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Long ago in the Algarve, says the legend, a Nordic princess pined for her frozen homeland until her husband, the King of the Moors, planted thousands of almond trees. The snow-white blossom soon brought a smile to her lips and to this day almost every house in the area looks out on an almond tree.

In the lush rolling hills of the interior, the trees herald the first days of spring, flowering among vineyards and orange groves and fig and carob trees. Here, just a stone throw away from the coast, you discover a quiet land of orchards and meadows, winding lanes and forests and red-roofed villages tucked in the greenery, their whitewashed houses topped by filigree chimney pots, in Moorish style, and rooftop terraces where laundry and fruit dry side by side. Goats wander across the road and sometimes a donkey and cart rattle along the cobbled streets.

At the heart of it all lies the pretty town of Silves, the Moorish capital of the Al Gharb, the land of the west, from the 8th to the 13th century. The Moors left a fine sandstone castle sitting on the hilltop, complete with Traitor’s Gate, cistern, grain stores, towers and ramparts. It’s only a shell but inside, the past feels within reach, haunted by tales of crusaders and King Sancho I whose imposing statue greets you by the gate. Up there in the blazing sun, wild flowers grow among the old stones and you can see for miles across the sweeping orchards. Beyond the town square, the medieval bridge spans the river Arade where sea going vessels once loaded cork and citrus fruit. The port silted up but you might still spot flamingos and herons, especially if you sail upriver from Portimao. It’s a lovely way to approach the town dozing in the shadow of cathedral and castle, among exotic palms and blue jacarandas.

Silves has an excellent Archaeology Museum, built around the ‘Cistern of the Enchanted Moorish Girl’, a Cork Museum, voted Best Industrial Museum in Europe, and an unusual pillory sporting a crown and snake-like dragons. In August, the town takes on a medieval flavour for the annual fair while on the outskirts, the 16th century Cross of Portugal recalls the Christian conquest. But history aside, Silves lasting pride is oranges, said to be the juiciest and sweetest in the Algarve.

In these fertile foothills of the Serra, every town has a market, the ideal place to buy your local produce. The most important is held on a Saturday morning in Loule, an easy drive from the coast. During refurbishment of its pink domed Hall, the market is on two sites, tourist ware in the coach park, fresh produce near the bandstand. Just make your way along the main tree-lined avenue and you’ll soon spot the housewives with lettuces and garlic spilling out of their bulging baskets. It’s a feast of colours and scents, strawberries, melons, peas in the pod, peppers, aubergines, goat’s cheese, honey, almond cakes, olives in all shapes and sizes. The air smells of warm bread and cut flowers and in the spring, bagfuls of snails await the traditional May Day feast.

Loule is a bustling town but within the medieval walls, the old district oozes charm and nostalgia, here a gateway, there a church, a courtyard filled with potted plants, a window bordered in blue to attract friendly spirits, and in the maze of alleyways near the citadel, old-fashioned workshops abuzz with artisans chiselling copper and brass, painting pottery or softening leather.

Meanwhile on the hill above the olive groves, Our Lady of Piedade keeps watch over the town, her dazzling shrine beckoning the pilgrims, especially at Easter time when everyone waves a piece of white cloth in sign of peace. It’s well worth the climb up the steep cobbled path for the views extend right across the green bucolic land of Barrocal, the Garden of the Algarve.

The villages around Loule are full of hidden gems. Azulejos, the blue and white tiles whose origins go back to the Moors, are found all over Portugal but for the most stunning examples in the Algarve, visit the church of St Lawrence in Almancil, glazed from floor to ceiling, and the Rococo Palace of Estoi, a nostalgic place with cool gardens and fountains and a magnificent stairway. Then wander around the remains of the Roman villa in Milreu, hailed as the best preserved in the country, the delightful square of Querenza looking across the mountain range and the ruined castle in Salir where locals grow vegetables on the terraced battlements. All around birds twitter in flower meadows and in the nearby range of Rocha da Pena strewn with juniper, orchids and pepper trees, great eagle owls nest undisturbed. Tread gently along the trails and ask the locals about the stalactite cave and the Neolithic walls.

The most popular hill village is Alte, a jumble of white houses clambering up the slopes, draped in hibiscus and oleander. The church sits on the edge of a leafy square, its porch framed by a carved sailor’s rope in Manueline style, while al fresco cafes gleaming with ceramics serve freshly-squeezed orange juice and sweet pastries. Down by the river is a cool oasis of babbling springs and shimmering reflections and you couldn’t find a more scenic place for lunch, whether you picnic on smoked ham, country bread and paté or settle down on a shaded terrace for chicken piri-piri, daubed in chilli sauce, roast kid in garlic and paprika, or the seafood cataplana simmering in a copper dish. There’s no shortage of local wine, smooth full bodied reds or straw-coloured whites from Lagos or Portimao and you could even find a bottle or two labelled Vida Nova, from Sir Cliff Richard’s own estate.

North of Silves rise the wooded slopes of the Serra de Monchique, all mountains and valleys, rivers and lakes, moors and dark forests where rosemary and oleander splash colour in the clearings. The fragrance of eucalyptus and pine follows you along the trails but you find swathes of chestnut and oak and ‘strawberry trees’ whose innocent-looking berries are eagerly collected for the local firewater. It’s a paradise for ramblers and birdwatchers looking for goshawks and royal eagles. Blessed by a subtropical micro-climate, mountain and sea all in one, the Serra is a vast botanical garden, home to over 1000 species of plants, but now and then a church bell chiming in the distance betrays the presence of an isolated village, perched on a terraced slope where vegetables and fruit compete for space.

The road to the top winds past the peaceful spa resort of Caldas de Monchique, once the site of Roman baths and the place where King Joao II came to take the waters in search of a cure, in the late 15th century. Now the emphasis is on beauty and well being, pampering and relaxation. In a deep wooded glen, quaint buildings gather around a shaded square and you are welcome to stroll in the park, quench your thirst and make a wish at the Fountain of Youth or unwind in the wine cellar as you nibble on chourizo sausage and bread straight from the oven, a few feet away.

Beyond the spa, you reach the rustic hill town of Monchique, once a prosperous weaving centre for wool and cloth and famous today for a wide range of craft, linen and wicker baskets, tree sculptures, wooden spoons, dried flowers and scissor chairs, invented, some say, by the Romans and so-named because of the way they fold up. Goods spill out on the pavements but step inside and you may find the shopkeeper quietly nursing her baby while grandma is shelling peas for the family’s supper.

Stroll up the lanes to San Sebastian square and the whole town is at your feet, tumbling down the hillside, among camellias, hydrangeas and fruit trees. Don’t miss the tiled mural depicting the scene, the intriguing piece of machinery once used to draw water from the well or the atmospheric ruins of Our Lady of Exile, a Franciscan monastery still graced by its bird- fountain in traditional tiles and a magnificent magnolia tree which may be the largest in Europe. In Monchique, even the chimneys look different, festooned in ‘saias’, or skirts, and whatever the time of day, the ‘town between the peaks’ exudes a charm of its own.

The panorama is superb and if you have a head for heights and twisty roads, you’ll enjoy the drive up to Foia, just five miles away and the highest point at nearly 3000 feet. Standing on the summit, battling with the wind, you feel like the knights of yore, surveying the wild open lands of the Algarve, from the verdant slopes of the Serra to the coastal plain and the Atlantic glistening like silver on the horizon.

Far below in hills and vales fluttering with butterflies, the almond trees are waiting for the spring.

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