Bring a sense of Wales and England home to your walls.
From my heart to yours.
Some places linger in my mind as a color and a sound, before any actual sights or anecdotes are called up from memory. Maybe it's an extension of my synesthesia, or it's just what happens if a place made an impact on your senses while you were there. When I hear the word "Wales", I immediately think of that special hue of green that's actually hard to accurately describe - a fresh hue that becomes even more vibrant in the maritime mist and fog. I think of light and dark blues that touch but don't mix. I think of seagulls - ridiculously chatty seagulls who would circle my windows and wake me up way before my alarm. I think of the sounds of the Welsh language, which was present alongside English everywhere, even up and down elevators that announced the floors. Now and then, a color or light or sound triggers your nostalgia for a place, and can make you feel close to it, even though you're a vast ocean away.
Bring a sense of Wales and England home to your walls. From my heart to yours.
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Behind every photo is a desire to document a moment, capture a feeling and perhaps dig a little deeper to see something differently than you might at first pass. But, in some special instances, you are faced with a scene that causes an extra bit of wonder. It's that you've never seen something quite like it before, or just that the light, the mood and the feeling of the place suddenly affects you deeply. This Monday's inspiration comes from those moments of wonder - a feeling that can be vividly conjured up from memory without any effort. That winter morning when the lagoon swelled and the tide poured into Venice like spilled ink swallows up a page. That morning when there was no clear line between land and sea. That morning when I trudged through knee-deep waters feeling impossibly damp and impossibly giddy. That stroll in the Jordaan on a quiet August morning in Amsterdam when I peered into the canal and saw a whole world reflected in it. Although I always chase reflections, sometimes their perfection catches me off-guard, and I feel like magic must exist. I had never been that far north. I had never sailed fjords and witnessed waterfalls stemming from the sky. But, most wondrous of all, I had never squinted from the sun at midnight or felt, as I did then, that the practice of telling time was suddenly obsolete. Among my favorite of days, my time at the Masseria near Ostuni is etched into my memory. The feelings of tranquility, discovery, significance and insignificance brought up by an old estate and ancient lands. The complete overload felt by all my senses in a paradise of dry heat, crunching earth, deafening crickets, fragrant wines and savory ingredients. The desire to feel connected to others, to oneself and to nature. Arriving at Sintra was like travelling to another time altogether. It took time to go through every part of it and really take it all in - all its details, its architectural uniqueness, its fantastical feel. There are a few places in the world that have this effect, but Sintra was my first such experience and one that I cherish. Tell me: What's one place or time where you've felt struck by wonder? Leave me a comment, I'd love to know. Have a wonderful (!) week! From my heart to yours. You may also like:
One of my favorite aspects of life so far is that my scientific work has always enabled me to travel, sometimes to faraway places. Whenever possible, I always tag on some extra days to discover and "feel" a place before the work schedule kicks in, not to mention to take some photographs at my own pace while I'm alone in a city. The time my work took me to Hiroshima, I had never been to Japan. I had never felt so acutely aware of how much our eyes read, in a day, until I couldn't read most of what my eyes landed on. I had never felt, right upon arrival, that the light of a place was so different from the light I knew. I had never visited so many beautiful and tranquil temples, had never truly enjoyed sake or tasted such delicious sushi. I learned more about the atomic bomb and its devastation than reading about it could ever show you. I had never experienced such awe at local markets or department stores, especially right when they open, when you are greeted almost ceremoniously. All the locals I met were so gracious, kind and classy individuals - I struggled to remember another place I had felt so comfortable visiting while travelling on my own. The first few hours in a place are always special - that fleeting feeling of novelty, excitement, maybe even mild anxiety when your surroundings are very different than what you are accustomed to - for me, those first impressions get crystallized in photographs and journal entries. Even once I get to know a city well, it suffices to look back on those first hours to feel all those butterflies that come with landing at a new destination. The more I explored, the more I appreciated the culture, the architecture and local life. I was in Hiroshima and surroundings only briefly. I know that I would love to return to Japan and truly devote time to discover many more of its places and cultural experiences. Until I return again... Shop this post: The Japan collection currently includes Deity | Red Light | Sacred Sake | Wait for me | Itsukushima Pockets of peace | New life in Hiroshima | Seto Sea & Sky| Miyajima | Koto | (Im)perfection | Temple Guardian, each one on paper, canvas, wood, acrylic or metal. You may also like:
