This project began several years ago when I first noticed the notation ‘Mud & Sand’ on an OS map of the Bristol Channel. I couldn’t work out why these beaches should be so muddy and I was curious to find out what they looked like.

To be honest, my first impressions were not very positive. As a stock photographer, I am aware that I often look to idealise the landscape in my work, and most people think of idyllic beaches as having golden sand and bright blue sea. The mudflats and brown sea that typify the beaches of Somerset and Newport, in particular, do not fit this vision.

It was only when I was listening to someone express their strong opinion about how ugly they found the Somerset coast that something changed. We Osmonds can be contrary folk; prone to exploring different angles when a strong opinion is presented to us (my younger son, in particular, is a master at this). I was suddenly determined to explore this subject and prove them wrong.

The reason these mudflats exist is that the Bristol Channel, whose waters are rich in sediment from the several major river systems that flow into it, deposits the mud in the vast inter-tidal zones created by its famously large tidal range. But that is not all. The mudflats are at the centre of a constant battle between the erosive forces of tide and weather, and the stabilizing forces of halophytic plants trying to establish salt marshes. The huge array of patterns created by these opposing forces, in addition to the wet surfaces that reflect whatever drama is playing out in the sky, are what make the landscape here utterly intriguing.

It was perhaps because of the wet, reflective surfaces that I acquired a taste for those vile winter days with showers blowing in from the sea. On such days, the light is constantly changing and in conditions like that, photos just appear instantly out of nowhere and are gone the next second. This is where I find photography as a medium really comes into its own, because it can capture brief moments like that and the satisfaction in doing so, as well as that feeling of having endured tough conditions, really appeals to me. I also found quite early on that the pictures I was getting in those conditions were very monochromatic, so it was a natural decision to continue the project in black and white.

The biggest challenge with this project has been simply getting access to the subjects I’ve wanted to photograph. You have to take great care as the signposts on the beaches here all attest to. You cannot simply walk to the sea at low tide otherwise you’ll get stuck. I’ve had to think creatively and use stable ground in whatever form it comes, be that as man-made concrete flood defences or patches of salt marsh, whose root network stabilizes the mud enough to walk on. There has been an awful lot of studying maps, studying tide tables, visiting and revisiting locations in order to get all of the elements aligned for the pictures I wanted. As a result, I have come to know certain key locations such as Sand Bay and the River Parrett Estuary extremely well.

Once I had a collection of images that sat together coherently, I started to think about publishing a book of the project. I’d had a book published a couple of years previously by Frances Lincoln, but that was more a celebration of Somerset as a region. This was a very different body of work focusing on an unusual subject and its aesthetic qualities when photographed in a particular way. Not many publishers really dealt with this sort of photography but I’d been collecting some of the magnificent titles released by Triplekite Publishing, particularly David Baker’s Sea Fever, and I thought I’d approach them.

You get so many rejections as a photographer that it’s always a bit of a surprise when someone says yes. I had to redouble my efforts that winter and get out at every opportunity to make sure I had enough depth of coverage in time for publication. Although Triplekite is sadly no longer publishing, there are still copies of Mud|Sand available online both in the UK and America, as well as signed copies direct from myself (jamesosmond.co.uk/art). Book publication usually signifies the end of a project but I’m never able to lay anything completely to rest and I do continue to revisit the Somerset coast working in both colour and monochrome.

Do you have a project that you are working on that you'd like to write an article for us about? We'd love to hear from you, so please do get in touch.

I’m not sure if Hamlet would have really ever had this dilemma. He was also unlikely to ever change his ‘point of view’ on Claudius, his uncle/ stepfather. He may, however, have liked to see what the castle at Kronborg (Elsinore) looked like from above, but that was not really possible at the time. Kronborg sits at the water’s edge and towers above everything else around it.

This analogy is a bit of a stretch perhaps, but the point is fair. Until recently, you could not frame a landscape image from altitude unless you had a convenient hill, mountain or building to climb. (helicopters and planes notwithstanding). Then along comes the drone and a sudden burst of creativity is fueled. Competitions, books and social media are now filled with images captured from above while the ‘photographer’ stays rooted to terra firma. It is an exciting development in an art form that has always morphed and ‘improved’. But should we jump in and ‘take off’?

To Drone

A new Perspective

Without a doubt, the main reason to own a drone is to unleash the opportunities that it provides for creativity. Views, scenes, angles, speed etc. They are all fresh and easily accessible without too much effort (or danger).

