Saturday, 4 December 2010

Praia da Ilha de Faro.

On the south-west side of Faro, right next to the airport and across the lagoon where the people in boots hunt for their crabs, lies a long long stretch of land. The several kilometers of sand dunes, bushes and manicured villas, seemingly abandoned wooden huts with their paint flaking off from the ocean winds and lonesome dedicated runners sketch a somber but beautiful scenery.
Somewhere in that narrow sandy snake though, a little fishing village is tucked away. Hidden by the dunes on the sea-facing side and spreading its boats on the sheltered lagoon, with a barely one meter wide concrete pathway dissecting it, this is a place where people love, work and live. The houses are not designed by architects, an octopus is hanging among clothes on the line, the dogs are brave but need no warning signs and the people on the porches share a laugh and a greeting. The empty beach suits it well but where would it stand among the planes buzzing hourly and the sunbathing army?