Last weekend, prioritizing fresh air and a slower pace was actually on the agenda. (Yes, sometimes it takes putting "relaxing" on the to-do list for it to become a priority. Not proud of that!) It's been a remarkably warm and sunny autumn here in Montreal, and it makes me so eager to spend time outdoors, my face to the sun, soaking up the last warm rays before winter hits hard. I have tried to work outdoors as much as possible on tasks that don't require more than a brain, paper, a pen or a laptop! This weekend, I wanted to get out a little bit further than the city, so I took two short daytrips to Ontario (Montreal to Cornwall along the river) and to the Eastern Townships in Quebec (Orford and Magog). The result was just as I had wanted: lots of sun, autumn colors, warm air, dazzling waterfronts and (the highlight) a horsebackriding adventure in the forests of Orford. Doesn't it feel good when you see little reminders like this along the way? For me, the reminder to go slow, to be mindful, to make time for unwinding never goes unnoticed, because I have a natural tendency to pack my days to the brim. At Orford on Sunday, I became a little girl again. The little girl who was once obsessed with horses and who constantly saved up money to own a horse one day. I used to pretend that my bicycle was my horse, and would tie my skipping rope between the handlebars to use as reigns. Oddly, I had only been horsebackriding once before Sunday, on a beach in Greece (not so bad, right?!), but it was more like a stroll than actually horse-riding. The afternoon ride in Orford was wonderful - in narrow forest paths covered in falling leaves, over streams, across deep ponds, through fields with old scraggly trees and along quiet country roads. We even picked up speed now and then, and in those moments, you really cannot think of much else other than the rhythm of the horse, the sound of its hooves and the scenery around you. Horses have a strangely calming effect on me, possibly because I consciously slow myself down and talk more softly, in order not to spook them. It's just the right therapy, then, to spend a sunny fall afternoon with horses in nature. What did you do last weekend? Do you sometimes push yourself to get out into the fresh country air? Leave me a comment, I'd love to hear from you! From my heart to yours. It was late afternoon. The sea was full. The tide was high. The heat reverberating off the stone walls was stifling. The whitewashed buildings had never seemed whiter. A glass of rosé with lunch had never gone down smoother. I headed back to the beach on the eastern part of the town - the quieter part, where only a few young families, couples and lone sunbathers dropped their towels on the rocks, where a few boats dropped their anchors and their sailors under the blanket of blue. I curved around the port - I wanted to see it under the high afternoon sun when it was busiest - few, if any, parking spots were vacant, for boats and cars alike. My eyes ran along the rows and rows of docked boats. I can't remember where my love for maritime life emerged from - it has no known origin. It has just always been. It has always filled me with joy to watch boats rock on water, to see them docked, resting, ready. I look at their names, ask myself which one I'd prefer to call my own, where I'd go, whether I'd return. I stand there, imagining the feel of the rope in my palm, what a different life that would be. I'm partial to the blue boats, and all the more if they are rustic, weather-beaten, with tales to tell. In Otranto that July afternoon, the composition of the scene at the port caught my eye. That precarious balance of standing out and fitting in, of being eager yet patient, ready to burst out of the gates, but content to be home. Isn't it a difficult balance to achieve, to stand out enough but not to spoil the harmonious sense of cohesion. That boat stood still, tethered to the sea's core, and gave the scene balance and meaning. That boat made me look a moment longer. Porto di Otranto. Yours to bring home on fine-art paper, satin paper, acrylic, canvas, metal or wood. Have you been to Otranto, Puglia? Do boats and maritime scenes also catch your eye? Leave me a comment so I know you're out there. From my heart to yours. You may also like: "I saw the angel in the marble and carved until I set him free." This quote by Michelangelo has stuck with me since the first time I heard it in Florence, Italy. The idea that something beautiful already exists before art (and the artist) serves to channel it. I have always thought of my photographic art in that way - so much beauty exists in people and places, and the art form is to set it free. This week's photo inspiration stems from architecture, and how photography can capture its perfection and its mood. Tell me: Which is your favorite? Leave a comment, I'd love to hear from you. From my heart to yours.
