Ten days along the coast, and somehow it already feels like a summer I’ll spend years trying to remember properly. Mornings began on ferries, with salt drying on the railings, gulls hovering above the wake, and tiny harbors opening ahead of us like secrets. We ate far too much grilled fish—silver-skinned, smoky, served with lemon and bread at sun-faded tables by the water. There were swims off empty coves, sandy shoes in the car, and one flat tyre on a road lined with pines. While we waited, an old man from the nearest village brought us cold water and refused to take anything in return. On the last evening, the sky turned from apricot to deep red, and the sea held every color. We sat quietly until the first star appeared. Ten days went by too quickly, but I think a little of that coast came home with me.