Photos by Phoenix

That was the summer, that was...

Well, there it was. An unbelievably hot summer in Central Europe curtailed only by my arrival in England. Sorry.

Cornwall still managed to look wonderfully romantic as it made it’s early entry into autumn, though.

And hey, there's always the traditional 'Indian Summer' to look forward to. When are we going to admit that this phenomenon is now an English Summer...? I'm booking my flight for late Autumn when I know I'll get some sunshine!

A show of strength

There’s a saying that I heard near Land’s End a little while back: “The nuts always fall to the bottom of the stocking”. I think there’s a lot of truth to that. You’ll certainly find the odd lemon further up, but there have always seemed to be more nuts in Cornwall than you’ll find elsewhere in the British Isles. (And yes, I count myself among them)

Every year I’m reminded of this when battle season approaches. No one local ever really bats an eye at men wandering around in full chainmail, or more often in torn leather and fur, flesh smeared in woad. Tintagel could be mistaken for Bree, the Wharncliff or the Arthurs’ for the Prancing Pony or the Green Dragon. Welcome to Middle Earth, South West. Warriors, bards and sages from every layer of antiquity carousing just slightly louder than is natural, proudly showing off their latest scars and bruises to wenches of indeterminate origin.

“So then I hear the order to regroup and fall back, but Ironhead’s helmet has slipped, an’ ‘is ears are still ringing from the blow, ‘an ‘eee just sees me turn and drop my guard – sees ‘is chance and takes this almighty upswing and catches me right here… two ‘ander with full momentum… you can imagine, I was practicing me Anglo Saxon niceties for a full thirty seconds… I mean, I’ll heal, but it’s going to take an age to get the dents out of me armour now Roger’s retired. This one? Nah, that’s from last year: me trike decided to get intimate with a tree at high speed with me still on it….”

Anything goes in London, yet somehow it wouldn’t quite work. It would look and feel like play-acting. But it’s normal here. This is reality. Some of these guys spend the majority of their year dressed like this, at battles around the country or on film sets hitting old friends for a living. In Character has become Their Character. And wandering home after the pubs chuck out, head full of single malt, nothing could feel more fitting than breathing the blustering night air, the sound of the sea shaking in the trees, and random celts shambling back to their tents all around me.

In most cases the wounds and bruises are accidental, but this year there was one battle which was for real. One chap brought his birds of prey to display some traditional falconry and hunting. All very well, but we have some hunting birds of our own down here. A couple of Peregrines from the cliffs decided to let them know exactly whose territory this is. One of them dived and hit the Harris Hawk in flight. Luckily it was a clear “get your arse out of here” message rather than a dive to kill, and the falconer was able to get the hawk back down and out of harm’s way. A few more seconds, he said, and it might have been too late. Meanwhile, the mock battle continued a few yards away, its edge diminished somewhat by the unnoticed touch of authenticity.

My Space

It was all about the Moon. It broke the horizon and all the tension that had built up in me flooded out with every breath, just as I had known it would, and I knew I had been right to remain here in Tintagel for this moment.

Sure, there’s plenty I need to get on with in London, but there’s time. Besides, I’ve done well over the last couple of weeks, compressing all that needed to be done into concentrated time, colourful and saturated. Not so much amphetamine; more Sunny D. But I’ve earned myself a rest. Stretch the time out, let it rest and breathe, and me with it.

So I’m staying a few extra days here. There’s time. And there’s the Moon.
As soon as I’d made the decision to remain here, I knew where I wanted to wanted to be when the Moon rose. There’s a stone circle on the moors. Not well-known, nor big and clever. And unless you know the name of the circle, you’ll never find it. No signs saying ‘hippies - this way’, just one small name plate a hundred yards away.

But many’s the wind-blown night I’ve spent up there in years past. A flask of coffee, a candle, a camera and a cape. The Four Cs of successful Lunacy.

I wanted some pictures that connected the elements of the scene: the clear air between the stars, the tidal moon, the fire of the candle-lantern, and the ancient stones straining up from the earth. But for all their straining, they don’t make it very far into the tall, clear skies; they’re a bit on the short side. So I found myself getting lower and lower until I embraced the inevitable, checked for cowpats, and got down and dirty on my belly.

Suddenly I was breathing the sharp salt earth that I’ve missed so much. So much of a land clings within it’s fragrance. I shot most of the pictures here while supine (hand-held, if you’re wondering – tripods are for tremble-shaky wusses) but it was mainly an excuse to stay there, rolling around in the coarse wild grasses, filling my lungs with my beloved.

