Sofia Costa

Cascais is what happens when a fishing town gets rich and keeps its manners. I came for the light. At dawn the seafront is runners, dog walkers and gulls with opinions, and the Atlantic throws a flat silver glare back at the town that is very forgiving on film.

I walked the promenade with a slow roll loaded and let the sun take its time over the bay. In the evening I went back into the old quarter, where the pavement is laid in black and white waves and the lanes go quiet once the day visitors leave. It is a small place. That is the point. Nothing here begs to be photographed. It simply stands in good light, smells of salt and grilled fish, and waits.