I might as well start at the end. Quite close to it, at least. This is the nearest I’ve come … More
Normandy. Nothing like Normandy, to escape Paris for a day. This little town doesn’t disappoint with its charm, perfect for … More
Bonifacio, Corsica. For Becky B’s June’s Roof Squares.
Maybe, the reason why I needed so much time to sit down and write a post about Corsica, besides basic … More
Tenerife. I could write a sentence or two about how these twisted steps and roads we took at Tenerife, and … More
Palombaggia, Corsica. It was quite ridiculous how little I read during the week on Corsica, not even 150 pages (flights, … More
Bonifacio, Corsica. For WPC: Place in the World. Several years ago, the choice for this post would have been so … More
Let’s forget the grand cities and go-to destinations. Not just the big avenues and famous monuments, but all those talked-about … More
Croatian beaches are not all ideal white sand ones. Maybe, that is why my ideal beach isn’t the white sand … More
Plage de Deauville, Normandie. Dipping your feet into the hot grainy sand and then into the refreshing ever flowing ocean, … More
It was the perfect day. Doing a spontaneous train trip with my best friend to Normandy, exploring the cheese markets … More
France, like many European countries, is a treasure chest of (long) weekend trips, whether you want to explore charming old … More
The three days in this small Atlantic seaside town, three hours from Paris, was exactly what I needed. The mixture … More
The cut between the summer holidays and working autumn that has now transformed into a chilling winter seems more brutal than the one during school years when the classes and the tests began.
The view or the smell of pine tress brings back so many things. The feel of summer alone, then the favourite summers of my childhood on the many islands of our neighboring country.
I’ve always had a special relation to cliffs and edges of any sort – fascination and vertigo entwined, in the most curious of minds. Of parts of my mind at least.
I don’t think much when it comes to framing my pictures while roaming around. If it’s not the actual walls of the streets’ houses, it has to be the empty branches or the green leaves of trees.
There is something about Normandy that always captivates me. But there is something particularly spellbinding in Étretat.