Picture the scene; I was driving down the M1, I am wondering why there is a faint, yet significant burning smell emanating from underneath the front of my car, my blood pressure is reaching the same fever pitch as my stress levels as I wait for the car to explode and then I see it. To my left, and despite the 82mph speed my car is currently travelling, I see the perfect shot, the perfect photograph for the way my mind and my eyes are currently focusing. And the real bugger is, that is all goes past me, eminently out of reach, in very, very slow motion.
From the outside, fast lane of the M1 motorway I see it framed perfectly. I try to ignore and adhere to the imploring tones of my wife to “keep my bloody eyes on the road” but the flicker back and forth relentlessly.
There, to my left, beyond the slow lane, behind the wooden fencing is my visual paradise. A vivid, almost luminescent field of glowing yellow rapeseed flowers wafting in the wind as they surround a crumbling, stone barn building that some artistic wonder has created a sublime mural upon. I smile, I yelp, I whoop with joy, inside and out and then the pain kicks in as it suddenly whips past me and out of my life in very real time, for ever and a day or two.
I can see it framed perfectly, it would have been my signature photograph, the one that announced my arrival on the photography landscape, my Xanadu. But it was not meant to be, in fact I’m sure it wasn’t real and merely a result of the vapours and fumes rising from beneath the bonnet of my car, a vile and heady mixture of chemicals and what could have been..
I suppose that I can always console myself with the picture that only I can see, but that would be a downright lie. It’s two weeks later now and the open wound is still open, still festering. Yep, it is still pissing me off, but I will get over it!
However, I did go on a lovely jaunt to Bolsover castle a week later and that partially made me feel better….