Out on the hills in North Wales with my mates in winter. Ffynnon Llugwy, looking like a heart, in the Ogwen Valley in Snowdonia in North Wales.
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.
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.
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.
‘When I was younger I had to make a decision. Would I go to sea, probably to fish off Iceland, it was the 60’s and this is where the fishing was, or would I stay and look after my mother. I stayed. I found my world in books and history’Faroese shepherd on the hills in winter near Sumba in the far south of the Faroes.Continue Reading
I made this slideshow after recording some audio on my trip to Caerdegog Uchaf farm last winter. I prefer my work to feature as still photographs with words, but in the interest of getting this story shared it made sense to put together a piece with audio too.Continue Reading
I recorded this audio on a long walk around anglesey last spring. I’m curious what sound can make us feel about landscape. The sounds are as follows; birdsong in the trees that grow amongst the ruins of a mansion in the north of the island. The swell from the Atlantic breaking in the rock pools near Maltraeth. The sound of a Welsh Chapel service that was put together as a fundraising event for the nuclear disaster in Japan and the sound of jet engines overhead near RAF Valley.Continue Reading