Some days I wait, as if phones didn't exist, and I couldn't check Facebook and Twitter, just wait, sit and watch the places, take out my watercolors and pass the time
Waiting for my daughter
Places of memories
"We swim here, we locals swim here", she said as we walked down to the small place between the rocks... Many years later I paint here
Not another smokery
Hiking and looking for motives I stumble across another smokery, and wish I hadn't
Leaving the old houses be
It used to be a place for gunpowder, I was told. It is still there, even though the old guns are long gone. Now it serves more peaceful purposes, but build so well, and in a way that it can adapt to changing realities
Houses smoking fish
Walking out of the small town and heading on along the trail I looked back, smokeries reminded me how much a house can tell you about the life of people there
Refuel
Hot in the small fishing village, I put my backpack down, They were selling ice cream here
The legend of holy woman turned to stone
They were in danger, too much danger to be handled, but she found a way out, the story goes, she turned both herself and her sixteen children into stone
Hiking towards the lighthouse
The lights still turns, but nobody is guided by them anymore
Hiking between coastal rocks
I had reached the ancient rocks, they felt solid, and even older than both the sand and the limestones I'd passed on my way
Walking past traditional art
The tiny houses on the wooden sticks looked faded in the sun, but faded in ways, as wood do, that kind of make it even more beautiful
