I could smell the scorched earth and wood before I saw it. We were walking at John Muir Country Park a few weekends back, on a warm Sunday, and we’d decided to take the reverse route to our usual loop, walking along the side of the woodland that faces onto the salt marshes. I’d paused to take a video of a view through the trees on the edge of the woodland as the sunlight was catching the grasses in the breeze, and as I moved closer I thought, what is that smell? I knew what it was, but why… why could I smell burning?
Sometimes I’ll be chatting to someone and they’ll say exactly what I’ve been thinking but haven’t really put into words. And this was the case when I posted the above photo on Instagram last week and my friend Mattijs commented with: “It’s still a bit post-apocalyptic there, isn’t it?”
There’s always been something special about this place after the rain. In the old days, before Storm Arwen, the woodland felt heavy with rainwater, each individual pine needle of each individual pine branch holding a droplet, together making millions and millions of droplets of water gently held aloft by this wood. I always admired the way the tree trunks were blackened by the rain. It gave this woodland a different hue, a different mood; quiet and still and heavy and beautiful.
There’s a lot to appreciate about spring, obviously, but, for me, these moments are the ones that shift the whole feel of a week: when it’s light enough to head down the coast on a Wednesday evening and walk at John Muir as the sun is setting. That break in the week, shaking off the sluggishness that comes with hours spent at a desk. It doesn’t have to be a midweek walk: if I could drive, this would be my default walk any day. Getting in the car, driving for half an hour, and just being here. If I could drive, I wouldn’t be at my desk this evening writing this post. I’d be back here with the lads.
I don’t tend to share many throwbacks on Instagram, but this one was an exception – and it’s also encouraged me to dig back into the archives from the last few years and revisit (and share) some older photos with a fresh edit. This was John Muir Country Park on March 8 2020, and I hadn’t shared this photo at the time as the highlights were so fierce. It was one of those photos you take in the moment, and the light isn’t right, but you can’t resist capturing it anyway.
I’ve been wondering about trying something different here. One of the reasons I like Instagram is that you can let one photo tell a story. One photo that holds a memory or a moment. And that isn’t really reflected on a blog post with multiple images. So what about sharing some of those moments here too? It loosens up the format with short, loosely structured posts. And maybe it’s more personal. Why that photo? Why that moment? I thought I’d call this series #TakeOne.