The German couple in the fjord.

The German couple arrived in a small boat, the word is skiff isnt it? A boat for one or two. The bay was so still its surface was taut and oily like celluloid film. They sat by their fire drinking cider and wine, they played music on their iphone and it bounced off the smooth stones they sat on. They’d moved out of Germany and lived in this small fjord in Norway. She was the local shop keeper. They told stories of their neighbours having guns for hunting and dynamite for blasting the foundations of their homes. He recalled how someone once dropped dynamite whilst handing it to him. The sun was nearly set, it was past midnight. As I was walking back to my boat the German man jumped up and pointed to the sky. An eagle passed over our heads, it’s silhouette passed across the pontoon, over the mast and into the tree line.

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River Lea near Edmonton.

I spent some time walking the waterways out of London or on the fringes, especially in winter and was particularly interested in the deep waters around industry and the way trees, birds and fish responded. There is something dark about these places even on the brightest of days. This photograph is included in my series ‘The Current’.

It makes me think of the pike in the river along this stretch and I was thinking then of Ted Hughes’s poem Pike.

Ted Hughes

Pike, three inches long, perfect
Pike in all parts, green tigering the gold.
Killers from the egg: the malevolent aged grin.
They dance on the surface among the flies.

Or move, stunned by their own grandeur,
Over a bed of emerald, silhouette
Of submarine delicacy and horror.
A hundred feet long in their world.

In ponds, under the heat-struck lily pads-
Gloom of their stillness:
Logged on last year’s black leaves, watching upwards.
Or hung in an amber cavern of weeds

The jaws’ hooked clamp and fangs
Not to be changed at this date:
A life subdued to its instrument;
The gills kneading quietly, and the pectorals.

Three we kept behind glass,
Jungled in weed: three inches, four,
And four and a half: fed fry to them-
Suddenly there were two. Finally one

With a sag belly and the grin it was born with.
And indeed they spare nobody.
Two, six pounds each, over two feet long
High and dry and dead in the willow-herb-

One jammed past its gills down the other’s gullet:
The outside eye stared: as a vice locks-
The same iron in this eye
Though its film shrank in death.

A pond I fished, fifty yards across,
Whose lilies and muscular tench
Had outlasted every visible stone
Of the monastery that planted them-

Stilled legendary depth:
It was as deep as England. It held
Pike too immense to stir, so immense and old
That past nightfall I dared not cast

But silently cast and fished
With the hair frozen on my head
For what might move, for what eye might move.
The still splashes on the dark pond,

Owls hushing the floating woods
Frail on my ear against the dream
Darkness beneath night’s darkness had freed,
That rose slowly toward me, watching.

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The Deptford heron

I used to live in Deptford and at the time noticed the heron’s living along the heavily urbanised River Ravensbourne . The river runs through Lewisham and empties into the Thames at Deptford Creek. The bird became a bit of a symbol for me of nature living in the city and from then on I’ve become interested in London’s non man made world and how it survives and in some places thrives.

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Roy at the junction in Stamford Hill,

The bus broke down and Roy was sat at the front of the top deck looking out of the window.

Why are you wearing this jacket? I like your hat.
‘I asked God to help me, to show himself to me’
Where you in a church?
‘I was in a church, but that doesn’t matter. I asked if God was there then I wanted him to show himself to me and to help me manage my life for the better. I’ve got two Bibles, do you want one?’
I’ve got one thanks.
‘Well read it then’
Roy, why does God appear to some people and not to others, why does it only happen to some people?
‘You have to be sincere, you have to believe. Look, it’s like the breeze, you can feel it. It’s there all the while, but you have to be sincere’.

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Saad and Salwa in their living room in Plaistow, London and their grapes in the yard they turned into a garden.

In the garden is an apple tree. It’s tethered from either side with string to keep it upright. Saad bent the branch towards his chest “last year we had eleven apples”. He pointed to the ground where the paving stones in his yard had been removed to make a garden. Spinach and celery grows amongst the weeds. An Elder grows in the corner.

A apricot tree stands in a space between two masionettes. The building is from the 1960s, it’s right angles and shadows have been softened by the take over of plants. Their home is on the ground floor and through the privets you can see the pavement and a nearby bus stop.

“It’s always raining and the the sun comes HERE” he spread his arms across the gap. Along the gable end of the block is a grape vine. It runs along a makeshift frame. It goes as far as it can and then tails off around the back. “At the back there is no light, the soil is no good’.

Inside the tv is on and Ireland are beating Italy in the rugby. On the wall are two boats framed in Arabic. “This is Noah’s Ark” Saad says. It is supposed to have started it’s journey from Iraq. On the other wall is a plastic dove. ‘My wifes name means bird of paradise, or beautiful bird’. The kitchen door moved slightly when he said this, and a triangle of coloured linoleum lit up the hallway.


