Hollow

A sunken lane, three quarters of a mile long. Narrow, dark, mysterious. It’s quiet here, aside from the odd rustle in the brambles.

To travel its length is to shuffle, wander, stoop, occasionally stumble. This is a slow place. Obscure and unpopular, it’s hidden away, and I am glad of that. It feels like mine, mine to explore and discover.

From the moment I first set foot here, I knew it was special, and the longer I spent inside, the more I was drawn back, each visit as enchanting as the last. During the weeks that I made these photographs, I dreamt of little else. Returning in my sleep, the visions were so real, so vivid, that I half expected to wake and find I’d captured new images during the night.

A tunnel of earth and nettles, roots and shadows, hundreds of years in the making. It’s utterly haunting.

~

This time it’s different. At the entrance to the path lies the body of a deer. I stand and stare for longer than I should, then drag myself away, try to concentrate, and plod on.

But something’s changed - it seems smaller, closer, more restrictive. I look up, peer through the branches and catch my breath. I watch a buzzard circling overhead until it vanishes into the low cloud.

The deeper I go, the darker it gets, and it’s colder too. Maybe my time here has come to an end. Having given me so much, perhaps it’s now ready to share its secrets with somebody new.

Suddenly my heart’s racing. I panic and start to run, scratching and cutting my skin in the undergrowth. I am not welcome here. With the end in sight, I keep going, stagger into the light, and don’t look back.