There is a version of Menorca that exists only in August, and another that exists in every other month. I have seen both. The August one is louder, more crowded, more desperate to be enjoyed. The other one — the one the islanders actually live in — is quieter than you expect from a Mediterranean island.
I spent two weeks there in the summer, shooting whatever presented itself. Paragliders. Dogs. Dunes that felt like they belonged somewhere further south. A bird I couldn't name.
Paragliding over Es Mercadal, having taken off from Monte Toro
Over the forest, with the sea in the distance
Monte Toro is the highest point on the island, which is to say it is not very high at all. But from the air, hanging in a harness under a coloured wing, Menorca feels vast — a thin strip of land between two different blues, the sea and the sky pressing in from both sides. I had never paraglided before. I shot both rolls one-handed.
Exploring the dunes behind Cala Pregonda
Menorca is a thin strip of land between two different blues. The sea and the sky pressing in from both sides.
A dog, October
A bird flying — I still don't know what kind
Autumn leaves falling in October
By October the island was quieter. The tourists had gone. The cafes were closing early. I walked the same paths I had walked in August and they felt longer, more deliberate. The island was returning to itself.
I found the laundry room on my last morning. The light was coming through the slats in the shutters and lying in strips across the machines. No one was there. I took two frames and left.
The laundry room, last morning
