I cannot tell how many hundreds of miles of trackways I have trailed since I seriously began country hiking on my own in about 1978.
Certain photos, such as this spot near Chettle, in north Dorset, remind me of when I was hungry and tired, and my dizzy exhilaration resembles nothing so much as a lover’s trance.
I force myself to pause and compose a shot, to give reverence to this moment. I feel this green place flows with green blood and my urge is to honour the eternal green moment echoing among fertile valleys of timeless green silence.
My body becomes as a planted pin on this map, as deeply rooted, as noiselessly noisy, as long established, as identifiably hairy and branchy as all of the surrounding flora within eyes reach.
Then I move on and I walk out into new places.
There is a complete, all-in-the-round island universe in that image.
In all these mysterious images, I am compelled by the rumble of love that was conceived in my breast to stand breathless and then I press the button. I allow the camera to let in the light. Some elements of the fifth dimension – the green magic – remain in the freeze-frame scenes.
The beauty of it is, that these magics are still here, are as clear to me now, and as familiar, as my first lover’s kiss