The clock may read the same, but each hour seems more intense and rewarding than at home: that is how I felt on a quick trip to northern Portugal this week.

Taking my own advice about this winter possibly being the last hurrah of really cheap European trips, I booked a Monday morning flight on easyJet from Gatwick to Porto. To reach this 9.40am departure from London you don’t need an absurdly early start. The 7.47am train from Victoria to the airport doesn’t just chime with the Jumbo jet; it gets you there comfortably, at least on a day when Southern deigns to run it.

Joining me on board: two friends, Ben and Alasdair, who both claim to work in television but are currently “resting”.

The dawn wave of departures at Gatwick has abated by 9am, so the queues have ebbed away. The flight lands at noon in the capital of northern Portugal – so far west in Europe that in solar terms it is still morning and twilight will endure beyond 6pm.

We then had a choice: head into the city, or away from it.

Had the region been lashed with rain, as so often it is, Porto would have been the right answer. This convivial city is full of art, intrigue and colour, with a faint, delicious mist of port evaporating from the cellars across the river Douro.

Yet the weather forecast promised three days of clear skies, which made a trip to Portugal’s only national park the ideal choice – especially for those of us with the misfortune to have sterling as our national currency.

At Gatwick I had checked at a Moneycorp bureau to ask how much it would cost to buy €100. As the pound plumbed new depths against the dollar, the answer was £103. Fortunately, I had some euros which I’d prepared earlier. And this being Portugal, they stretched comfortingly far.

Bus to the fine city of Braga, 50 minutes away: €8. Three-course lunch with a glass of vinho verde at a restaurant terrace on the main square: €15. Two-hour bus ride almost to the Spanish border: €4.20.

The bus driver dropped us outside the rather grand youth hostel of Campo do Geres. Even at just €11 per person per night, including breakfast, we were the only guests. The hostel’s dining room commanded a monopoly on supplies of food and drink for miles around, and did absolutely nothing to exploit it.

A set three-course dinner of soup, ribs and fruit at €6 made lunch seem expensive. And a beer? Surely Portugal is the last place in western Europe where you can order one (or possibly more) at €0.90 a pop. It was a tricky decision about whether cerveja or local vinho (€3) represented the best value, so to be safe we went for both.

Tuesday dawned bright, cold and clear. The far north-east of Portugal comprises a magnificent jostle of raw, muscular peaks and deep green valleys. There were just enough locals around to set us in the right direction for a 1,000m-plus summit, from which waves of hills rippled into the haze. The ascent was a long, hot scrunch up a desert-like face; on the far side of the mountain, it broke into a benign smile for a gentle descent through a shady beech forest to the town of Vila do Geres. Turn left for Spain, or right to reconnect with Portugal.

As an alternative to proper employment, I highly recommend a winter walk across majestic landscapes in good company (though if none of the latter is available, Ben and Alasdair will do). Another slalom of a bus ride, as spectacular as it is economical (€4.30), takes you back to Braga – where a pingado (espresso coffee with a dash of milk) is just €0.60. You can almost kid yourself they are two for a pound.

As the afternoon drifts happily by, you might pretend you are living in a different time. That seems a tempting prospect. Elsewhere in the world, some interesting characters are taking (or taking back) control. The voters spoke last year, and this year the politicians who emerged from those choices are talking up the barriers and talking down the value of shared experiences like travel.