Like all members of Parliament, Richard Shepherd maintains an amazingly busy schedule. Unlike representatives in the United States, M.P.s have weekly "clinics" in their constituencies so that they are available to listen to problems and suggestions on a regular basis. On top of that, Richard owns London's equivalent of Balducci's or Zabar's — Partridge's on Sloane Street and a chain of supermarkets aimed further down market. It is rare when he can get away.

The flight arrived on time, and opening his Michelin Green Guide, Richard urged me on to Queluz without delay. Asking no questions, I joined the traffic and headed toward Sintra. He said he'd tell me when to turn.

The Palácio National de Queluz was less than a half-hour from the airport and I wouldn't have thought to stop if Richard hadn't been reading about it out loud as I tried to follow the signs.

The royal residence at Queluz has always been enjoyed by the king's younger sons. Started in 1758, this miniature Versailles wasn't finished until 1794, and consists primarily of a one-storey, U-shaped pavilion enclosing meticulously-groomed gardens of box and yew. There is a series of restored, elegantly-gilded rooms which, at second glance, are really rather simply constructed.

I was surprised that the ornate ceilings consisted of nothing more than embellished, canvas-covered, wooden planking. This country-casualness belied the terrifically-grand cathedrals we were to visit in the days ahead, many of which had been decorated at the same time. Of course, none of the guidebooks admit to this rusticity and you will be amused by it.

The palace is still in use; HRH Queen Elizabeth II has stayed here as have many other heads of state, and the chapel is used for society weddings. Happily for us, Cozinha Velha, once the old palace kitchen and now a delightful restaurant, was open and we enjoyed a sumptuous lunch surrounded by antiques in the tall, elegant, mansard-ceilinged room.

As the car was full of luggage, we asked a policeman where might be the safest place to park during lunch. In what we came to learn was typical of the friendliness of the northern Portuguese, he offered to keep an eye on it for us. As we came out, he nodded and walked away; solving the question of whether or not to tip a member of the constabulary.

We were in Sintra in no time. Sintra has always been the bastion of the grandest country houses of Portugal. Here one can see the ruins of the 7th-century Castelo dos Mouros perched high above the valley kept verdant by the moist sea breezes.

Here too is the Paço da Vila dating from the 12th century with its huge chimneys each looking for all the world like an English oast house. One should also visit the Palácio da Pena which started out in life as a monastery built by Manuel I in the early 1500's but which was transformed by a relative of Ludwig of Bavaria into a faux medieval palace; I guess it runs in the family.

With great anticipation, we crunched in the graveled drive of the Palácio dos Seteais, one of the most famous hotels in Portugal, and our home from home for tonight.

Built at the end of the 18th century, the palace consists of twin buildings attached by a triumphal arch. The public rooms are grand but not imposing. There is a reading room on the left as you enter, with a long refectory table covered with newspapers and magazines in at least four languages; a long corridor leads to the double drawing-room that looks out over the beautiful boxwood garden and the valley to the sea. Its opposite walls are hand-painted with trees whose branches intertwine on the ceiling.

Richard had a bright, but dormered, single, two floors up on the front; I was in Suite 2 (the only one) on the piano nobilé that had 14-foot ceilings and looked out on the swimming pool, tennis courts, and the sea beyond. Both of our accommodations were elegantly-furnished with a mixture of Portuguese antiques and superior marquetry reproductions; I especially appreciated the hand-embroidered sheets, pillowcases, and mattress covers.

I went to the front desk to see if a chauffeur could be hired for the evening as we wanted to go to the casino at Estoril (doesn't everyone?) and perhaps a place to hear fado. It turned out that Augustus, the charming man behind the desk (who had been there for 22 years), "would be honored to show us around." We learned later that the chef had been there even longer—fifty-seven years! That says a lot for an hotel.

I met a very nice English woman, for whom I had mistakenly opened the lift door thinking she was the valet arriving, and asked her and her husband to join us for cocktails before dinner. My room was ideal for entertaining. I opened the door from my foyer onto the main hall and the music from the grand piano downstairs was the perfect accompaniment to our candle-lit cocktail party. A grand but small hotel encourages grand but small gestures.

After a perfectly respectable but uninspiring Franco-Portuguese dinner in a dining room too empty of patrons and too full of light, we found Augustus in front with our car. What followed was, in retrospect, the funniest evening of sightseeing one could imagine. As we drove along, Augustus, growing rapidly into his new rôle of Guide, kept up a non-stop narrative of all the fascinating, beautiful, horrific, famous, and infamous places we passed; except in the pitch-dark, moonless night, we couldn't see a thing.

Arriving at Estoril, he deposited us at the door of the Casino, and for an hour I used my favorite "martingale" (a system involving bets which, ignoring the double zero, offer approximately 50/50 odds e.g. rouge et noir, pair et impair) to keep up the appearance of a serious international roué. I won enough to cover the entrance fee and a couple of drinks but we never saw Humphrey Bogart, let alone George Raft. And actually, the Casino was rather too new and at the same time too shabby to be remembered with anything other than a shrug of the shoulders.

Augustus then took us through Cascais to the smartest place to hear fado in the region. Fado is native, plaintive, narrative singing to the accompaniment of guitars. Unforgettable and slightly spooky, it is unique to Portugal. We arrived at what looked like (what could we see anyway?) a farm house. We knocked, the little grill-covered hatch opened and we were ushered in. This was Forte Dom Rodrigo (Casa Santa Isabel, Estrata de Birre; tel: 28 51 373) and the joint was jammed. Rodrigo has produced over 30 albums, and people flock from Lisbon and around the world to hear him. I don't know how good the food is but for an atmospheric after-dinner drink, it's a fascinating experience, at least once.

While we wanted to get back to the hotel, Augustus had something else in mind, and we bounced and shuddered and lurched through the blackness until finally a lighthouse appeared, far ahead. Rounding a bend we slithered to a stop alongside a car that obviously wasn't empty, sorry fella, and got out. Blinded by the great light and with the wind whipping our jackets round our heads, we stood dumbstruck not knowing what we were supposed to be seeing. Augustus was yelling something but the words were snatched from his mouth by the gale, and all we could do was to cling to a low wall to keep from wading into the sea.

Back in the car, Augustus explained that we had just been to the western-most point of the European continent — Cabo da Roca. And, by the way, the sea had been 350 feet below us over that little wall!

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