Belém Lisboa Portugal Monuments, Culture & Pastries

Last updated on August 31, 2025 at 15:34:19

I’m writing this with custard tart crumbs on my keyboard and a slight sunburn from yesterday’s adventure, which pretty much sums up our life in Lisbon these days. My daughter Lena eight going on eighteen dropped a truth bomb on me last week that I can’t shake. We were queuing at Pastéis de Belém in Belém Lisboa Portugal (yes, that queue), when she tugged my sleeve and whispered, “Dad, why is that lady crying?” The lady wasn’t actually crying, but she was having what I recognised as a full-blown tourist meltdown, frantically checking her phone whilst her partner gestured at his watch.

That’s when it hit me. After moving between Brighton and Alfama last year (long story involving a midlife crisis and my wife’s obsession with Portuguese tiles), we’ve been doing Belém all wrong. Or rather, all right. Because whilst everyone else races through like they’re on some monument-collecting game show, my kids have turned me into the world’s slowest tourist. And bloody hell, they were right all along.

The Day We Gave Up on Being Proper Tourists

It was a scorching Tuesday in July the kind where the cobblestones actually burn through your shoes when five-year-old Theo staged what we now call “The Great Jerónimos Rebellion.” Picture this: massive queue, no shade, everyone looking miserable, and my son lying spread-eagle on the pavement declaring he’d “rather die than look at another old building.” Bit dramatic, but fair point.

That’s when Senhora Rosa, this wonderful old lady who feeds cats near our Alfama flat, happened to walk past. She laughed properly cackled and said something in Portuguese that roughly translates to “only fools queue in the sun.” She grabbed my arm and marched us across to Jardim de Belém, through this hidden entrance I’d walked past a hundred times. There was shade. There was a playground. There was a man selling ice-cold water for one euro. Theo went from death’s door to king of the castle in about thirty seconds.

The garden kiosk man, António (I think it’s António, or maybe Alexandre I’m terrible with names), makes this orange juice that’s basically liquid sunshine. Two euros, worth every cent. He told me tourists never find this place because they’re too busy following Google Maps to the monastery. Meanwhile, every Portuguese family in Lisbon apparently knows this is where you actually spend your Belém mornings.

That Time We Accidentally Found a Beach

Look, I know this sounds mental, but there’s a beach next to Belém Tower. Not a proper beach more like a sandy bit that appears when the tide’s out but try explaining that distinction to children. We found it completely by accident when Theo dropped his toy car down some steps and we went chasing after it.

Suddenly we’re on this little patch of sand with about six Portuguese families who looked at us like we’d discovered their secret club. There’s this bloke, Carlos (definitely Carlos, not Alexandre), who’s there every low tide with his fishing rod. He’s caught exactly three fish in forty years, he told me, but that’s not the point. The point is his grandkids build sandcastles whilst he pretends to fish, and now my kids do too.

The water’s not exactly tropical it’s brown and smells a bit like boat fuel if I’m honest—but the kids don’t care. Last week, Lena found a crab the size of a five-pence coin and acted like she’d discovered a new species. We named it Cristiano (obviously). Check the tide times though, seriously. We turned up at high tide once and just stared at water lapping against the wall like idiots.

The Custard Tart Conspiracy Nobody Talks About

Right, controversial opinion incoming: Pastéis de Belém is a bit overrated. There, I said it. Don’t get me wrong, they’re good brilliant even but the whole experience is like queuing for a rollercoaster that lasts six seconds. Here’s what locals actually do: walk straight past the takeaway queue, go inside, find a table in those gorgeous blue-tiled rooms that go on forever. The waiters practically run between tables, and you’ll get your tarts faster than the poor sods outside.

But here’s the real scandal Aloma bakery, five minutes up the road, makes tarts that are basically identical. The lady there, Dona Isabel (might be Maria, I’m hopeless), gives kids free mini tarts if they attempt Portuguese. Theo now knows how to say “please,” “thank you,” and “one more tart” in perfect Portuguese. Educational, really.

Both places are best before eleven in the morning or after four. The custard’s warmer, fresher, and you might actually hear Portuguese being spoken. Yesterday at Aloma, this old man was teaching his grandson how to eat them properly—one bite, then lick the custard that inevitably squirts out. There’s no dignified way to eat these things, which is probably the point.

The President’s Backyard in Belém Lisboa Portugal (Seriously)

Every Saturday, the Portuguese president basically opens his back garden to anyone who fancies a wander. Free entry, peacocks included. I cannot believe more people don’t know about this. We discovered it because Theo saw a peacock through the fence and had a complete meltdown about meeting “the rainbow chicken.”

These gardens are what I imagined all of Lisbon would look like before we moved here—perfectly maintained, slightly crumbly in places, and full of plants I can’t name but pretend to know when the kids ask. There’s this greenhouse full of orchids that made my wife actually gasp out loud. The peacocks are louder than you’d expect. Like, properly loud. One screamed right behind Lena last week and she jumped about three feet.

An old gardener there showed Theo how to make grass whistle. I still can’t do it. Theo can. He’s insufferably proud of this fact.

What Belém Taught Me About Slowing Down

Here’s the thing about Belém that no guidebook will tell you: it’s actually quite boring if you’re just ticking boxes. Tower? Tick. Monastery? Tick. Tarts? Tick. But when you’re forced to slow down because your five-year-old is collecting “special stones” or your eight-year-old is sketching every bloody tile she sees, something shifts. You start noticing the old men playing cards in the café where the coffee costs eighty cents. You discover that the best gelato isn’t at the touristy place but at that tiny shop where the owner’s kid does his homework behind the counter.

Last Sunday, instead of doing anything cultural in Belém Lisboa Portugal, we spent three hours at that hidden beach building an elaborate sand fortress that the tide destroyed in about four minutes. Theo cried. Lena said it was “a metaphor for life.” I had sand in places sand shouldn’t be. It was perfect.

So here’s my question, and I genuinely want to know: what’s your family’s unexpected Portuguese food discovery? Not the famous places, but the weird little moments like when we found that senhora selling bifanas from her front door, or when Theo befriended a pigeon at a café and the owner started bringing it bread. Share your stories below. I read every single comment, usually at 2am when I can’t sleep because I’ve had too much Portuguese coffee. Your random discoveries might be exactly what we need for next Sunday’s adventure, especially if they involve custard-based products or places where children can run around without destroying anything historically significant.