Hoping he’ll sleep for some time I grab my camera and hurry up the hill into the oldest part of the village. Not for the view – the cloud is so thick you can’t see over the ramparts – but for the narrow laneways, stone wall houses, the 12th century church and cemetery. In this misty light the medieval village looks ominous and moody.
Photography is all about light. I like the way the fog hides things. It reflects and diffuses. Fog and mist don’t usually create shadows. They hide things with light.
This paradoxical thought comes to me as I’m photographing the cross in front of the church. The very church the Catholics battled to regain in the Wars of Religion.
And right there I have my own writing epiphany. Connections are made. Religion and The Light. Dark as the absence of light, yet light is not the absence of dark. Evil hidden in the open. These connections resonate with the writing I’ve been doing in powerful and illuminating ways I’m only starting to unravel. You’ll forgive me for not being more specific. It’s going to take me the writing of a whole novel to understand them.