I hope you like the atmosphere of these pictures. One day we will digitally capture the smell of ocean-blown moors and the texture of stone and sedge on hands and face and the myths and legends of these lands will come to life.

Now. Where’s that flask?

Full Moon, Stone Circle

In the spirit of posting news and images as they happen, here's a couple of images of the full moon tonight, as seen from Stannon stone circle on Bodmin Moor. It's all about being there....

It felt great to be in 'My Space' again, and though I felt grounded, the atmosphere of the shots was anything but. I'll sift through the other images tomorrow morning and put up a selection.

Girl Walking Away (one of a series)

Have you ever felt sure of something? I mean, really deep-down sure, not some rational well-thought-out concept, but a cellular knowing? I did once. It all started when I chanced upon a photograph I’d taken of a girl I’d just started seeing. I was sat on a train at the time, cup of max-pax coffee steaming up the window, pulling 6x4s out of the 1-hour photo bag, and there was this grainy black and white of a girl on a covered bridge, big coat and tentative glance, and I recognised her. Not my mind, or my memory; something else.

“Oh. There’s my wife.”

My mind, which had been scrabbling behind trying to get a view finally pushed it’s way to the front and made its own assessment.

“Oh, bollocks.”

Too late.

Have you ever wanted that surety? The security of really knowing? A break from all that internal conflict, an end to personal doubt. No more ‘is he, isn’t she’, it’s all settled now: breathe a sigh of relief.

The wedding was yesterday. Yeah, you guessed it, I wasn’t there to wish her well. By a strange quirk of Fate (and yes, I do still believe in Fate. What a muppet; go figure…) I found myself in the very place where we parted. In the very place where this photo was taken. (I should point out that I also believe in Cosmic Irony. Eternity can drag if you don’t have a sense of humour, I’m sure.)

What of it? I don’t know, really. No, really, I don’t know what to make of it all, even after all this time. What can you do when the deepest part of you is proved wrong? Move on, I guess. I’m as much a fan of mystery as I am of understanding; it’s just that there are times in my life when I wish they would swap places.

Funny thing is, none of this occurred to me during the day. I’d forgotten completely. Sat on the train, coffee steaming up the window, pulling contact sheets from the envelope, staring out at the sea. No revelations; my heart and body silent on the subject. Mercifully silent. I coursed through the swathes of Cornish sea-mist, all the way back to Tintagel. Full circle. And just as I was lying in bed, headphones on, falling asleep with Kate Bush, it occurred to me. Oh. Charlotte’s married.

No images of veils or dresses, vows or kisses. Just a memory of two grainy black and white images: a girl on a bridge, and a girl walking away.

home again

Returning home is strange thing. Spend a while away, and you begin to wonder where home is, where it ever is. I’ve spent so much of my life sleeping on sofas, ever the gypsy, that I tend to make my home wherever I lay my head. But I kind of got out of the habit of late; got into planning… Land, responsibility, and a longer view of time… but here I am sleeping on a sofa again, and I feel content. It’s a homily, I know, but home really is a state of mind. It was a different sofa yesterday, and it’ll be a different one tomorrow, but it will still be home, and it’s great to be back.
On the way to yesterday’s sofa I walked back across Waterloo Bridge, scene of so many of my crucial moments in life (what is it about bridges?) and noticed two things. The first is that Cardboard City has gone. This is no news to most people in London, but it was the way in which it was gone that I found noticeable: big boarded up areas where the city used to be (what goes on inside there now?) and glittering lights and passageways making the familiar shapes look arty. Memory’s a funny thing. I find myself wondering if it’s always been this way, whether my attempts to recreate the old landscape there are just some weird dystopian exercise in illusion.
Where did everyone go?
The second thing of note was that in addition to Cardboard City, London as a whole is more illuminated than last time I was here. And while I can’t speak for London’s occupants in this respect, they do at least seem smiley, animated, alive. That’s what being away does; you notice different things when you come back, find new things to compare. People still walk into me as though I’m partially permeable (I had to buy a filter to protect the lens against such collisions – front elements are notably non-permeable to all but light) but they were always nice, always smiley and apologetic.
But there was light everywhere. Colour. A vibrant celebration of the shapes of London. I found that I’d stopped walking. I was staring not out across the river, but at a stark profile picked out in violet. Good God. It’s the Carbuncle. I’ve stopped walking toward the welcoming arms of tonight’s sofa of choice, and I’m staring at – appreciating – the Great Carbuncle of the Southern Shore. So that’s what this is about. Shine some ultra-violet at any old piece of nonsense or ugliness and it becomes art. And as another passerby bumps into my static form I realise that this superficial illumination of London and Londoners has worked: I’m standing here smiling back.