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.
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
Walking across the beach I come to some red, what look like rocks. There shouldn't be rocks here. "They are not rocks" The lady tells me "more a kind of red clay"
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
It feels like I have sand in my eyes, from the strong sun. Time to sleep... It is 2012 - it is 2020... Still walking and painting.
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
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.