The diary

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

You’ve aged the castle said

Walking up there one early spring afternoon, the crows circling and wind chilling the whole idea of trying to get into the Royal school of Architecture by painting watercolors here

The old chapel

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.

Waiting for my daughter

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

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