Summer Dying Fast

The end of August in S. Martinho always brings around days that look like this, where a heavy mist drapes over the bay, and there is a distinct chill in the breeze coming in from the sea.

 The light is white and bright, hurting the eyes, and you can smell the salt and the seaweeds in the air. Humidity is at its highest, and walking the causeway seems inviting, invigorating. 

You can sense Autumn's fingers just grabbing, reaching for the land, and in your mind you draw pictures of how beautiful that season is going to be in such a place.

You snap away details of vegetagion and seascapes, just so you can browse through them once you're back home and you start feeling nostalgic for a certain feel of peace, of freedom, of long rolling mists in the dunes, and that iodine scent filling your nostrils and your lungs.

You do all that just to get by, planning ahead that this time you'll go back during Fall and see the changing leaves turn russet, and pick pine cones and acorns, and walk the whole bay in the sand, just inhaling that salty air. And you hope you can do it, as you browse through those images of a perfect autumnal seaside landscape.