It was the city in which I found my wings. A city I had hated during my first trip to Italy a decade before. "I hate Milan," I had dared to write on a postcard home. "I'd never live here."
Never say never, right?
It was a time when the whole world - my world - was wide open. A Bachelor of Science in hand, I set out to pursue the most unconventional M.Sc program possible - not only Erasmus, but in three separate European countries: Italy, The Netherlands and Germany.
Italy and I already had a longstanding love affair, but I had never lived alone in Italy. I had never lived alone, period. Living alone abroad was daunting and exciting and liberating and inspiring in rapid alternation over the course of a single day.
In Milan, I learned to get over my anxiety of uncertainty. I learned to cook fabulous meals, to be inspired by locals, by language, by my own strength and sense of adventure. I learned to love roasted chestnuts because of their intoxicating aroma riding on the crisp autumn wind. I learned that Italians can have gelato in precarious waffle cones in scorching heat while on a vespa in suits and stiletto heels (#notastereotype). I learned to love risotto though I'm not that fond of rice. I learned to laugh from a part of my gut that had not fully known this kind of giddy, profound happiness. I learned about photography - slowly and extremely experimentally - as I played with the first camera I ever owned. I learned that with that camera, a notebook, and my sense of self, I could be immensely happy anywhere. I learned about neuroscience, aphasia, synesthesia and the most obscure concepts in linguistics. I learned to love life, fiercely, without reservation. I learned that long distance relationships are easy and difficult and tolerable and intolerable. I learned that very different people from all corners of the globe can quickly become best friends. I learned to adjust to closed supermarkets and stores on afternoons and on Sundays. I learned that the Duomo looked different every day and in every light. I learned Italian idioms and vocabulary words that, despite my experience with the language, had alluded me until then. I learned that connections with other souls are sometimes inexplicable, random, touching and infuriating, and that people come in and out of your life for a reason.
I learned all the different lights of all the different days of all the seasons, and I learned that my heart could feel very, very full. I learned that I don't at all hate Milan, and that I could and should and would live there, wholeheartedly. For all that Milano brought me and taught me, it is my most precious city (after Venice, of course).
If Milan means something to you, too, you can bring it home on canvas, metal, acrylic, wood or paper "Milano Mio" is featured above on a round aluminum disk, ready to hang.
From my heart to yours.
P.S. I'm writing a book of my travel stories. Hit the subscribe button above or follow me on Instagram to be kept in the know!
