Quinta do Lago: five decates being "it"

Portugal was like a virgin in her cloister. Decency and an iron fist silenced its atmosphere, its prime location, its cultural heritage and its pristine landscape. Humility and modesty. Living inside, ideally inside a house, the world as an abstract concept, the sky as a goal and a greater fear. Tourism and holiday homes were a thing of science fiction. Even there, in Almancil, which had been occupied since Palaeolithic times, hectares and hectares remained untouched, the people poor, the resources rural. Traces of Roman civilization and from the Islamic period were proof only of time, never a reason for interest, what’s past is past. The mist rolled in and mysticism came with it, so much so that the locals were born knowing the legend of the hidden treasure where Quinta do Lago now stands: a Portuguese noble or merchant was going through a period of instability and had hidden jewels and gold coins there; there were stories of maps drawn on parchment that pointed to a large oak and a rock formation, strange lights at night, suspicious sounds clinging to the treasure crusades. In that harsh reality, any Portuguese with the means to own a treasure preferred to hide it in Marbella, Cannes or Saint- Tropez. Of the legend, all that remains is the mystery, which is still a mystery for so many, Quinta do Lago. And another kind of treasure that made André Jordan proclaim, “This is it”. Just three words, capable of encapsulating amazement, relief, wonder and conviction, first spoken 54 years ago, but still lingering on the lips of those going through the gates of Quinta do Lago for the first time. We’ll leave it whirling around as we go back to that lunchtime in April 1970 to see Jordan humming a Carnaval march to himself (“I’m not leaving here, nobody can make me”), sitting on the hill

overlooking the marshland and designing the entire concept of what Quinta do Lago would be in just 10 minutes: a nod to the Uruguayan resort Punta del Este, aimed at classes with high purchasing power, growing in number in the north of Europe since the war. It was opened two years later: 20 apartments, a tennis club, a horse riding centre, a bridge to the beach, a lake, a 27-hole golf course (the beginning of a mythical story told by names like Salvador Balbuena, Sam Torrance, Colin Montgomerie, a course designed by architect William Mitchell) and the Old House, a restaurant built on the site of the old farmhouse, a pioneer in fine dining in the Algarve and a kind of ticket to the glamour of the French Riviera, now refreshed by the embrace and the relaxation of Portuguese cuisine. “This is it”. It was sold in 1987 (it is now owned by Denis O’Brien and the CEO is Sean Moriarty), but at that time it wasn't a place, it was a living being, with a pulse and cells constantly being renewed. It grew, it expanded, it found itself. What happens in Quinta do Lago stays in Quinta do Lago and that’s why we’re writing this story from the outside: we can only imagine, suppose, conjecture what happened there in the exuberance of the 1990s, when so many made their way there. People were so curious about it that the resort grew and multiplied. The San Lorenzo golf course was already considered one of the best in Europe and architects and designers were falling over themselves to put their name to new villas — and that’s why we have the contemporary British style of J. I. Watson, Vasco Vieira’s huge windows bringing nature inside, the disconcerting details of Eduardo Souto de Moura and the inordinate comfort of Miguel Arruda.

Inside these broad, clean lines, we know who was there but we don't know what they did. This too is natural beauty, not manufactured, never imposed: privacy as the ultimate protected territory. Secrecy always was the alchemical ingredient of balance. But there is another: respect. For nature, for time, for neighbours, for others, so evident in the constant efforts to protect the Ria estuary ecosystem and in the hundreds of philanthropic initiatives that have been implemented down through the years. This harmony that needs no words made Quinta do Lago the refuge of Presidents of Portugal, Captains of April, royalty — including Juan Carlos and Sofia, Rainier and Grace Kelly, and the always princess, Diana — photographers, athletes (remember the love story with Ayrton Senna, David Beckham and Luís Figo). Each one like a swan, enigmatic, sphinx-like, rivalling the Capote imaginary, gliding alongside and through the soirées inside fresh new walls or in the T-Clube (now the Cuá Cuá Club). The most beautiful people stayed here, kings and queens, dukes and duchesses, politicians and businesspeople, stars and bankers gained admittance, but there was no room for flip flops and shorts. Champagne flowed — without fireworks, ostentation was left outside too — on tables where young people, their parents and grandparents laughed.

In fact, champagne was the most exclusive party drink in paradise: every year and on Sundays into the early hours, the sighs of those not invited almost drowning out the music flowing from the speakers. There are whispers of a mythical birthday party for an international celebrity, continuing until dawn with constant surprises, from the decorations to the guests and the musical performances; there were whispers of theme parties, New Year's Eve dances, charity galas, summer nights when there were so many stars — in the sky and on the dancefloor — that there was no need for lighting. There are always whispers and even the bold who dare to ask direct questions only get complicit smiles and sighs of nostalgia in reply. Nothing more. Thus Quinta do Lago began, through the tension and attraction between light and dark, like a summer fling, solidifying into a lifelong love: the young swan princes and princesses, brilliant young couples, are now generations and generations away from the families that brought the oasis to life. They wander the restaurants, the waters, the lanes, the Pony Club, the green, the green fused with that blue, and they grow, and they too shine. With an umbilical cord binding them to the nature they inhabit, we’ll call it a hiatus in reality. The treasure that we’ve been able to find after all and say: “This is it”.