Imagine for a moment that you cannot separate the two sea-stacks in your chosen view. You want to present them without the overlap, but there are always limitations as to where you can stand. You try left, right, backwards, forwards, perhaps it is a cliff edge, the sea itself, an ugly building etc.. A little more height, however, and the sea-stacks separate nicely, and perhaps now they do not ‘cut’ the horizon either.

While it becomes more difficult daily to find unique ‘terrestrial’ compositions, the novel opportunities for drone photography are much greater. Think how many abstract views of river deltas you have seen recently, or images of a lighthouse from out to sea. Projects such as ‘The Wall’ (Read Simon Butterworth's article about his project) show their potential, either on their own or combined with more conventional photography. Indeed, the ILPOTY TOP 101 photos for the last few years have had 10-20 images each year taken from an aerial perspective.

Then, of course, there are also those incredible video sequences. Who does not enjoy watching as the videographer sets the scene. Around those mountain tops, up the waterfalls, over the iceberg, backwards through the forest. The timing of the emergence of drone video has been perfect for the relatively recent boom in vlogging.

Expense?

To be sure, drones that are ‘landscape photographer worthy’ are not cheap. But neither are they really that expensive. Leading examples of drones capable of solid 4K video and very reasonable (20+Mp) still images, can cost less than a new telephoto lens, and only slightly more than the latest smartphone. Compare that to buying a new camera system complete with a set of lenses.

Easy to fly

Control is actually relatively simple and easily learned. Like all new skills, mastery is developed over time. But the manufacturers make starting out very straight forward. They throw in automated controls that make certain tasks seem elementary. Image stabilization, collision avoidance, flight levelling, follow me, autopilot and waypoint navigation are just a few of the more common standards. Yet there are also more hands-on skills that can be assimilated and used for a more personalized cinematic experience.

Weight

By definition, almost, these incredible technical devices are really light. The units themselves have to be to fly efficiently and maximise battery duration. There is a trade-off for size, stability and payload (what camera they can carry), but typically the drones themselves do not represent a great burden.

Not to Drone

Expense

I have myself seen a favourite lens roll down a rock and plunge into a river in flood, never to be seen again. Yet accidents are infrequent and generally do not result in the loss of a whole camera system. Drones, on the other hand, are a little less forgiving. Repeated damage and/ or complete loss seem to be inherent risks that the photographer must take into consideration, especially when operating over water. There are ways to mitigate risk, but those big sweeping vistas from mountain tops and other dramatic landscapes bring with them a vulnerability that the operator must accept, or keep things to a much lower level.

Weight

Drones are light, but that is not the full story. Batteries do not last that long and their recharge is not a simple matter ‘in the field’. Generally, a stack of pre-charged additional batteries will be required for extended flying. In addition, there is a controller. This typically weighs about the same as the drone itself, and it needs a battery too! Finally, when out and about, the drone is not likely to be a landscape photographer’s only piece of equipment. There will be the main camera for stills, with appropriate lenses, tripod, filters etc, etc. Then a vlogger may also have a separate camera (and tripod) for video capture. Suddenly that is a lot of equipment. For any real distance away from your vehicle, you will need to be making choices of what is essential and what to leave behind.

Nuisance

Perhaps the biggest negative of drones for many people is the nuisance factor. That whirring noise from those high speed blades travels a long way, especially in the calmer conditions that are needed to fly. Understandably, people visit wild places of outstanding beauty to immerse themselves. To see the sights and to be at one with nature. Most ‘pilots’ are very conscientious and will not fly while others are around. But there are always a few who flaunt the rules and ignore the impact on others.

No fly zones

This is more problematic than it may at first seem. On a recent backpacking trip to hike the Timberline Trail on Mt Hood in Oregon, a friend brought his drone. He had done extensive research and checked all official online ‘no-fly’ sites. What he did not know, was that there was a tiny clause in the small print of the local backcountry permit. That’s a lot of extra weight he carried for four days for no reason. Again, there are those who would flaunt the rules, but if you want to play by the book, it can be difficult.

So, what is the answer?

Alas, poor Yorick...

It is, of course, a very personal decision and I can understand the answer will be different for different folks. No right or wrong. I fear there is also a little bit of NIMBY in this dilemma.

Yet, I have also been in the situation where a drone operation has not only disturbed my ‘peace’, it also has made still photography very difficult. This is perhaps nothing more than the inconvenience that you expect at a popular viewpoint. Try finding a spot at Driftwood Beach, Jekyll Island for sunrise. But did we also really need a drone buzzing along the curve of the beach, 20’ above the heads of a dozen photographers, just as the sun ventured above the horizon?