Sometimes, it’s not about where you go. It’s just about going. It’s about changing your pace, your mindset, raising your eyes from your screen, stretching your neck, your back, your legs, breathing … and being. It can be a place fifteen minutes away from your home, a place that is just simple enough that you (I!) won’t feel compelled to take 1364 photos and feel the overwhelming need to sort, edit, post and share urgently. Sometimes, disconnecting becomes urgent, and the only way to truly stop doing is by going. Sometimes, the closest and simplest places can do a whole world of good for the body, mind and soul. Last weekend, something snapped in me. I had experienced a string of sleepless nights, some mild anxiety and a noticeable (to me, at least) slump in my creativity and focus. My to-do lists have been exceedingly long and complex this month, with tasks for vastly different projects bleeding into one another. A new collection, a new product line, a new season for events and buyers, new ideas for my content calendar, co-organizing and co-hosting a huge event (this one, if you’re curious), scientific deadlines, creative writing, health advocacy volunteer work and thoughts of a brand new project bubbling behind the scenes. Too many tabs open on my computer, too many thoughts competing for brain space. Colored post-it notes have been trying to rescue my ideas before they disappear like muted fireflies into the night, trying to catch them like an open palm tries to catch confetti. What’s to be stressed about? (Having written out the list above, I suddenly feel guilty for having scoffed at my Mom when she suggested my mind might be in overload. Sorry, Mom!) It had been a few days in a row where I felt my mind’s wheels grinding while turning, and kept catching negative words fleeing my mouth when nothing was actually going all that wrong. By the tenth or so time that I opened the fridge doors and stared at the shelves, saying aloud, “What did I come here for?”, I let out a frustrated sigh. So, by Friday, I had decided that I needed Nature, time away from my devices, fresh air, an open space, the comfort of crickets and sunshine, a body of water and a canoe. We set out to a National Park which, contrary to any of the parks we have been to thus far, lies just beyond the urban city limits. Destination: the Boucherville Islands. We packed wholesome food, clothing that allowed for Nature to throw either hot summer or crisp autumn air our way, and we left the burden of time behind us on the mainland. On the canoe, I let myself feel the waves of other bigger boats. I appreciated the infinite ripples on the water’s surface when the breeze picked up. I took notice of the scraggly sea plants under the clear water reaching up to grab hold of us, and let the sun warm my face and my arms as my paddle sliced through the river again and again. In sunset light, I walked for a long time, in golden fields livened by a symphony of crickets, cicadas and frogs. The light played on wild flowers and in my hair. In the cool shady spaces between rows and rows of slender trees, I came within a couple of feet from deer - they watched me watch them, each of us curious of the other. I let butterflies and dragonflies circle me, chase me, land on me and continue on their way, with their own secrets carried on their colored wings. It is amazing how the heart opens up in nature, hushing the mind a little, making sure the sounds of rustling reeds and crickets silences worry, stress and doubt. One foot in front of the other, over roots, leaves, footpaths and grass, with the path becoming visible only little by little, revealing itself only at every bend. If a bending path can feel so good in sunset light, it can surely feel good in everyday life. Last weekend, I threw myself into Nature’s arms, like a little girl running in the fields and befriending butterflies. If there is one thing I have learned over the last two years - in life, academia and business - it is to listen to the needs of your body and mind, and to recognize the need for a shift in mindset and pace when it comes. And if there is one thing I have always known, it is that places call, and that we feel whole when we listen. From my heart to yours.
In my long history with Venice, it had never rained while I had been there – not a drop. When it did rain, I would always miss it. My train would pull into Santa Lucia to find only the faintest trace of rain; puddles and high waters. The damp marine air would greet me, and I would chase reflections, like a child holding onto something that did not exist.
If you are a Venice-lover like me, "Gondola" is waiting for you in my art shop on fine-art paper, metal, canvas, acrylic or wood.
From my heart to yours!
P.s. I am writing a book of travel stories and my favorite places. Sign up here for news.
One of your favorites, whether you are a traveller, dreamer or interior designer has always been "Sunday in Burano". The composition is balanced and the colors are gentle, and it fits harmoniously with a variety of decors.
I remember the day I stood in that piazza. It was a quiet October morning, sprinkled only with the sounds of church-bells, locals sweeping their doorsteps, kids kicking a soccer ball against walls and Italian voices engaged in quiet discussion. Since I was given my first camera, I have always loved photographing local life, especially when the scene has the quality of a painting. So, when I saw him cross the piazza, I had to reach for my lens. When I look at this photograph, I think of Venice, of my love for color, and my journey as a photographer. I admit, it's one of MY favorites, too. ?
From my heart to yours!
I’ve never tolerated endings well.