In the front room he tells me about his job. He’s testing concrete on a huge tower thats being constructed in the City. He tests it for it’s quality, it’s ‘properties’ he says. He’s an engineer but can only really get these agency jobs working from site to site for about seven pounds an hour.”We put them into squares, leave them and then return to them. We put them under a lot of pressure. Concrete is cheap and quick to use, I’ve used it in Basra and Baghdad. We build low though, not high. We use white bricks, small and rectangular. When I started on the site here I had to take a dictionary. I know these materials but I couldn’t understand what people were saying”.


“All the houses in Iraq should have a garden. The houses should be horizontal, not vertical and the garden will smell beautiful, especially in the evening. Two flowers that I know would be in these gardens are jasmin and the rose. Iraqis never leave their garden without plants. You will see the date tree appearing over a garden wall from the road. Not every house will have a date tree, but you know, every third house or so. It’s famous, like the oak here. We like to grow and plant. I also think now of orange trees and fig trees in the north and grapes too”.

The streets smell of flowers. I played football in these streets and I remember playing until late at night, until ten o’clock. Football and mathematics are what I remember, Mr. Aden the teacher, he was well respected. I went to study soil science at the university in Baghdad, but after graduating there wasn’t any work. I tried setting up in business but then moved to Jordan where I married my wife.
In Iraq every family tries to live together. Your’e not allowed to leave the family, they never let you live somewhere else. If they don’t have enough space then they’ll think about buying a another place. They don’t like to let their sons go and they want their daughters to be living with her husband’s family. Every week they have to visit their mother and father.

When I left they were crying for years. My mother got worse and worse because of this and eventually had a stroke. She grew more and more unwell day by day as she couldn’t forget. It’s not just me though, every family that is exiled feels this. If I think of my family I will cry, straight away, I will cry.
Before I got married to my wife I was like a child that has lost its mother. I was always crying. I never slept”.

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Red seaweed in the postman’s home town.



The night before we’d driven along the coast road. I could hear the waves but couldn’t see a thing, all the same I felt like we were near the edge of something. When we arrived at his house there was short run through the rain from our van, a blue postal service issue. Entering through the cellar we took off our shoes and left them damp amongst the wellies, waterproofs and toys left by the grandkids. In the middle of the basement floor lay a the local newspaper, spread out like a blanket, it cradled about 20 purple potatoes, raw and precious like something usually kept form the light.

After dinner, lamb I remember, the old postman wondered off. I thought he’d gone to the living room but after calling his name and then seeing a light on in a small farm building from the kitchen window, his wife said he’d gone to feed the animals. The storm raged, and the rain battered the house on all sides. Though as the night wore on the sky became more clear. I headed out of the house, over a brook and up to the out building were the old man kept some sheep. Inside 5 or so rams shuddered. I was new here. A sink had been plumbed into the front part of the building and a plastic bucket that once held feed was now filled with rams horns sat like mussels waiting to be washed. ‘They’re used for ornaments’ he said before I could ask.

I stepped out into the night sky and looked up at her great body. It was hard to hold a steady viewing position with the wind blowing so hard. I could hear the waves hitting the beach and I knew they were close. That night, fast asleep, I’d walked into the bathroom at the postmans home. I remembered for a split second in the morning between reaching for the toast how I’d stood looking out of a rectangular window in the dark and imagining I was watching a scene playout from backhome, when in fact I was staring into the dark of the sea.


In the morning I could see where we were. It didn’t look so threatening. The storm had blown itself out and I pulled on my waterproof. As I left a young girl from the village arrived at the door. She’d come to have her hair cut by the old postman’s wife and I was shown the salon he’d built for her that linked to the basement near the wellies, the toys and the spuds.

I’d drank a lot of coffee and this heightened the moment I stepped out and felt the sea air on my face. I walked some 200 yards to the beach and was a little worried about standing on its black and beige mixed sand, it still looked charged from the previous night. A tree trunk had been washed up, for some reason part of it had been burnt. It started to rain again. I craned my neck backwards towards land, I wanted to get off the beach and so joined the road out the village. After ten minutes I walked out along a headland, an old lady watched me from the first floor window of her yellow corrugated iron clad house, but when I looked back she’d turned away. Although it was mid morning she sat by her window with the tabel light on. It was winter, but maybe she always did this.

Passing a boatshed I arrived at the small harbour, built to shelter the local fishing boats. The sea was dead calm, the kind which looks as though it is capable of unimaginable strength, in fact more like a kind of torque. The habour was empty of boats and along it’s concrete walls lay bunches of red seaweed thrown from the sea during the storm. All around it lay like an offering, a gift from the sea. At first I thought of flowers thrown but it wasn’t like this, it was more like pollen that had missed its target.

I sat there for a bit, took a photograph. I was told not to go down there when the weather was bad, the waves run right over taking whatever they want back into the sea. It was time to go to the next village. I walked back along the headland to the house and the grey waves rolled past, and the black beach waited to be hit. The house came into view. The postman’s dog sat under a street light in a light rain shower looking out to sea, a light went off in a home and the girl with her new hair drove across the valley to her young children.

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