On World Environment Day, while official speeches echoed with promises of sustainability and green futures, a quiet corner of Portugal stood on the verge of irreversible transformation. In Meco—a once-pristine enclave along the Setúbal coast, shadowed by the Serra da Arrábida and flanked by the cliffs of Espichel—hundreds of hectares of protected pine forest are at risk. The reason? The construction of four luxury resorts, boasting more than 2,000 beds, 450 parking spaces, swimming pools, and commercial buildings, all within an ecological zone officially recognized as a Special Protection Area under the Natura 2000 network.

This isn’t just a local matter. It’s a symptom of a much larger disease.

From Sanctuary to Sandbox

Portugal's coastline has long been marketed as a last frontier of wild beauty. And indeed, from the windswept sands of Comporta to the rugged paths of Meco, this land tells stories—not only of nature, but of resilience, quietude, and a once-strong relationship between land and people. But in recent years, those stories are being overwritten by something else: profit.

What is happening in Meco is the natural continuation of a trend that began in Comporta, a stretch of pine-dune paradise south of Lisbon that has become an international playground for the ultra-wealthy. Once modest rice fields and fishing hamlets, Comporta is now populated by discreet villas with infinity pools, often owned by tech billionaires, fashion magnates, and European royalty. Christian Louboutin built his retreat there; Philippe Starck designed a house nearby. Comporta has become the Côte d’Azur of Portugal—chic, quiet, expensive, and entirely curated.

This VIP influx rebranded Comporta into a fantasy of "natural luxury." But that fantasy comes with consequences: rising property prices that push out local populations, privatised access to previously public land, and a rapid erosion of ecosystems that were once protected by nothing more than their supposed insignificance.

Now Meco is next.

Greenwashing the Bulldozers

The proposed developments in Meco are not minor additions to existing infrastructure. They are entirely new tourist cities, marketed under the guise of sustainable development. Developers invoke buzzwords—"eco-resorts," "integrated landscape," "nature-friendly design"—but the reality is unmistakable: bulldozers will raze pine forests, water usage will skyrocket in a region already facing drought stress, and biodiversity will suffer.

This is particularly alarming given Meco’s classification as a Zona Especial de Proteção, a status meant to guard rare and vulnerable species. The area is part of the Rede Natura 2000, an EU-wide ecological network. These classifications are not decorative. They are meant to act as legal bulwarks against exactly this kind of speculative destruction.

Yet they are being ignored.

The developments’ sheer scale defies the logic of “low impact.” Over 2,000 new beds—in an area with minimal infrastructure and limited water reserves—is not sustainable. It is speculative extraction dressed up as eco-luxury.

Whose Future?

Supporters of such projects argue that tourism boosts the local economy. But ask the residents of nearby Sesimbra or Troia whether they feel included in this economic boom. Ask the fisherfolk whose moorings are now off-limits. Ask the young families pushed further inland by unaffordable housing. The benefits do not trickle down; they are gated in.

What is truly at stake here is who gets to shape the future. Is it communities that have lived in and with these landscapes for generations, or investors flying in with visions of infinity pools and golf courses? Is land a common good or a commodity?

Portugal has long been perceived as a safe haven, a refuge from the chaos of global urbanization. But that perception is exactly what drives speculative capital to its shores. The country is being sold in parcels—not to those who live here, but to those who see it as a “lifestyle.”

The Quiet Resistance

But not everyone is silent.

Movements like @mecolivre have emerged to resist this logic of destruction. Their campaign, launched around World Environment Day, exposes the absurdity of celebrating ecological awareness while simultaneously approving developments that contradict environmental protection laws.

They call for accountability, transparency, and most of all, for the recognition that not all land should be for sale. Their posters, flooded with green, birds, and native flora, aren’t just branding—they’re a plea. A cry. A reminder that we are guardians, not just users.

What Meco faces is not unique. It is part of a global pattern of "paradise consumption"—where untouched places are only valued once they can be photographed, sold, and privatized. But just because it’s a pattern doesn't mean it must repeat.

Conclusion: This Is Not Inevitable

There is still time to act. The legal mechanisms exist. The local knowledge exists. The will of communities exists. But will that be enough to resist the momentum of capital, especially when it’s cloaked in seductive language and international approval?

Portugal must decide what kind of country it wants to be: a nation of public good and ecological care, or a patchwork of fenced-off enclaves for the global elite. The case of Meco is more than local. It is a line in the sand.

And once that sand is replaced by concrete, it never comes back.