I have always been the type to put off finishing a book or a movie. I can’t stand goodbyes of any kind – parting with someone I love causes a part of my chest to flutter and constrict and ache in a way that nothing else does. And leaving places – leaving places has always been especially difficult. Even when I was little, I struggled with leaving a place behind. Everyone around me would be ready to return home, while no amount of time was ever enough for me. I’d try hard to fight back tears, which would well up fiercely at the thought of me having to walk away. I learned that what helped feel better was to convince myself that I could return as soon and as spontaneously as I wanted. I thought that it would get easier with age and maturity. But of course, the older I got, the more my love for places became interwoven with my love for certain people or certain pivotal moments, and leaving became even more difficult in a uniquely complex and raw way. When I was about eight or nine years old, I remember staring out at the sea with my Mom during one of our family travels. We stood quietly, side by side, watching the trees sway in the wind, and she forced me to “make a memory”. I can still hear her voice asking me to focus, to record the scene in my mind, and to remember. Then I would have the power to return there whenever I wanted, just by calling up that memory.
Before I ever had a camera – before I ever thought about thinking about wanting a camera – I got into this natural habit of “making a memory”, etching a landscape, a light, a feeling of a place into my brain.
That way, even if I leave a place, it never leaves me.
This week, I thought I would share five photos that I have taken in moments where I paused for a moment to truly feel and truly remember.
So Much Life
That day I spent hours staring out at the horizon and at the surf in Corfu, listening to my iPod play some of my favorite music until the tide ate up the beach and evening fell.
Borgo Sacco
That light I fell in love with – the way it used to hit the mountains and my face, the way it would make the church, the vineyard and my street glow, and how it would make me breathe deeply and freely. Every day, I felt grateful for my life in Italy.
Cupole
I could have stayed up there for hours looking over Her, training myself to identify the hundreds of churches by their steeples, and imagining the past and the future of my lagoon city.
Plentzia
Those afternoon hours I spent staring out into the painting-like waves in the changing light, letting the sounds of Basque and seagulls fill my ears.
Tra gli ulivi di Ostuni
Quite possibly one of the most magical of places and the most magical of days, where ancient olive trees, precious land and inspiring locals taught me about life and passion.
These are moments and places I can feel at my fingertips. Thank you, Mom, for teaching me to record a moment – with or without a camera.
From my heart to yours.
In case you missed it: I got to cross off a destination from my bucket-list!
I just returned from Havana, and shared my impressions in words and photographs of the city in my previous blog post.
And now, I'm extremely excited to launch my new Havana collection, which aims to convey the mood and raw beauty that La Habana radiates.
Here are the images that are new in shop, and which could be ordered on paper, canvas, metal, acrylic or wood.
Aging gracefullyColores cubanosFidelDreaming in greenEl MalecónMaravillosaLa CubanaThe lady on VillegasHasta la victoria siemprePerfect balanceA colorful lifeObispoLions of El PradoHabana viejaDeteriorating detailsCanvas DoorwayEntreabiertaOut for a strollThe wayLayers of beautyDecay and delightColores de la HabanaCuba libreLook around, look withinHavana styleLike a dreamMelanconiaIt's all in the detailsRústicoHidden beautyPaseo de MartiPerfectly imperfectPrado pleasuresDoorway detailsDrawn to youWhich would you chooseLinesLavado de ropaChe is CubaShut the door, pleaseOchre paletteGentle shade
This collection really excites me, not only because I've always wanted to discover Havana, but also because of all the senses and feelings I aimed to capture forever.
The collection is not yet in my art shop or on Etsy. I’m offering FIRST PICK and 20% off to my VIPs until August 25th.
Not on my VIP list? You’re missing out. Join here. From my heart to yours.
Certain places end up on our ‘bucket list’ without much warning. They’ve somehow always been there, like a thought whose source you can’t trace. They pull us – gently or hurriedly – until our plans materialize, until we speak the words out loud.
