There were so many trucks around me, as I walked through the small town, at the border between Denmark and Germany that I felt strangely out of place, for not having wheels, but legs
I only remember fragments, the screaming person on the toilet, the singing worker in the silent area, the sleeping train man, and the bench, where I rolled out my mat
I left around midnight as a sudden wind wiped rain through the street, I ran with my backpack while the bus approached through the sound of cars on the wet asphalt
"Can I get your bottle, please" he said, my childhood friend, standing beside me, as I hold the bag, that contained all the bottles we collected since our last walk to the shop
Not many tourists find their way up here, so we had the place to ourselves. Me watching the baltic sea and painting while my daughter walked around looking for stones and crystals among the granite rocks
I pick the motive in the middle, like it, it reminds me of opening the drawer, where my granddad kept all the things he didn't know where to put.
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
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
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.
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
"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
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
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
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
I had reached the ancient rocks, they felt solid, and even older than both the sand and the limestones I'd passed on my way
The tiny houses on the wooden sticks looked faded in the sun, but faded in ways, as wood do, that kind of make it even more beautiful