The point is, I like what I see, but not when I am there.

So for me, I always come back to the ‘nuisance’ factor. I know that I never like to hear a drone going overhead, especially when I’ve gone to great effort to reach an isolated pristine destination. So should I be a part of the problem, even if I don’t think there is anyone else around? I just don’t like the idea that I could upset even one person. The opportunities are great, but these ‘wishes’ are not critical to my craft. I am on a continual journey of discovery and there are many other opportunities for me as well.While I might consider a drone in the future, it is just not right for me at this time.

Notice that autumn is more the season of the soul than of nature. ~Friedrich Nietzsche

Every autumn, in many parts of the Northern Hemisphere, deciduous trees undergo a radical transformation, climaxing in an explosion of colour before shedding their leaves and becoming dormant during winter, preparing to start the cycle all over again in Spring. It is a miracle of nature brought about by seasonal changes in the diurnal light cycle, temperature and prior rainfall that halt production of green chlorophyll and allow yellows, reds, oranges and purples to show through.

We all know this story, which for all its splendour also is so predictable and commonplace that it is easy to miss as we go about our daily lives.

One morning, in the Autumn of 1994, I took a shortcut across a field in Connecticut, hurrying to get to my destination, when I looked down to ascertain why my shoes were soaked through to the socks. The answer halted me. The ground was covered with richly coloured, dew soaked leaves made even more saturated by the soft, lightbox effect of cirrus clouds high overhead. Luckily, I had my camera with me loaded with Velvia. The beauty caused me to pause long enough to marvel at nature and to record that feeling on film.

That’s what photography is to me, an effort to record a feeling – really, an emotion – that I can share and recall. I often read or hear photographers talk about the importance of having something to say through our work, but I’ve rarely felt that I had something to say. I don’t even really know what that means. It’s the landscape that is speaking to me. On the rare occasion that I do reportage, I have a story to tell, but mostly I am not trying to say anything. Usually, I am trying to listen.

Ever since that day in the field in New England, autumn has been a favourite time for photography because autumn is more than a visually spectacular colour change. Autumn is Mother Nature singing, with all her heart and soul, her song that we can hear if we remember to notice. But how can we not notice such a loud phenomenon?

Whereas the solstices are subtle and slip by unnoticed, the autumnal equinox is a time of great upheaval, a beautiful death throe before the cold stillness of winter. The shedding of leaves is a great entropic event that deposits countless tons of biomass back onto the ground, to be recycled by worms, insects and bacteria into basic nutrients that will, once again, climb the cambium layer of the very tree from which they fell to grow new leaves.

In nature, spring is a time of birth and childhood, of newness and learning, of adolescence and maturation. Summer is the important and necessary time of production, like the prime of our adulthood. Make hay while the sun shines. Autumn is a time of fulfilment and harvest when nature rejoices her accomplishments by showing off all her resplendent colours as she prepares for winter.

That’s me. I am at the autumnal equinox of my life. Strong and virile for the past 64 years I now find myself changing, even failing in certain ways. I’ve always loved the colours of autumn but now I identify with them. I am them. Autumn is a whole new level of maturation. Autumn is a time for appreciation of life, for reflection on accomplishments as well as failures, a time to rejoice in the bounty, and a time for peaceful resignation and preparation before the inevitable.

The challenge is to recognise it and enjoy it to the fullest. Just as we miss the autumn colours if we don’t look up in our busy lives, we can miss the autumn of our lives if we don’t make an effort to fully live it, to be fully in it. It is a time to reflect, but it also is a time to live in the moment, to make the most of each day, to appreciate the beauty around us in nature and in our friends and family. A time to get outside with our cameras and listen. Because unlike nature, we have seen our last spring.

There is a forest, in the north of Rome, almost undiscovered and perhaps for this very special to me. It is named Macchia Grande and can be reached by driving for an hour and a half in Viterbo countryside.

A forest, an atmosphere, a journey of emotions.

I have been always living and working in a big city, where the noise of people, night and day, chasing chaotic rhythm, is everywhere. I often spend days too full of commitments, phone calls, jobs, meetings, losing myself and what I really love doing. Therefore, it becomes important for me to have a refuge from the daily madness where I can escape, and this forest is really a hidden corner of total tranquillity.

Taking photographs is, first of all, connecting with the most inner part of myself, and trying to capture, in one shot, what I am feeling at that moment.