“We’re going to Havana.” It was a somewhat spontaneous trip, but that doesn’t matter. It’s not really spontaneous if you’ve always wanted to go. It was also a somewhat short trip, but that doesn’t matter either. If your eyes and heart are wide open, even a short trip can inspire you plenty, and give you that precious feeling of longing to return.
From my first moments in town, Havana asserted itself. It became clear to me that Havana is a mood.
Although some squares like the Plaza de la Catedral and the Plaza Vieja have a slight European feel, and some narrow lanes and charming balconies cause your mind to wander to thoughts of other cities you’ve been to, much of Havana is in a league of its own, with an undeniably distinct character.
I spent the morning hours strolling the streets of Habana Vieja. Having refrained from looking at too many photographs of Havana before it was my turn to stand there, I genuinely had no well-formed expectations. What was striking from the start, aside from the stifling summer heat, was how much there was to take in.
I can’t think of that many other cities where I have felt the urge to comb the streets – each street – unwilling to miss anything. Venice, of course. Amsterdam, for sure. And now, Havana pulled me up and down its grid of streets, defiantly pushing my limits of time, temperature and tiredness. I followed, in awe of the architecture, the vintage cars, the colors and the contrasts between efforts of restoration and piles of decay.
“Hola!” a female voice broke my awe-stricken gaze. I looked into an open doorway. In response to my eyes landing on hers, she pointed up. “Take a photo of that building,” she told me in Spanish. “It’s beautiful, isn’t it? Everyone likes to take a photo of that.”
Many locals seemed to have grown accustomed to seeing their city through tourists’ eyes. Right from early morning, the stage was set and they were in position, keen to earn something from your mere presence. They yearned to engage in conversation, offered cab rides and tips, eager to know where you were from, where you were headed, if you liked salsa music, if you cared anything about Hemingway and where he hung out. How the conversation proceeded depended on your answers to their prompts. But they were always kind, never invaded our space, and let us go our way when we were ready to move on.
In Old Havana, I noticed how the line between private and public was blurred. Open doorways revealed staircases that were as eerie as they were inviting. Other open doors offered glimpses into living spaces, dark and cool shelters from the beating sun. Some families happily called out to us from their windows, while other locals sat on their doorstep and offered a silent nod as we passed by.
We walked and walked as the hours silently slipped by, and I took notes of my feelings and observations with my lens. My senses were overloaded. The color palette was enough to make skeptics dream – with its turquoises and pastels and ochres and crimsons and blues. The mixed textures of faded paint attracted my eye even more than any intentional street art. As the sun rose higher, sounds of music livened the air, intoxicating us with a rhythm impossible to ignore. Meanwhile, the nose was busy assigning meaning to various wafts of appetizing street food, enticing scents from fresh produce markets, the sweet perfume of churros, the heavy exhaust from vintage cars, and the stench of sewage and garbage – all of which fiercely competed with the other at every street corner. I watched life unfold amidst this flurry of senses, as locals went about their daily business, while dogs explored the streets, and cats hid from the sun in whatever shade they could find.
I finally found myself on the Malecón – the sea-wall promenade that is so beloved to locals and foreigners alike that everyone seems to love saying its name. The buildings facing the sea were surprisingly run-down, but authentic in their raw account of time. The sea was still when we were there – it had no interest in challenging the boundary that had been delineated to constrain it. Suddenly, we found ourselves standing in the middle of an informal baseball game, in the precarious position behind the batter. As the youths played below, an elderly man watched from above, standing in the only open doorway of a series of charmingly decaying houses.
Havana is aging gracefully, I thought, as I pondered its complex relationship with time. Parts of it are encapsulated in their own microuniverse, while others are unimmune to deterioration. The past is tightly interwoven with the present and future, through countless traces of Che and Fidel – two pillars of Cuban society that continue to watch over their people from both fading murals and kitschy souvenirs.
