High above the Aegean, as the first light of day brushed the horizon, I stood in silence at the edge of Chora on Serifos Island. The town was still asleep, its narrow lanes quiet, its whitewashed walls cool to the touch. From this vantage point, I could see the entire curve of Livadi Bay, where the land met the sea in a perfect crescent. Below, the harbour rested in shadow; fishing boats swayed gently in the stillness, waiting for the sun to rise.
Moments before dawn are always charged with anticipation. The air carries a stillness that feels both fragile and eternal. I remember setting up my tripod on the rocky slope just above the small chapel with its blue dome. The sea below was calm, reflecting the faintest trace of orange and violet from the approaching sun. In those quiet minutes, I adjusted my composition with care; every detail mattered. The curve of the road, the spread of the white houses, and the distant silhouette of Sifnos Island — all well balanced within the frame.
As the sun began to rise, a thin line of gold appeared above the horizon. It spread slowly, revealing the textures of the landscape: the dry, sunburnt hills; the winding roads that led to it; the patchwork of fields that surrounded Livadi. Light travelled quickly across the bay, illuminating the clustered houses and turning the calm water into molten silver. It was a transformation that lasted only a few moments, yet it felt timeless.
Photographing sunrise is never simply about light; it is about rhythm and patience. The sun dictates everything. I waited for that precise moment when the light was strong enough to give depth to the scene but soft enough to preserve its serenity. The white of the chapel glowed gently; the blue of its dome deepened against the warming sky. I pressed the shutter and watched the image appear on the screen, knowing it could never fully capture what I felt — but it came close.
Standing there, I realised that Chora and Livadi are bound by more than geography. The high and the low, the ancient and the modern, the silent hilltop and the waking harbour; all exist in quiet harmony. The photograph, I hoped, would convey that balance: a sense of connection between light and land, between solitude and community.
When the sun climbed higher and the sky turned a pale, cloudless blue, the magic began to fade. The island stirred awake; I could hear faint voices from the valley below. I packed my gear slowly, reluctant to leave. That morning on Serifos reminded me why I photograph landscapes: not only to record what I see, but to preserve the emotion of standing before something vast and unchanging, and knowing, for a fleeting instant, that I am part of it.
