Lost in Le Puglie

There are roads in Puglia that don’t go anywhere fast. This was one of them.

Shot from behind the wheel, somewhere between nowhere and nowhere else, I caught this image of a slow-moving tractor framed by empty fields and a sky too wide to hold. The road is narrow, uneven, old—but it doesn’t complain. Like most things around here, it does its job without fuss.

The light was gentle, just after afternoon, slipping into that moment where colour fades softly rather than drops off. The greens were still sharp, the sky leaning pale toward evening, and everything felt settled. No drama. No rush.

What drew me in wasn’t the tractor itself, but the pace it imposed. There’s no overtaking here, not in spirit. You fall in line. You learn the rhythm of things that take time: farming, seasons, routes that haven’t changed in decades. You realise that moving slowly doesn’t mean going backward.

Puglia has a way of doing that to you—slowing you down just enough to notice where you are.