With twisted trunks and generous shade, fig trees spread across the Algarve like silent guardians of the landscape. At the end of summer, the sweet smell of ripe figs fills the warm air, announcing harvest time. Between low walls and dirt paths, the fruits are picked slowly, as if time had another rhythm. They are dried in the sun, turned carefully, and stored for the colder days. Each fig, an earthy sweetness, carries the taste of the land and the memory of past summers. In the Algarve, fig trees are not just trees — they are part of the home, the childhood, the life.
