There are places that remain in the heart, engraved in memory reside in us and never leave us.
If I close my eyes I find myself there.
One Sunday morning in late March, the faint sound of the rain, the soft light of dawn, the lazy silence of a day of rest and wet roads. From the window of my bungalow watching the fences of colorful houses gleaming with dew, delicate flowers covered with endless droplets; a suspended sky between land and sea to confuse the horizon … a light wind bend the trees, and a small house with white plaster and the red coral windows taxes.
A place full of tranquility. A photographic poetry.
I was wondering what was inside that beautiful house, inhabited rooms imagined, a cup of coffee on the table, an unmade bed, the dreams of a boy.
This reportage begins like this, on a “Lazy Sunday” in the north of Ireland.