I would like to talk about a hand-painted ceramic plate that sits on the main bookshelf in our living room. It is roughly the size of a standard dinner plate, but slightly deeper, with a glossy glaze and intricate floral patterns around the rim in cobalt blue and terracotta shades. In the centre, there is a delicate illustration of an olive tree overlooking the sea.
My parents actually picked it up during a family holiday to a small coastal town in Portugal about six or seven years ago. We had wandered into this tiny, family-run pottery workshop tucked away down a cobblestone alley. The artisan was working at a potter's wheel right in front of us, and my mum instantly fell in love with this particular piece because it felt so authentic and earthy compared to the generic souvenirs in the gift shops.
When we brought it back, my dad bought a small wooden stand so we could prop it up upright on the eye-level shelf in our lounge, right next to some old family photo albums. It catches the natural light from the bay window in the afternoons, which really brings out the rich colours of the glaze.
To be honest, it is quite meaningful to me, not just because it is a lovely piece of craftsmanship, but because it serves as a visual reminder of that particular holiday. It was one of the last trips our whole family took together before my brother and I moved out for university, so whenever I glance at it, it evokes a warm sense of nostalgia and brings back fond memories of that summer.