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

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

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

Hot in the small fishing village, I put my backpack down, They were selling ice cream here

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

The lights still turns, but nobody is guided by them anymore

Walking along the huge harbor, there were so few boats it seemed like a party that never happened

The first drops of rain hit as I approached a bird watching tower all made in wood. It looked empty and I could need a cup of coffee. I climbed the stairs and found a need sheltered little space, where I could put down the backpack and make myself a cup of coffee on my stove, watching the birds and waiting for the rain to pass.

The harbor is far out on the end of a long bridge. In the village, that is not much more than a line of houses, many of them formed mainly by their huge traditional fish smoking chimneys

The sand here is beautiful but so incredible fine it seems to get in anywhere... in the stove, the camera, the phone, the watercolors.

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.

For years they have been looking at each other. And for every year the sea moved a bit closer

From the beach I couldn't see much, but following the stream up I soon faced an old watermill

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.

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

Stopping, I could see the old castell of the town - the only thing of a great defence plan that was ever build

Walking past them can be hard, sometimes I have to go out into the water, making my way around, while they tell their stories

Getting out of the warm ferry and into the largest, still small town of the island, I know most places from back 30 years when I walked around the streets painting watercolors here, for the first time

I heard the voice so many times - telling us aboard the ferry, that soon we will reach our destination... It was time to get up from the floor underneath the tables, pack down the sleeping pad and bag. And put my backpack on again...