Some might think that walking alone in a forest in the first light of the morning can be dangerous and scary. For me, nature is a source of inspiration and serenity; it gives us emotions in a unique way and for this, it is always worth observing it.

The mornings of winter bring with them the magic of places hidden by a misty layer, which slowly thins out, discovering the shapes and colours of intertwined branches, each one ready to tell its story.

A story that brings us back to the childhood fantasy, which seems to talk about fairies, dancing elves, lost princes and princesses who have hidden their kingdoms among these curved trees, to show them only to those who have the imagination to believe it yet.

I could not see almost anything in front of me, I only felt the crunch of the dry branches and the leaves under my shoes which, in the silence, increased the feeling of being in an enchanted place. Oaks with branches of green ivy still intertwined close to the trunks appeared to me, golden leaves shining and filtering the sunlight seemed dancing in the cold.

Thus, the forest wakes up, slow and sly.

Walking along the paths, I come across two horses that slowly ate still frozen grass, without looking at me, as if I hadn't been there. They were beautiful and wild.

The hidden geometries, chaotic and so ordered as a whole attracted me most. So, I got lost in the wood, watching and taking pictures of particular connections that for me are intimate and perfect.

Nobody, in those mornings, had still woken this part of nature ... And I was lucky to have seen its beauty for first. The hours passed, the fog cleared, the temperature rose a little and the colours become sharper and brighter, ready to let a new day begin.

This is not simply a forest for me, but a refuge of thoughts and a door to my imagination.

The photos shown in this small project are the emotions I felt during those winter mornings, minute by minute. They allowed me to rediscover the tranquillity I needed, finding again myself, my memories, and the most precious and intimate part of me.

This time, the water won, reclaiming all that humans had wrought. The contours of tree-lined farm lanes are still visible in the skeletons of submerged trees. When they finally topple or are felled by beavers, they will feed the encroachment of rustling reeds. Silence has descended, broken only by the soft whistling of tufted ducks, the croak of an egret, or the squawking of geese flying up to escape a marauding eagle. Roe deer soundlessly appear at the edge of an island and slip away again like ghosts. Light plays on the water, which ripples with movement caused by underwater life and tidal currents. This is a world of light and reflections, of mist and shadow.

In 2017 I embarked upon a photography project that would eventually take me almost three years to complete. My aim was to portray a hidden world that most visitors miss but, to me, forms the soul of the wetlands national park known as The Biesbosch.

When I moved to the densely populated Netherlands, after growing up in hilly New England, I found myself at a bit of a loss in Dutch nature. The strip of dunes protecting the land from the sea felt limited and over-crowded. The forests of the Veluwe are carefully tended and its Red Deer culled to keep them from destroying the habitat. It’s all so tame. But in time I grew to appreciate its quiet beauty.

It was this expanse of freshwater tidal wetlands, however, that really captured my imagination. The name ‘Biesbosch’ is derived from the Dutch word ‘bies,’ or bulrushes, a pioneer species that is eventually supplanted by reeds and various types of willows. This delta swamp, about 300 sq. kilometres in size, had been reclaimed for farmland and villages in the early Middle Ages. But civil wars diverted funding from the upkeep of the dykes, and, during a series of severe storms in the 15th century, they broke several times, flooding the area. Eventually, humans left the Biesbosch and it became a sunken world. In later centuries, some of the Biesbosch was once again reclaimed and farmed. Its tides were stemmed by the great barrier dams of the southwestern coast.

But recently the Netherlands adopted a policy to create overflow locations close to the great rivers, allowing sudden increases in water levels to divert and flood the land, thereby preventing more serious flooding. The Biesbosch became one of these designated overflow spots, which meant lowering dykes and moving farms. The Haringvliet Dam has been opened slightly to allow for tidal movement and the return of the great sturgeon. Gradually, the water is taking over again.

Something about this history triggers in my mind an association with what might happen in the future when climate change causes the seas to rise and reclaim large populated regions. I might mourn the loss of some of the beauty that we humans have created through the ages, but I would like to think that birds, animals, and plants would thrive, and that nature would reign again, undisturbed by humans.

Most visitors only see the populated face of the Biesbosch: water recreationists, a network of powerlines on huge pylons, herds of imported exotic grazers (Highland cattle, Konik horses, and even Water Buffaloes), and the remaining farms with their fields and livestock. The world of water, reeds, and their denizens is usually hidden from these visitors, and fortunately so. The presence of humans (even my presence) makes ripples in this world. Luckily the ripples are brief and eventually fade away. There are vast expanses of water and reeds, but also a maze of narrow creeks one could get lost in. The water in the hidden creeks is sometimes only 20-30 cm deep and so limpid that you can see everything below the surface.

