As some of you will know, over the last two or three weeks I have been doing my fair share of traipsing, across the towns and countryside of Norfolk. Acts of idiocy this winter, I fear. I made the trip to Cromer first of all, looking out of my skylight and seeing glistening ice and snow on a cloudless, bright morning. The idea was to try out one or two new photographic techniques around Cromer pier, making the most of the morning light, then to spend the afternoon sipping tea and writing letters to a few friends, before returning to my work in the early evening, to capture some more scenes with the additional glow of street lights.
You’d think that a plan so simple wouldn’t fail. Not a bit of it.
Even with a pair of thermal gloves over the fingerless gloves that are so necessary to outdoor winter photography, my hands began to freeze the moment I stepped off the bus. As I walked, a chilling wind froze the blood in my cheeks, and the sunshine that had convinced me to get out and enjoy the day had not, shall we say, travelled well. All in all, I found myself battling frostbite and Arctic winds, and my immediate thought upon my arrival was that if I really wanted to photograph Cromer on a cloudy day, there would be plenty of opportunities in the summer, when the temperatures wouldn’t be so – I’m going to say it - dangerous.
I walked straight to a café, reminding myself as I did so that even in this biting coastal cold, eleven o’clock on a Monday morning would be no time for whisky, however medicinal. I walked to a café and I stayed in it. Letters were written, tea intake was profuse, and, at length, I managed to pluck up some courage to venture outside for some tentative shooting. So much for the morning sunshine, although I was eventually happy to get some work done!
Things were a trifle more pleasant in and around Horsey Mere, the following Sunday afternoon – though, mind, only a trifle. To say nothing of the temperature in the wintry Norfolk Broads, the footpath leading to the derelict 18th century Brograve Mill was… well, it was, er, not a footpath at all, but a messy hodge-podge of grass, mud, reeds, puddles and marshland. Not such an easy afternoon as Cromer was, clearly. Stomping around with a good friend, I spent two hours testing our friendship with a barrage of half-humorous moans and groans, about things like the water entering my walking boots, the cold, the wrong turns we took. At the end of the afternoon I began to realise precisely why nobody likes me – although we did find tremendous solace in a nearby pub, decorated throughout with paraphernalia from the British Empire. Amongst scythes, knives and guns galore, on one wall hung a shrunken, preserved crocodile skin, just at the size and level you might expect of a timetable in a bus stop. Surreal as you like. Robin and I repaired our friendship over a Wherry, and pootled back to Norwich.
My most recent expedition took me to Thetford Forest late last month. The previous day had been gleamingly sunny; the day following the trip was only a trifle more cloudy. What came in between was nothing short of cruel. The bus journey took us out of a rather foggy Norwich, and into a thickly foggy Norfolk countryside, which lifted by around midday, giving way to heavy sleet and, eventually, snow. Utterly miserable, though, I do agree, the foulest of days spent in the countryside is often better than a good day in the office, and in spite of the blasted weather, my cohort John and I managed to make a fun walk of it, getting gloriously lost in the forest, before finding our way up to the village of Brandon, where, we discovered, you can have your hair restyled and get a tattoo, but you cannot get a cup of tea on a miserable, wet, freezing cold February afternoon. Glad to return home – although, of course, I’ll be even more glad to get back out there IN BETTER WEATHER!
No comments:
Post a Comment