I washed my hands and walked back out in the sunlight, back to the table in front of the smokehouse, where she sat... looking at me with my diary open in her hands... "That is some stories there, Frits" She said
Back many centuries ago the herrings were plenty here, and people would come from afar to fish, buy and sell, celebrate and all the things nobody talked about, but in the small chapel, that was build out here - and is still here.
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
"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
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
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
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