At that sort of ungodly hour, the Algarve is still rubbing sleep from its eyes. The marina is unusually quiet whilst million-euro speedboats bob and sway in their berths. Even the local seagulls appear to have called in sick.

But we're heading north. The destination is the so-called Portuguese Riviera, that wonderfully grandiose stretch of coastline around Cascais and Estoril where Portugal has, for generations, been pretending it’s Monaco.

Delicate beauty

The road north is long enough for the scenery to morph, but not so long that you begin questioning your life choices.

Eventually, Lisbon rises spectacularly from a distance. Beyond it comes the Atlantic coast, where the architecture becomes more polished, the cars more expensive, and the sunglasses get considerably larger.

Our first stop will be Cascais, after a genteel trundle along the 35km length of the Avenida Marginal, the stunning coastal road that links Lisbon to Cascais; complete with its impressive pedestrian promenade and cycle path which runs parallel to the aqua-marine hues of the sun-spangled Tagus River. What a fabulous sight to behold. It's quite simply stunning.

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Cascais has a special sort of beauty. It just knows it’s beautiful. That delicate sort of beauty worn with sweet, subtle bashfulness that never displays the merest hint of vulgarity or bumptiousness. Whitewashed buildings glow beneath the September sun, tiled facades shimmer in the light and narrow streets tumble towards the sea. Stunning bougainvillaea cascades over tall walls in dazzling blasts of radiant pinks and shimmering purples.

Although the town is busy, September brings a gentler rhythm. Summer's great invasion has begun its retreat, but the beaches are still remarkably warm, the restaurants are still buzzing, and the Atlantic looks deliciously inviting. Cascais seems particularly adept at doing very little. Just sit outside, drink coffee and simply watch the world pass by.

Extraordinary landscape

The following day, I took a wander back towards Estoril, where the “Riviera” credentials became nigh-on impossible to ignore.

Estoril has an old-world vibe that feels increasingly rare these days. The grand hotels, the palm-lined avenues and Casino Estoril recall an era when international jet-setters arrived with steamer trunks, cigarette cases and enough money to make losing it seem like an amusing hobby. Ian Fleming's hedonistic world of intrigue, glitz & glamour seems never too far away. Indeed, it's easy to imagine someone in a white dinner jacket leaning mysteriously against a bar while ordering something shaken rather than stirred.

Sadly, reality intervenes for me. I was wearing my sensible trousers and was probably checking Google Maps rather than contemplating having a cheeky spin on the jolly old roulette wheel. Still, the ghosts of Estoril’s glamorous past remain, and they can be splendid company.

But the Portuguese Riviera isn't simply about glitz & glamour. Its greatest asset is the extraordinary landscape. Drive a few miles west and suddenly the manicured Riviera gives way to something wild and elemental. The Atlantic. It pounds against the rocks around Guincho with an incessant wind howling across the coastline, carrying the smell of salt and adventure.

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Joyful exploration

If Cascais is Portugal wearing a linen suit, then Sintra must be Portugal in one of its more surreal and flamboyant outfits.

Here, forests twist around mountains, a colourful palace emerges from the trees and strange mists meander in from nowhere. Here in Sintra, exotic plants grow with reckless abandon, and every road seems to lead somewhere that looks as though Walt Disney and a particularly eccentric Portuguese aristocrat had been left alone with a fat chequebook. It's gloriously bonkers, yet it's utterly beautiful.

For me, one day melts into another. How about some breakfast whilst overlooking the ocean? Or lunch in a village café? Perhaps a lazy afternoon wandering through historic streets culminating in a late afternoon coffee that somehow turns into an early evening beer? It's 5 o'clock somewhere, after all. To top it all, what about a convivial dinner whilst sitting outside watching a cloudless Iberian sky slowly turn pink and peach over red tiled rooftops? This is Portugal’s Riviera at its absolute best.

Not just a place, but a mood

It would be remiss of me to stitch together a Portuguese travel piece without touching on the subject of food.

It's the usual story of freshly grilled fish done over charcoal. But for lovers of the ocean’s many bounties, Portuguese seafood always seems to arrive at the table so fresh that it still smells of the ocean itself. Juicy prawns disappear with alarming speed, and octopus is transformed into something approaching poetry. Bread, cheese and olives appear mysteriously whenever you sit at a table. We all appreciate how Portugal has never really subscribed to the idea that meals should be rushed, because there don't seem to be any prizes for finishing first around these parts.

By midweek, the temptation is to abandon my itinerary altogether. Why visit six attractions when I can just sit beneath a colourful parasol watching boats bobbing about in the marina? Why climb a hill when somebody has put tables and chairs at the bottom thoughtfully? Why hurry at all? September in Portugal seems designed for precisely this sort of shameless idleness. It works for me.

There are, of course, plenty of places to explore. Palaces, museums, forts, beaches, gardens and historic estates abound. But the real beauty exists in simply being here. In the moment. The Portuguese Riviera is not merely a place, it’s a mood. It’s the smell of eucalyptus riding the soft evening air, the clink of glasses on a pavement terrace blended with the sound of waves breaking far beneath a towering cliff face. Perhaps this is how this place works so well? And it does work. Because I, for one, just love it here.

Portugal hasn't really tried to become Monaco. Thank goodness. It simply took the Riviera idea, added its own twist, some tiled buildings, grilled foods, slightly eccentric architecture and an almost pathological refusal to hurry. And - BINGO! Portugal has produced something utterly charming.

Eventually, my week comes to an end. I point the car south again. Back towards Vilamoura. The road stretches ahead and the familiar Algarve landscape gradually returns. But, something has changed. Perhaps it's simply that I've remembered how pleasurable it is to travel slowly? Or perhaps I discovered the glaring truth about the Portuguese Riviera? Here, one doesn't really need a plan, all one needs is a car, a reasonably functional sat-nav, a tolerance for hills and a healthy appetite for living our best lives.

The rest, as they say in Portugal, will sort itself out. And if it doesn't? There's always another café, another beer or another glass or two of Alentejo's finest vinhos. You can't really go wrong.