Because I live very close to the Biesbosch, it has become my favourite photography haunt. I go out in all weather, at all times of day, and in all seasons. Ospreys and crested grebes, roe deer and beavers, morning mists, reflections in the water… there are always inspiring images to capture. Besides, simply being out there soothes my soul. Whether I’m on foot, in a boat, or just driving slowly with the window rolled down and the camera within grabbing distance, all my senses are open, and my mind is on nothing else but my surroundings. Although it’s an experience I prefer to savour alone, occasionally I’ll be with one or two other photographers, but only if they don’t talk too much.

When I started feeling the need to develop my artistic eye and photographic skills further, a photographer I’ve always admired, Theo Bosboom, suggested that focusing on a project would be a good way to achieve this. He offers a course, which basically consists of a year of mentorship, guiding the photographer through the various steps towards producing a consistent series of images. It was exactly what I needed, and I signed up for it, choosing the Biesbosch as my project focus. After getting off to a false start (I fell and broke my right shoulder late 2017), I resumed work on the project in the fall of 2018.

But the early work I’d done had made one thing very clear to me: my original concept – a portrait of the Biesbosch throughout the seasons – was far too encompassing. I had no idea how to choose my images, what to include and what to ignore. And, even more important, I wasn’t sure how this would help me grow as a photographic artist. How to get past the standard landscape and bird portraits and delve into my perception of the soul of the place?

Theo suggested that I refine my project definition by writing out what I consider to be the soul of the Biesbosch. That’s when I sat down and wrote the words I’ve included at the beginning of this article. This text has been my guideline throughout the work. My aim is not to show people what the Biesbosch looks like. Other photographers have done that quite well. Alfred Stieglitz once wrote, “My photographs are ever born of an inner need – an Experience of Spirit … I have a vision of life, and I try to find equivalents for it sometimes in the form of photographs.” My aim is to portray this silent, drowned world of reflections, mist, and shadows that mirror my inner vision of life.

Spending more than a year photographing the same location was a surprisingly enriching experience. There were times, as I collected more and more images, that I wondered if I could possibly acquire new, fresh ones. Had I exhausted all possibilities? Somehow, this always resolved itself. I found myself going deeper and deeper, moving past the images I had built in my head and finding unexpected new ones. I had imposed a restriction upon myself: only black-and-white photos in 2:3 format. This challenged me not to rely on colour and cropping techniques. It meant focusing on the strength of composition, lines, and texture instead of the subject matter.

As I progressed, especially once I started thinking about the final selection of images, I kept a mental list of photos that I felt were missing. However, as most of you know, nature photography is serendipitous. And when you’re floating past a stunning scene in a boat, you only have one or two chances for a good capture. Some of the images I hoped for never materialised (or did, but the image quality didn’t meet my standards).

The final selection of photographs would prove to be as important and time-consuming a task as taking and processing the photos. The guiding principles involved more than simply choosing what I considered to be my best images. It meant creating a narrative; putting together a selection of photos that coaxed the viewer into the story and told it coherently, with enough variation to keep it interesting. It was far more difficult than I had expected.

Maybe because I never considered photography as a career, the primary motto guiding my choice of subjects has always been ‘Follow what you love.’ Since working on this project, I’ve added a second precept: ‘But stay out of your comfort zone.’ In the end, the images I was unsure about when taking the photo often turned out to be the best ones. Staying out of my comfort zone proved to be a valuable learning experience. I think, like many photographers, I tend to go for images that are easily readable and comfortable for the viewer: recognizable subject matter using standard rules of compositions. I started experimenting with abstract, impressionistic images, chaotic compositions, the sort of image people might respond to with “What is it?” My explorations started having an effect on my other photographic work. I started to understand why experienced photographers might go out for an entire day and come back with only one image that they’re happy with. This, more than anything else, has contributed to my original goal: honing my skills as a photographic artist.

When you compare this flat, watery expanse of reeds and willows to more iconic locations for landscape photography, the Biesbosch would seem a very dull place.

I’m very grateful to Theo Bosboom for guiding me through this process with patience, well-timed suggestions, and respect for my creative style. And what have I learned from the project? Obviously, I’ve learned to put together a consistent series of photographs that tells a tale. I’ve also learned to view my work critically and not accept images that fall short of my highest standards. But – and maybe this is the most important lesson of all – I have learned to look carefully and delve deep when I want to discover the soul of a location. The Biesbosch is a magical place, but you will only see the magic if you pay attention.

