths, we Brits generally react differently. After moving to Portugal, within six months we’re still discussing property prices, Brexit, air fryers and where to find proper Cumberland sausages. Meanwhile, Portuguese neighbours point towards an abandoned windmill and casually advise that it's probably best we don't go there after sunset. We might laugh it all off, but three weeks later we're telling everyone in the expat bar that we definitely heard voices. Funny, that?

The truth is, these stories survive because Portugal itself feels decidedly mythical. Morning mist rolls through granite mountains, and ancient castles balance improbably on craggy outcrops. Roman bridges, Moorish ruins, lonely cork forests, and the wild Atlantic crash against massive cliffs. So, if anywhere still deserves dragons. It's Portugal.

Forsaking imagination

Modern Europe often seems determined to explain away absolutely everything.

Algorithms predict what we buy, sat-navs tell us where to drive, and artificial intelligence writes our shopping lists. These days, everything must have a rational explanation. A notion that Portugal shrugs. Of course, sometimes the noise in the woods is just the wind, but sometimes, it isn't.

Nobody's ever entirely certain, and perhaps that's rather wonderful. Because the moment we stop believing myths, if only for five mischievous minutes, we lose that certain mystique that makes our lives a bit more exciting. So, we must never give up the belief that somewhere, just beyond the next ruined castle, a dragon might still be sleeping. If we lose that playfulness, we lose something infinitely more valuable than treasure. We forsake our wonderful world of imagination.

So, next time you're exploring an abandoned monastery in the Alentejo, wandering the forests of the north or standing alone beside an ancient well: Remember this. If a beautiful woman appears carrying a golden comb, just smile politely and bid her a pleasant evening. Then head briskly towards the nearest café for a swift brandy. Because here in Portugal, folklore has a curious habit of sounding utterly ridiculous, right up to the moment that the locals stop laughing.