• Photos of fishermen whose lives were taken by the ocean. Widows left on with their memories, dressed in dresses that are darker than night. A majestic rock in which layers of millions of years have been imprinted and sacred sand sparkling in its purity under the scorching rays of the Sun’s disk, fishing boats slowly leaving for the night and flocks of birds circling greedily over the heads of sailors soaked from torrential rain, the sound of wind in a pine forest, abandoned church (by the way oldest in whole Portugal), resting alone in the darkness around which a grey-haired shepherd walks a herd of black goats. The smell of cheap washing powder, native and pleasant, the aroma of childhood and mother’s care.
• The snow-white walls of the little houses and the linen hung in perfect order here and there. And also, there is a yellow fog coming from nowhere, the wind in February, which is about to tear off the roofs of houses in Sitio and amazingly warm and sunny days of summer. People who are delightfully beautiful with their light shining from their hearts, a waitress in a “grandmother’s cafe” with eyes coloured like Portuguese autumn, swollen veins of an old man, full of blood and stories he is carrying home a basket of fresh fish, smiling. He smiles to you, to others, to himself, to the skies. And, of course, a magical forest with deers and falcons in it. This is Nazare. And only after all of this do the world’s largest waves, surf, and handmade fur slippers come.

Lisbon, Portugal