There are walks close by, on the edge of our village, that I must have walked hundreds of times over the course of thirty years.
They become friends with whom I am familiar. I’ve seen them in different lights, clothed differently depending on the season. I’ve watched the hedgerows and trees grow. I know them so well, and yet sometimes I can walk them deep in thought, and be so indifferent to precisely how they look. And there are other times, when I see something new, and wonder why I hadn’t spotted that before.
The image here is from one such walk past a stand of poplars. I’ve photographed these trees covered in hoar frost, seen their trunks plastered by wind blown snow – a rare event around here. I’ve seen them at dusk. I’ve stood among them and heard the leaves whispering in the breeze.
It’s a very simple image past those poplars, across the ploughed up field to a solitary shapely tree. The sun was shining, the clouds were fluffy and white. Simple but weirdly special. Walking the familiar and seeing something new brings pleasure that is hard to describe. It displaces other thoughts and I return home refreshed.