Treasures, not mine this time.

We have cousins, three or four times removed, in Trieste. But we love them so much they could easily be our aunt and uncle. Easily.

Their house is like a public memoir of their life – even the garden is full of every kind of plant, taken from the country they visited and tested in Trieste’s climate. Some don’t survive and are soon forgotten, but others thrive and are a constant source of stories.

Then there are the shells. And stones. And sand. I can relate to this, because every time I come back home my pockets hold some hidden treasure that I then lovingly keep for ever and ever and ever.

These photos are of treasures. Someone else’s, but treasures nonetheless.

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