There are people who travel simply to collect places.

Others collect photographs, passport stamps, fridge magnets or another point checked off on a map.

We were probably searching for something else from the very beginning.

Not only places.

But the emotions left behind inside those places.

Because sooner or later a person begins to realise that history and mythology were never truly separated.

One describes what happened.

The other tries to explain what people felt when it happened.

And somewhere between them, for thousands of years, stands a human being.

Looking out across the sea.
Sitting beside a fire.
Telling a story to somebody who will remember it long after they are gone.

Perhaps that is why travelling never became just movement through space for us.

It slowly turned into an attempt to find ourselves somewhere inside time.

Inside ruins.
Inside legends.
Inside landscapes.
Inside pub conversations.
Inside stories about heroes who never returned.
And inside nations that learned to preserve memory more through stories than official chronicles.

Because somewhere between the Brown Bull of Cooley, a Spanish giant woman, the Knights Templar and an ordinary morning cup of tea shared after a neighbourhood war over a broken fence…

we slowly realised that the entire world is built from stories.

And without stories, people very quickly lose themselves.