“I rebel—therefore I exist.”
— Albert Camus
“Nature does not hurry, yet everything is accomplished.”
— Lao Tzu
Our first experience of Thursley Common was The Moat’s glacial calm. Its surface, a mirror-world of clouds and trees as tall as skyscrapers; in the distance, the sun strobes on the undergrowth. Stssick... Stssick sounds my shutter—these are postcards to future memories.
I used to haunt Thursley Common. Dawn or dusk—the margins of the day when the world is least touched by an audience—binoculars slung round my neck, or else a camera, the choice dictated by the time of year. Then the fire came, and the place—along with the locals—grew prickly and inhospitable. When my body joined the hostilities my focus shifted from nature to recovery.
Middle age has a way of wrapping us in cotton. This usually starts with an illness or an injury, followed by the inevitable lectures—“You’re not as young as you used to be,” or “You need to slow down”—and before you know it, you’re slowly retreating from everything that makes you vital, all the joy and meaning systematically excised, as if abstinence might somehow cheat nature.
During my recovery—a stretch of time that made a stay in purgatory look blissful—I was dominated by a torn calf muscle, torn shoulder ligaments, a rolled ankle, and the general incompetence of the medical establishment. I was aware that the warranty had expired but was not willing to trade quality for quantity. My third act would be one of rebellion.
But rebellion requires a plan.
I fired the physiotherapists—but kept the surgeon on the payroll, whose diagnostic abilities were exemplary—and traded my Nikons for a Sony mirrorless system. I cancelled the country club membership and steadily snipped away at all the trappings of middle-class comfort I had accumulated—including my career. And, crucially, I rebooted the training regimen that had kept me fit in my twenties.
With yet another tick on nature’s scorecard approaching, I asked my partner of twenty-five years to gift me a dog. T paired me with Juno, who inherited the vital force of her namesake—earning her the endearment Princess. (The other is Beanie; I’ll leave your imagination to dwell on that one.)
Training Juno—a German Pinscher—is a labour of love and a test of patience, lubricated by generous praise and treats. Chicken jerky is all right; lamb jerky gets her to do (almost) anything. Imagine training a finely-tuned huntress to sit idly by and wait whilst you set up your tripod, as the neighbourhood squirrels cheer you on. She is both stubborn and impervious to my guidance but—and this is important—became my second shadow by the second day.
I will never forget the uproar—and mess—she made when I placed her in her den. I will have none of that, Mon Dieu—the indignity! Since that night, she’s made herself at home: her bed, my side.
Since our partnership started, we’ve stacked up the miles, while my health and vitality have quietly improved. Over the last few weeks, Juno has graduated from park runs and local walks to extended rambles in the countryside.
Back at Thursley Common, we found signs of the devastating fire, including a scarred trio of trees next to the rebuilt boardwalk and—where the heather had been scorched—knee-high growth flowering defiantly through the relentless heatwaves this summer brought. The bog is mostly dry, the waterline receded, the Golden Club flowers retreating from the heat.
Juno takes the lead while I scout for images that tell the story of this landscape. By now, we’ve established a rhythm: Stop, followed by a treat and me fumbling with my Mamiya, and ending in Show! Shooting with a medium format camera is an exercise in patience—mine, certainly, but mostly hers. If I linger too long she yawns; her review process is refreshingly honest. Our negotiations are invariably settled with a treat.
Environmental photography demands time. So does the recovery of a scorched heath. The fire, started by some fool with a BBQ, took two days to subdue; its effects will not be so easily dispatched. Nature, like art, is a long game.
In the immediate aftermath, you search the embers for signs of life. Medium-term, you might reseed or plug-plant the worst-hit areas, recontour the bog, wage war against invasive species, and limit grazing. You could rewild the lot—though wattle fences and signs of enthusiastic cattle grazing suggest that’s not on the agenda.
As a heavy cloud-bank drifts in, the landscape is left saturated in uniform tones. Gone are the pillars of light that illuminate a wildflower here, a fern’s arm over there, or strobe through the leaves of tall trees. I pack the Mamiya away—film is now too expensive for the postcard business—and Juno’s tail resumes its oscillations.
It isn’t long before the eerie quiet of the heath strikes me. Gone are the sounds of birds calling, ducks quacking—mallards now numbering only a handful—and the scratchy song of the Dartford warblers. What remains is the soft whisper of the wind over the new growth and the crunch of boots in sand.
I avoid the old path—ravaged by tyres—through the heart of the old bog, not wanting to disturb any curlew that might have returned, as it’s too late for their piercing morning calls to be certain.
Juno is unimpressed. She halts, legs straining against me in protest, staring defiantly down the trail I’ve refused. Treats, then nudges, and finally, Heel!—negotiations concluded. At that moment a green woodpecker broke from cover, skimming over my left shoulder, its wild, bubbling laugh ricocheting hope across the heath.
Hope—like nature—lives eternal. The hobbies may return in the autumn, or an old memory may bring a migrant here next spring. As for the Dartford warbler—who knows where they’ve gone, or whether they will ever forgive the spring of 2020?
But Juno and I? We’ll just keep walking.
Studio News
Walking with Juno is the first essay in Margins of Safety, a project that looks to the thresholds where safety gives way to risk and ambiguity. Through fieldwork, writing, and fine art prints, the series will develop into a modular body of ten to twelve essays, each reflecting on how the land records both restraint and the cost of overreach. Over the next week I will flesh out the project’s goals, timeline, and key themes here and on Instagram, my main space for social media engagement.
That’s a wrap—thanks for reading! As ever, if you know anyone who’s into photography, visual storytelling or collecting finely crafted prints, feel free to pass this email on. Or just hit reply and let me know what you think, say “hi,” or anything else that pops into your mind!
Johan du Preez