At the beginning of the month, I went out to the top of Hart Hill, where a large field of whiskery barley covers the gentle camber of the hill. On that particular day, the sun was awol and the rain intensifying, so I didn’t stay long, though long enough to delight at the way the barley kept darting in the breeze like tiny startled fish.
We returned to Hart Hill yesterday evening under blue skies and mellow sunlight to find the barley’s whiskers even more pronounced and silvered, the field resembling an improbable crop of snare brushes. The view shimmered with greens, golds, reds and silvers, thousands of rustling whiskers lighting up with the sinking sun like fibre-optics.
So no, not fish this time, but rather the feathers of rushing pheasants or the flashing fur of big cats, and always the impression these photographs are comprised of paint, not pixels. More to follow – actually many more! (I couldn’t help myself!).