The wind blows strong tonight, whipping my scarf and shaking the tripod I hold tightly in my hands. I’ve come here to the Rocchetta Lighthouse driven by a desire I can’t fully explain. It’s winter, the season when this place breathes quietly, far from the noise of crowded summers. The sea before me is a dark expanse, rippling gently, and the sky plays with light and shadow, opening golden streaks between the fast-moving clouds.

I stop in front of the wind rose engraved on the pavement. It feels like a perfect symbol for this moment, for a lighthouse that guides those lost among the waves. I raise my eyes to the tower: there’s something magnetic in the way it stands, solitary and proud, against the stormy sky. I wait. I don’t know what I’m waiting for, but I feel the scene before me is about to transform.

And then it happens. A ray of sunlight pierces through the clouds, kisses the horizon, and paints the sea in hues of copper and gold. It’s a light I didn’t expect, an unanticipated gift, and for a moment, I forget the cold, the wind—everything. Setting up my gear is a battle against the gusts, but I don’t give up. Each shot is a small victory against nature; each click is a fragment of this unrepeatable moment.

When the lighthouse switches on its light, a spark defies the darkness, and a shiver runs down my spine. It’s not the cold. It’s the feeling of belonging to something greater, as if the sea, the wind, and the lighthouse are inviting me into their secrets.

If anyone asked me when to come here, I’d say winter without hesitation. Not just for the special light or the silence but for the way this place, when empty, manages to fill your soul.