September 22, 2026

Old doors at a fishing village on the coast

It has been a while since my last trip to a fishing village on the coast. Working with a borrowed medium format camera forces you to slow down. You think twice before pressing the shutter, and that changes the pictures.

I sat on a bench for almost an hour, just watching reflections change as the clouds moved. I kept a paper notebook this time, writing down the time and the light for every roll.

Most of the morning went into watching old doors; I took fewer frames than usual, but each one felt deliberate. A light drizzle started around ten. I sheltered under a bus stop roof and photographed people hurrying past.

Locals barely noticed me. A man feeding gulls told me the place looks completely different in spring. The café near a fishing village on the coast still serves the same cinnamon buns; I had two and pretended it was research.

Nothing dramatic happened, and that was exactly the point.