The wide beach

The beach is empty and small riddles of sand forms around a few stones in the wind. The beach is famous. "The finest sand in the world" the locals claim.

Nobody is here

Walked between the small shacks build more or less together, my backpack telling I was not a local. Not one of the fishermen who owned these shacks, but there were nobody listening

When the colors fade

Painting in the sun is so much different from in the early morning fog, not only what I am looking at but also the way the colors blend, and the way the paper react to them

Homes along the way

House by the trail. I look at the windows, the garden, someone living in each house along the way, with their hopes, worries and stories I will never know

Looking at nothing

Thirsty, maybe hungry I sit down in the sand. Looking back at my heavy footsteps, not even taking the backpack of. With a bit of effort I can reach my water bottle on the side.

Through the trees

I watched the sea through the pines. Maybe if I just sat down a few minutes I could sketch it up and still hike the 6 hours I'd planned before it got dark

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