From Lecce to Lisbon — A Photographer's Summer Journal
Travel photography | Southern Europe | Street photography France | Photo essay Portugal
Some places don’t ask to be photographed — they insist.
Southern Europe in summer is one of them.
I spent a few weeks chasing light and life through Italy, France and Portugal. No shot list, no agenda. Just a camera, good shoes, and the intent to see clearly.
Here’s what I found.
Lecce, Italy
By noon, Lecce glows like it’s lit from within. The sun hits the limestone buildings and turns them gold. In the alleys, it’s quiet — a kind of collective pause. You hear footsteps, shutters clicking closed for siesta.
And then, just outside the old town, there’s the Adriatic: kids running barefoot, launching themselves into the sea. I watched them for a while before I lifted the camera.
In Lecce, it’s the contrasts that stay with you — the silence of the old streets and the noise of the nearby shoreline. Both feel like they belong in the same frame.
Bordeaux, France
Bordeaux felt slower. Measured. I spent mornings walking along the Garonne, passing through the hum of street markets and cafés waking up. One afternoon I found myself at the Miroir d’Eau, where reflections blur the line between city and sky.
A cyclist glided through the water’s surface, and for a second, everything felt perfectly suspended.
It’s a place made for observing: tiny gestures, soft light, quiet symmetry.
If you like street photography in France, Bordeaux is a masterclass in subtlety.
Biarritz, France
Everything changes in Biarritz. The tempo picks up. It’s sweat and sand and sunscreen. Teenagers kicking a football barefoot. Tourists juggling towels and baguettes. The ocean slams against the sea wall and nobody seems to mind.
This is where I shot faster, looser. Surfers walking home through crowds. A woman in a sunhat standing ankle-deep, watching the tide.
The light is harsh, the colours bold — and somehow, it all just works.
Lisbon, Portugal
Lisbon is music. The clack of trams on rails, the scrape of chairs on cobblestones, someone playing fado behind a half-open door.
It’s a city that asks you to slow down.
I was invited into a small restaurant kitchen one night. The chef poured a generous shot of port over a pan and the flame jumped high.
It lit the room and his face and the ceiling tiles.
That photo came quickly. But most didn’t.
In Lisbon, you wait — for the shadow, for the rhythm, for the moment to come to you.
What I Brought Home
This wasn’t a project. Not in the formal sense. Just a slow, imperfect attempt to pay attention.
I didn’t want to photograph the landmarks. I wanted the ordinary — the stuff that lives between postcards. That’s where the good light is.
And that’s the magic of travel photography:
You get to be a beginner again. Every day, new streets, new rules, new light.
You’re always slightly lost.
And from that place — if you’re lucky — a picture appears.
