One of the greatest privileges of my life is not just being able to travel to some of our planet’s most remarkable places – which I’ve done for over 45 years – but also being able to document so many fleeting moments there.

Photography, for me, has never been just about aesthetics. It’s about witnessing something real, something transient, and translating my impressons into a visual memory that often outlives the moment itself (and my own fading ability to remember places vividly).

This past week, I had the good fortune to revisit one of the most naturally beautiful corners of Sweden: Kåseberga, a small fishing village perched along the southeastern coast in Österlen.

I was once again hosted by buddy and fellow visual artist, Henry Arvidsson – a generous soul with a great eye, sharp wit, and a passionate photographer bar none.

Historically known for its fishing heritage, the village of Kåseberga dates back to at least the late 17th century. Nestled between open farmland and the Baltic Sea it still retains the weathered charm of an authentic maritime community.

Though large-scale fishing has diminished, the essence remains – red-painted boathouses, sun-bleached ropes, and the quiet creak of wooden boats bobbing in the harbor.

During autumn storms, Kåseberga also draws a small crowd of enthused surfers. And while it may not be Hawaii’s North Shore, the waves rolling in off the Baltic offer just enough force for a short ride to the rocky shoreline. In younger years, I was one of those who waited patiently on the board, watching the horizon for the next break to arrive.

But Kåseberga’s allure goes beyond its seafaring soul. Rising high above the village stands Ales Stenar, an ancient megalithic monument made up of 59 massive stones arranged in the shape of what some think is a Viking ship.

Measuring roughly 67 meters in length, the formation dates back around 1,400 years, though theories about its actual purpose abound. Some think it functioned as a burial site, others suggest it was a solar calendar. Whatever the truth may be, it adds a sense of myth and mystery to the already cinematic setting.

The light in Österlen is its own kind of poetry. It can shift in a matter of minutes – fog lifting off the sea to reveal golden fields, or dark clouds drawing a curtain across the cliffs.

For a photographer, it’s a dream and a challenge. You have to stay alert, responsive, and willing to run uphill at a moment’s notice when the light breaks just right or a flock of birds slices across the horizon.

Having Henry there to share the experience was a gift. He once again opened his home and generously shared local insights that only someone with his visual sensibility and connection to the area could provide. which in no small way is evident in his new book, aptly titled Kåseberga.

We spent days with our cameras ready and our evenings reflecting on life and art over a responsible number of ice-filled glasses of bourbon.

In a world increasingly saturated with disposable images, it’s easy to overlook places like Kåseberga. It’s not loud or overly self-promoting.

It doesn’t scream for attention. It simply exists, quietly and confidently, shaped by centuries of wind, salt, and stories. And in doing so, it reminds me that beauty doesn’t always announce itself – it often lingers in silence, in the grain of weathered wood, or the rhythm of waves gently meeting the shore.

And I’m lucky – truly lucky – that I get to not only see these places but also capture them, preserve them, and share them.

So thank you, Kåseberga. And thank you, Henry. Hopefully, I’ll be back someday.