Unrushed

Imagine a man in his sixties. Irish, or maybe from the English countryside. He’s out before sunrise, already walking, already in the landscape. Breathing in the cold air, the silence. Next to him, a wire-haired vizsla, unshakeably loyal, moving at the same quiet pace.

From the outside, he might look like he’s just staring into nothing. But behind the stubble and the heavy, almost-connected eyebrows, there’s a whole archive of lived moments, places, and feelings.

He’s not loud. Not performative. He doesn’t ask for attention.
No gloss. No spectacle. No selling.

That’s Terceira.
A place that doesn’t try to impress you, and somehow does exactly that.

The island wakes early, and nothing rushes it forward.

Morning light through rain-streaked glass.