I grew fascinated by the contrasts and ironies that stood at every turn. A beautiful façade flanked another in shambles, its near-perfection antagonizing the skeleton that guarded a lifeless pile of fallen stones. The governmental buildings and hotels stood polished, intruders in the fabric of the city. The double currency of the place legalized a sort of double-standard that is hard to fully grasp the ins and outs of – on the one hand, poverty, and on the other, a currency that is at par with the American dollar. Cars that are the unthinkable dreams for aficionados back home and a delight for tourists are merely a consequence of the regime that Cubans had no choice but to abide by, even if it meant having to improvise innovative solutions to maintain them.
Locals shared snippets of their lives in conversation, explaining how there were some towns where they were allowed to work and others where they were not, describing their work hours and what they did in their time off. As I listened and watched, I wondered what it really means to live in Cuba, and how a change in leadership might affect Havana’s fate in years to come.
These impressions are what I hope to have captured in my Havana collection. The colors and textures, contrasts and ironies, rawness and authenticity, candor and simplicity, past and present, and that feeling of overwhelmed senses.
All that makes up the special mood that is Habana.
To see which of these photographs made it into the all new Havana collection, check out this post.
You may have noticed that the collection is not yet in my art shop or on Etsy. I’m offering FIRST PICK, full customization of size and medium (paper, acrylic, canvas, wood or metal) and 20% off to my VIPs until August 25th. Not on my VIP list? You’re missing out. Join here. From my heart to yours.
Last weekend, I took part in the Etsy Canada Day market that was (perfectly!) organized by Emily from Cheerfully Made, in partnership with Etsy Canada. The market took me to Almonte, Ontario for the first time.
The two-hour drive was a wee bit stressful, because the sky was dropping bucketfuls of rain - so much so, that we were forced to pull over on the side of the road for a few minutes and drive with flashers part of the way. The weather literally put a damper on some of the day's plans, and the venue had to move from outdoors to indoors. As we all set up, we hoped the community would still brave the weather to enjoy the market and discover all the Canadian talent gathered in the Town Hall.
Right when the doors opened, it became clear that the community would not disappoint the organizers and artists! Shoppers came in with smiles and tote bags, most of them all dressed up in red and white, with glitter on their faces and leis around their necks. Despite being elbow to elbow, everyone was in a fantastic mood and the atmosphere was so cheerful that I doubt anyone truly missed the sun. It was heartwarming to meet the residents of Almonte and its surroundings, and to see first-hand how much they appreciated and supported handmade goods.
By afternoon, the sun even decided it wanted to be part of the fun. Once the market closed, we joined the crowds on Mill street and enjoyed the charming feel of the town. There was a palpable positivity in the air! The local shops were bustling and people of all ages were enjoying the day, strolling with ice creams in hand and soaking up the unexpected sunshine.
I had a lot of fun discovering Almonte, finding opportunities for photographs almost everywhere I looked.
I visited the Cheerfully Made shop and also fell in love with the Tin Barn Market, where I honestly felt I could find a home for every item in the store.
If you have a chance to stop by Almonte for a few hours, it's definitely worth the visit! Thank you to all the locals of the town who made our Etsy Canada Day Market a success!
From my heart to yours.
Sometimes places just have a special ring to your ear. You love them before you've even seen them. They just exert a pull on you.
That's how they end up on our bucket list. Our heart skips a beat at the sound of them until, one day, finally, we have a ticket to them in our name.
This week's photo inspiration has a travel theme: 5 places that were on my list of dreams.
Of course, as a true restless soul, my bucket list of places to see is still long - Istanbul, Sardegna, Corsica, Amalfi, Marrakesh, Havana, Crete, Thailand... there is so much of the world to see.
From my heart to yours.
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Kristina KasparianThanks for stopping by! #OnTheBlog are the stories behind my prints, posts about my travels, glimpses into my daily life, news about my shop, events in the Montreal community and tips on travel, home and photography. Categories
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