Apuglian Dream
- May 25
- 2 min read
There are certain trips that stay with you quietly.
Not because of what happened, but because of how they felt. Slow mornings. Warm stone under bare feet. The sound of doors opening onto sunlit courtyards. The stillness that only arrives when there is nowhere else to be.
I spent a few days in Puglia with my mum, most of them wandering through the rooms and terraces of Palazzo Daniele. We carried no plans beyond breakfast, coffee, and deciding where the light looked nicest that afternoon.
The photographs became less about documenting a place and more about documenting a feeling.
A striped pyjama against faded walls.A chair in the corner of a quiet room.The ritual of getting dressed slowly, only to remain barefoot all day.
There is something deeply comforting about travelling with a parent once you are older. The relationship changes. It becomes calmer, softer, more equal somehow. You begin to notice the small things you never did before, the way they rest, the way they move through a room, the expressions that feel strangely familiar because you carry traces of them yourself.
Puglia seemed to magnify that feeling. The wonderful relationship I have with my parents.
Everything moved slower there. The afternoons stretched long into evening, and the rooms at Palazzo Daniele felt suspended in time, grand yet deeply intimate at once. Nothing demanded attention. Which perhaps is why we noticed everything.
Some of my favourite images from the trip are the imperfect ones. Out of focus. Grainy. Half-lit. They feel closer to memory than documentation.
I’ve always believed that comfort is emotional as much as physical. Sometimes it comes from fabric and objects.
Other times it comes from being somewhere beautiful with someone you love, with enough time to simply exist beside one another. That, to me, is what this story became.
An Apuglian Dream with my Mum.
Captured in Apuglia, Italy