The surfers had all gone, except for the one lingering ghostlike in my long exposure.
As the sun was going down and warming up the rocks below St Peter’s Church, I wondered what that huge tanker had been doing there all day, and would it ever leave.
Then suddenly it slid out of view, only to return a few moments later.
My last evening at Portovenere. I will be back, once the tourist season has quietened down.
This sound I’m hearing, is it the wind reverberating through the twelve bens? An echo from across the ocean? Maybe a ghostly hungry moan lingering from the past?
(Or Yvonne: could it be the humming sound that comes from past-their-shelflife hearing aids when the batteries are left in overnight by mistake?)
Whatever the case, this “green swathe of soft glens, pasture and rainy hills” and the “swathes of white sand”, are places “fit for thinking”, as Tim Scott put it in The Guardian over a decade ago.
And photography is a way of thinking a place.