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

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

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

Hot in the small fishing village, I put my backpack down, They were selling ice cream here

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

The lights still turns, but nobody is guided by them anymore

Walking along the huge harbor, there were so few boats it seemed like a party that never happened

The first drops of rain hit as I approached a bird watching tower all made in wood. It looked empty and I could need a cup of coffee. I climbed the stairs and found a need sheltered little space, where I could put down the backpack and make myself a cup of coffee on my stove, watching the birds and waiting for the rain to pass.

The harbor is far out on the end of a long bridge. In the village, that is not much more than a line of houses, many of them formed mainly by their huge traditional fish smoking chimneys

The sand here is beautiful but so incredible fine it seems to get in anywhere... in the stove, the camera, the phone, the watercolors.