Journal

Burgau begins at the bend of the road. A small fishing village pressed against the cliffs, just south of where I live. White houses, blue trim — the same colours they have been for a hundred years.

I came on a Tuesday morning, before the cafés had opened. The light was still soft. A fisherman was washing his nets at the slipway. Two cats watched from the wall.

By eleven the cliffs above the beach were warm under your hand. Lavender, rosemary, the pale yellow of dry grass. A boat coming in. I stayed long enough to watch the shadow of my own hat shorten as the sun climbed.

These are the days I came to Portugal for. The kind that don't ask anything of you. Just to notice.