I am not an early riser, in point of fact, given the opportunity I would probably not be a riser full stop. Alas, though, our pastimes get the better of us and force us from our womblike beds out into the bright, deadly world to produce work. Sometimes even art.
The day was bitterly cold and the first flushes of light were mixing with the inky sky to herald in the morning. Snow had kissed the high ground, so I had abandoned my original plan of a drive to Pendle Hill on the assumption that the roads would be impassable, clogged arteries, certain death. I headed to the opposite end of our mill town valley to Hurstwood; a spot that I had yielded some success from just a week prior. Maybe today was the day. Maybe the frostbite on my face and the shuddering of my shoulders was sacrificial offering enough to the mysterious forces that lord over such concerns. It wasn’t though.
The sky turned a vivid pink too soon, and it was immediately clear that at the height of the sunrise show I would be considerably far away from the stadium. From my miserable outfield vantage point I could see that the sky above Pendle Hill, so many miles and one poor decision hence, was enjoying the sort of lightshow that all photographers dream of, and I yelled curse words into the wind so that it heard the wailings of my Judas’d heart.
I arrived at my chosen site and stared in dull frustration at the total non-event that was my subject. I really shouldn’t be allowed to make decisions, but I made another one anyway and headed straight back down the hill to the car.
It may have been too late, I may have missed the carnival in the clouds, but I drove straight back to Pendle Hill along annoyingly clear roads to the site I was originally supposed to be at and got the God damned shot. It may not have been the award winning capture I had dreamed of, but for an early start I had at the very least put the day out of its misery. I will not be waking up early again.
