Standing midway up a hill, overlooking the Algarve coast, the scrubland stretches around you. The power lines above emit a faint hum and you can hear some sounds of work from the nearby quarry. Before you, the battered and scarred stone leans slightly to one side, as if it was tired from its long vigil. …
As you follow the well-trodden (and well-worn!) path, with wired fences on either side of you, you get the feeling that you are simply being herded to something very pedestrian and unimpressive. The nearby farm buildings do nothing to allay you of your suspicions that you are wasting your time. And then the fences fall …
Standing on a ridge of a hill, looking over the fields in the western Algarve, the silence belies the hum of traffic on the distant motorway and the whirr of the towering wind turbines on the far hills. These monumental emblems of the modern age of electricity seem to mock the tiny stone standing alone …