Tinkerbell, a jar of shells and pretty maids all in a row

Travel is as much about the anticipation as it is the journey and, ultimately, the arrival. Whether it be by foot, on bicycle or in 'the beast', this past week or so of mini journeys and bitesize trips has been half-planned and half-'follow my heart'-ed. Thinking ahead to the destination, I am a blank canvas, the latest issue of a favourite magazine, a pregnancy test still wrapped in its cellophane, a bottle of perfume as yet unopened. It is the excitement of the unknown, the not-yet-experienced, the still-to-come that gives me this buzz; of the good and the bad but, mostly, the pretty damn good this far. All that said, the experiences on this trip are not enjoyed as a naive teen, despite my references back to an earlier life. At 48, one travels with a little more caution and a little less loose-footed. The pull in me to freefall from that desk-bound hamster wheel and to no longer 'just keep swimming' - that's for you, Marianne - is balanced by a bigger need to be assured our three daughters are safe and happy. These carefree days in Western Europe are tempered by our roles as 'mum and dad' to the children who, I hope, will embark on adventures to foreign climes far more frequently than I ever did. Neither of us want them to play 'travel catch up' in their older decades. And, as we hang a print of the girls, taken some years back (leaping into the Atlantic from rocks in Praia da Luz) or add shells to a jar of those previously salvaged from beaches on holidays past, the very essence of what this trip is all about is captured in those everyday tasks. Everything we see, the food we taste, the conversations we have are always with those three in our thoughts - 'Gaby would love this, Ellie will want to go here, Nicole would love the name of that place'. It is not so much running away as setting an example and laying down plans for the girls' future travel - starting with a post-Christmas excursion to Amsterdam, all five of us - 'the beast' will be blessed with a triple measure of female spirit as well as that of the festive kind.

Towering and fado 
But for now, I am in Lisbon, a city of narrow one-way streets with a few too many maverick drivers competing with a seemingly ever-multiplying rabbit run of trams. The criss-cross system, dating back to 1873, sees the beautiful vehicles rattle through the steep streets, brushing past parked traffic and only missing them by inches. We walk the two miles downtown to Alfama, Lisbon's oldest district and home to fado, songs usually sung by women with a melancholy theme and accompanied by mandolins or guitars with origins in the bars of the area. Overlooking the district is the mediaeval Castle of São Jorge, towering over the city and offering views that capture the many eras of building in Lisbon. We find a bar on one of the many terraces (miradouros) and share a bottle of harsh, red wine that strangely improves with each glass. Looking across the Tejo River, we watch the lights dance on the water, the stars in the clear night sky and listen to the banter on a table of birthday celebrations. 'The girls would love this,' Tony says. Once in the cab back to our hotel, driven by a Lisbon maverick, of course, we ring the girls and make a vow to bring them here.