I am biased when it comes to anything related to Portugal. Food? Oh yes, please. Weather? Beats UK every time. Wine? Do I even need to answer that? I even find the language, which a lot of people consider to be harsh and hissing, beautiful. When several years ago I discovered Fernando Pessoa, a Portuguese poet who lived in first third of the 20th century, it was love at first sentence. He wrote wonderfully depressing things like: “I made the journey, bought the useless, found the indefinite,/ And my heart is the same as it was: a sky and a desert.” Isn’t he an excellent word-smith?
Pessoa also had a very interesting writing quirk: I call it literary schizophrenia.