It is one of the most idyllic sites of southern Portugal.
The loud noise of the turbines announces the departure of the ferry boat towards the peninsula of Troy and all crossings is the smoother, quieter and shorter that I've ever done. Still hangs the breeze of salty sea air mixed with fuel from the vessel. In the stern, we gradually leave behind the huddle houses of Setubal and soon we are surrounded by the ocean. In the background a small isthmus shows itself. It's Troy, which can see accompanied by its new architecture landscape that rises to infinity. We anchored near the coveted white sand. We leave caught up in the chaos caused by the anxiety of arrival, towards our destination. Vegetation is sparse on the peninsula; there are rips of the green nature that follows the old wooden pallets which we step on towards the sea. At our feet lies a tongue of white sand that invites us to a turquoise ocean. The waves glide smoothly on the coast, hardly feel them caressing the skin, clear blue waters are dotted by white sails slowly sailing aimlessly at the mercy of the current. The horizon is suddenly ripped through the mountains; the wild Arrábida slaps our gaze. The afternoon fades. The night tries to chase the last rays of sun. It is time to enjoy this striking tempered sunset, accompanied by a sweet muscatel to revive the memories. I recall my first visit.
The peninsula of Troy has always been a meeting point of several generations. Ties that have been created over the years by strangers that became friends of the summer. In these times of great complicity there was room for family life among people from all over the country. Everybody knew each other, all eager for the month of August, to bow and exchange confidences in the corridors crowned with swallows' nests. The large abandoned towers, architectural symbols of decay, still hung in the landscape. But after the demolition all that was over. Now stand on this sort of small island luxury tourist developments, the oldest lament the lost paradise of the remediated, is now invaded by hordes of wealthy people, by walls and gated communities that did not exist before. They say in whispers hidden by the noise of the waves, that they known no one. They are tourists. Just that and the nostalgia of the old day persist, but soon they forget the hurt, the sea calls, and also it was our time to go. Until another day, sweet Troy!
