Solid, solid rock
ancient temple wrapped in the fleetness of the wind
serenaded by the hiss and sigh of the grass.

Lowlight, peat hags, water, cloud reflections.

The squall blew across the shallow peat hollow, lashing face and the feeble grasses alike; stinging blasts high on zest and power....



... until the louring clouds rumbled their malevolent way eastwards and a ray of sun caressed the land.

Blast-ruffled pool.
Wild, wind-twisted sky.
Racing air through heather.
This yang-heavy land
and the yin mind
circle in perfect dance.

Dartmoor is an honest landscape washed by the Atlantic weather. Being there makes one feel whole and infused with the same basic honest joy of living embodied in the granite, peat, heather, gorse and clouds which are constant companions of the walker across its surface. In honour of this honesty, it strikes me that my images should also have something of this straightforwardness and I have decided to show them complete and uncropped.

Grey Wethers stone circle on the slopes of Sittaford Tor.

Back in July I spent four solitary days roaming the wet expanses of northern Dartmoor. As I had to carry everything necessary for survival in a potentially inhospitable climate I opted to reduce camera equipment to a Populist, a Gorillapod and a few rolls of 35mm film, total weight just a few ounces.

I am still working my way through the processing and editing of the five rolls I exposed and have been holding back the finishing touches as I really want the collection to stand as a unified whole, both in terms of its subject matter and its presentation. The four days were spent in an ecstasy of isolation and a joyous unity with the land, the sky, the rivers and the wind. My intention is to portray and explain visually some of this visceral attachment to life and environment which I rediscovered during this time.

The first image I am happy to show is the remains of a sheep, wind-blown grasses and a murky sky.

A pinhole photograph from last autumn. This was an amazing day when I walked with my son, Finn, for several miles accompanied by a male pheasant who seemed to enjoy our company and followed us like a dog.

Scribbly grasses, brittle, dry, delicate. Never-ending fascination.

Fish