An Iberian adventure

On December 21st 2024, I embarked on my greatest adventure yet. I left my home by Lake Constance behind, packed my van to the brim, and headed south. No elaborate route, no rigid schedule—just the idea of circling the Iberian Peninsula, experiencing three months of freedom, and discovering the coastlines I’d only ever seen in pictures.

Even the first leg of the journey was full of impressions. I crossed through Switzerland, skimmed France, and finally reached the Gulf of Roses, just past the Spanish-French border. There, on the Catalonian coast, a special gift awaited me: Christmas with my family, right in the middle of my journey. The mix of familiar faces and unfamiliar surroundings was beautiful—a small, warm anchor before the adventure truly began.

After the holidays, I was drawn onward. I followed Spain’s southern coast, where one highlight chased the next. The sun accompanied me nearly every day, and the sea became my constant companion. Especially in Valencia, where I celebrated New Year’s Eve, I felt the magic of the journey: new places, new people, new experiences. Amidst lights, music, and ocean views, I said goodbye to the old year and welcomed the new one—feeling freer than ever before.

My path led me not only through the two deserts of Gorafe and Tabernas, but also to a city that truly captivated me: Málaga. With its lively old town and cozy tapas bars, Málaga was a delight. The mix of culture, sea, and laid-back atmosphere made it a perfect stopover. After that came Gibraltar, with its famous Rock of Gibraltar, which houses many apes, and the stunning view of two oceans, two continents, and three countries—and also, Tarifa.

Tarifa—where Europe stretches toward Africa, where the wind never seems to rest, where kitesurfers dance through the air like colorful birds. I’d heard about it, but nothing could have prepared me for what I found there. The vibe, the energy, the nature—everything felt electric. I launched my kite into the sky and felt that incomparable sensation when the wind lifts you and the water erupts beneath you in waves. It was adrenaline, freedom, and pure joy.

In Tarifa, I didn’t just reach the top kitesurfing spot in Europe, but also the southernmost point of the continent—a milestone on my journey. Nearly five months earlier, I’d stood at Europe’s northernmost point, the North Cape. The sun hung low in the sky, and I stood there, filled with awe and pride.

But as beautiful as Spain was, the true highlight was still ahead:

Sagres—a humble dot on the map, but for me, it became a turning point. It’s where I had my first surf session. I was curious, excited, and a little nervous. Surfing had fascinated me for years, but I had never really dared to try it. Now, the moment had come. I slipped into a wetsuit, grabbed a board, and trudged across the sand down to the bay.

The first attempts were—well—chaotic. I wiped out, swallowed seawater, got tossed around by waves. But I laughed. I felt alive. And then, it happened: my first real wave. I paddled, felt the push, stood up—and surfed. Just a few seconds, but it was a small, eternal triumph in my mind.

From that moment on, I was hooked. What was supposed to be two nights turned into two weeks in Sagres. My days began with wave checks; I sipped morning coffee and ate muesli with salty hair and sunrises. Every free minute was spent in the water. I met fellow surf lovers from Spain and Luxembourg, shared the simple vanlife, stories about waves, weather, and life on the road.

It wasn’t just the surfing—it was a commitment to a way of life. Stripped down, honest, intense. Sagres became a place where I lost my heart to the ocean—and also to a new version of myself. A version that was braver, more present, more in tune with who I am.

Of course, I wanted to see more of Portugal, so I continued up the west coast—its endless beaches, wild cliffs, and charming little villages took my breath away again and again. I visited Lisbon, wandered through the narrow streets of Alfama, and watched the yellow trams rattle through the city.

I couldn’t miss the westernmost point of Europe either: the famous Cabo da Roca. I stood on the cliff, feeling the wind coming in from the open Atlantic, gazing out over the vastness. It was a powerful moment—not just because of the dramatic landscape, but because I could feel how far I had come. Not just in distance, but within myself.

A city everyone seemed to rave about, but which didn’t quite win me over like Lisbon did, was Porto. Porto, where the Douro flows into the Atlantic, where you can sit for hours in cafés and restaurants by the water, dreaming. The place that gave us the famous Port wine.

Eventually, my journey took me north again, through the Basque Country and back into France. More precisely, to Capbreton—a town in the south of the country, right on the Atlantic. I enjoyed a few final days of surfing there before heading back to Germany.

Exactly three months later, I stood once more at Lake Constance, the place I had started from. And yet, nothing was the same.

I had learned new skills, made new friends, pushed my body to its limits, opened my heart to new things. I’d slept outdoors, showered in the sea, cooked on beaches, lived under the stars. I had been alone—and yet never lonely. I had felt what it truly means to be free.

With over 7,000 km (approx. 4,350 miles) and six countries in just three months, this journey was more than a road trip. It was an adventure, a voyage of discovery, a new beginning toward something truly special.

One thing’s for sure: I’ll be back.