Summer always began the same way: the rough stone under wet feet, the salt clinging to your skin, the dense silence of midday broken only by the stubborn snap of a closing parasol.

These scenes don’t try to depict a place, but a way of being — barefoot, unhurried, with no urgency beyond choosing whether to dive in or stay a little longer, staring at the sea.

The architecture doesn’t protect, it frames. The bodies don’t pose, they wait. Even time feels held in place.

Les Rotes isn’t a location. It’s the way summer stays living inside you, even after you’ve gone.