In the words of the poet Mary Oliver:

Instructions for living a life:
Pay attention.
Be astonished.
Tell about it

Living in the ‘soft’ southern counties of England, it is all too easy to feel envy when turning the pages of photographic magazines and web sites to see dramatic mountainous scenery fall out of the page. With a passion for wild spaces, envy does have a habit of frequently knocking on my door.

Ignoring the obvious cries of “move house then”, I have turned to the wildest patch on my doorstep to seek inspiration in the South Downs. The Downs have always held a fascination with me – not just because the landscape forms an elegant and shapely group of hills, contrasting with the lowland of the adjacent Weald, but also through the human links, it has that echo back through history. The Chalk Downs of England are also unique – as few other countries can boast similar geology.

As a photographer, I have found it has taken time to unlock the South Downs. It is a subtle landscape that gives up its secrets slowly. Unlike the more obvious upland areas of the UK, the Downs form (almost!) one continuous and undulating hill of chalk with a steep escarpment facing north, a gentle back-slope facing south, and in the east, an abrupt meeting with the English Channel forming the chalk cliffs of the Seven Sisters and Beachy Head.

This pattern is really only interrupted by occasional river valleys that cut through the hills. They don’t form a deep range of hills and the ‘big views’ tend to be on the edges looking out beyond or across the Downs. Apart from the main river valleys, the land does not contain meandering streams or many hedgerows that help to create lead in lines for compositions. There are great swathes where it becomes a minimalist landscape and the land itself becomes the dominant feature rather than the objects that sit on it; a gentle curving grassland with shrub and arable fields with only a few trees, often shrunk and distorted, and occasional farm buildings (and plenty of sheep) to break the pattern. The skies are also ‘big’ here and the weather is influential in how the Downs look and feel. And away from the escarpment and the river valleys, there is little impression to emphasize the elevation of the hills. They are not tall hills – but certainly, they have dominance over the low-lying land of southern England.

Initially, I found it was all too easy to take images only to be sorely disappointed with the results. My early attempts tended to focus on long distant views from the escarpment – as they formed an obvious attraction. I have come to realise however that I was not really making a statement about how I felt about the Downs as a landscape – it was more about the view!
I have since explored the landscape much more and from my many tramps across the chalkland, I have learnt to pick up different characters and moods. The landscape is actually very simply and uncluttered, and I am often minded of the approach Ravilious took in emphasizing the shapes and patterns in the land. Undulations in the shape of the land can be echoed by cloud overhead when the weather and the light is right. The weather though can be a ‘trying’ and dominant element. A summer’s day in the low-lying Sussex Weald can turn out to be an early spring or Autumn storm on the Downs. But then the Downs can also feel like a desert in high summer; unbearably hot and dry with a heavy haze with only the distant sound of skylarks to remind you that life is still around. The shapely escarpment, much scarred by ancient tracks, remains an obvious ‘draw’, and I have learnt that the light – in both quality and direction - is crucial in emphasizing its features. Morning mists and low light are often very beneficial, but structured cloud formations can also be useful in echoing features and shapes on the ground.

I think these experiences have helped evolve my photographic style. Some of this has been about my own development by using the tools of a landscape photographer better than before, but equally, I think it is because I have come to know the downland landscape – picking up its different moods across the seasons, in different weather and through various types of light. I am seeing the South Downs more clearly and I hope I am expressing my thoughts much better.

On a pragmatic level, I have found the need for patience to find the right composition that captures what I am seeking, but then often I have had to continue being patient – and perhaps return at a different time and day - to wait for the light to work as I have wanted it to. So, not every journey on to the hills brings a successful image. But perhaps the most important aspect I have learnt with this is ‘so what?’ One of the advantages of landscape photography is it encourages you to get out there to experience what nature has to offer and to develop a friendship and a knowledge of it. I have been doing that far more and so have experienced the Downs at times and in weather conditions that would not have found me there before. When the light or the mood is not right for taking pictures, then so be it. It is often the experiences that I look back on – sometimes more so than the photographs. The camera though is a close companion throughout and helps me focus on seeing what the landscape has to offer and how it is speaking to me.

I feel there is still a journey to make with the South Downs. It remains ‘unfinished business’ and it has been a good exercise at reducing my mountain-envy!