Portugal through the Senses – Chapter 1: The Sounds of Summer

Nana Guerreiro
Jul 10
4 min read

Updated: Jul 11

Olá. Welcome.

My name is Peppe, and I run Portugal Journeys with Peppe—private, personal tours designed to help visitors experience Portugal the way locals know and love it. Over the years, I’ve guided travelers through Lisbon’s hills and alleys, across the wild coastline of Arrábida, into the cork forests of Alentejo, and down narrow village streets where neighbors still greet each other by name.

But for me, guiding isn’t only about showing places on a map. It’s about helping people feel Portugal.

That’s why I created Portugal Through the Senses: think of it as a series of stories—each one an invitation to discover this country not just with your eyes, but with all your senses.

Because if you really want to know Portugal, you don’t just see it. You hear it. Taste it. Touch it. Smell it. You let it move you, the way it moves us who live here.

This is the first chapter in that journey. And today, I want to share with you the sounds of summer in Portugal—the music, the silences, the human voices that fill our warmest season.

Imagine standing on Praia dos Coelhos in the Arrábida Natural Park just after sunrise. The sand is still cold beneath your feet. The Atlantic breathes in and out, its deep, patient thunder rolling against the rocks. Pines high on the hills catch the wind, their needled branches whispering. No one else is around yet except perhaps an old fisherman setting his line, humming a tune so quietly you wonder if even he can hear it.

This is one of my favorite gifts to give guests on a private tour. We leave Lisbon early to catch these quiet hours, before the crowds and chatter arrive. They expect the view—which is spectacular—but what surprises them is the hush.

The sound of a place waking slowly, revealing itself only to those patient enough to listen.

Later, as the day brightens, you find yourself in Lisbon’s Graça or Mouraria. Cafés open onto the calçada with the scrape of chairs and the metallic clang of the shutter rolling up. Bom dia drifts from one neighbor to another in easy, familiar tones. Porcelain cups clink on marble counters as the first bicas are served, strong and dark, accompanied by warm gossip and easy jokes.

On my Lisbon walks, I always insist on stopping at a real pastelaria, the kind with faded tiles and old men reading the sports pages. It’s not about the coffee itself—it’s about the ritual. The conversation. The invitation to belong, even for a moment.

As the sun climbs higher, everything slows.

In the Alentejo, where I often take visitors to explore Évora or to small family-run wineries, there is a moment when the towns seem to hold their breath. Shops close their doors. Shutters block out the glare. The only sound is the rasp of cicadas in the olive groves—a dry, insistent music that seems to measure the heat itself.

We don’t have a Spanish-style “siesta” exactly. But in places like Alentejo, there is a kind of sesta, an unspoken agreement to respect the sun and the land by pausing, eating well, talking slowly, and letting the hottest hours pass in cool shade. When I go there, we do the same. Long lunches. Wine in old stone cellars. Conversations that stretch out as if time itself has expanded.

By late afternoon, Portugal wakes up. In Lisbon’s narrow streets, music drifts from windows and doorways. You might hear a radio playing pimba hits that everyone pretends not to like but somehow sings along to anyway. Or the unmistakable, raw cry of Fado pouring from a tiny tavern in Alfama, unashamed of its longing. Sometimes you catch someone practicing guitarra portuguesa behind a shutter, fingers searching for that mournful, liquid note.

In June and July, the city is electric with the Santos Populares. Alfama, Madragoa, Bairro Alto—these neighborhoods become one big stage. Drums lead processions under strings of colored paper garlands. Friends shout greetings over the crackle of sardines grilling on open flames. Music blares from makeshift stages. There’s laughter, applause, off-key singing. It’s the sound of Lisbon celebrating itself, unfiltered and generous.

But Portugal isn’t only about noise. Some of the sounds I love most are quiet. A whispered prayer in an old Alentejo church lit only by candles. The wind at Cabo Espichel sighs over cliffs that drop into the Atlantic.

The silence before applause in a small Fado house in Alfama when the singer takes a breath and the room holds itself perfectly still.

Even Lisbon’s daily soundtrack is a story. The creak and rumble of the elétrico 28 as it climbs through Graça. The ding of the Elevador da Bica inching between bright façades. Low conversation at a miradouro while the sun dips behind the Ponte 25 de Abril and the city turns gold.

These sounds aren’t decoration. They’re an invitation.

When you travel with Portugal Journeys with Peppe, this is what I want to share with you. Not just the sights you can photograph, but the moments you can only feel when you stop to listen. The country as it is, lived in and loved, messy and beautiful.

So if you’re planning to visit, I hope you’ll give yourself the time to hear Portugal’s summer for what it is: the roar of the Atlantic, the murmur of coffee cups on marble, the buzz of cicadas in hot silence, the laughter of friends under festival lights, the quivering voice of a Fado singer baring their soul.

Because these sounds aren’t just background.

They’re our story.

And if you’d like, I’d be honored to be the one to help you hear it.

Até breve.

– Peppe

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