Have you ever walked into a space and ‘felt something’? Some kind of hushed atmosphere, perhaps a sense of presence or a slowing of the mind? Maybe you wandered into a silent grove of trees and stopped, suddenly aware of a quiet watching; maybe you walked into a vaulted cathedral or a temple and felt the weight of history and hundreds of years of accumulated prayer.

We are deep into winter, only a month or so to go before the snowdrops and daffodils begin to venture from the earth. But there still stands, in sheltered places, the bleached skeletal remains of the summer past - delicate and intricate reminders of the verdant life that, six months ago, was swelling with green abundance.

Walking through a forest at night, your torch casts its weak glow, illuminating the silvery, leering trunks and casting dancing shadows which leap and loom against a deep black void. All you can know about is that which your torch beam lights up; everything beyond its reach falls into the realms of the unknown. Seen and unseen, known and unknown, consciousness and unconsciousness.

One of the best things about shooting at night is the wildlife.

Whatever is fitted in any sort to excite the ideas of pain, and danger, that is to say, whatever is in any sort terrible, or is conversant about terrible objects, or operates in a manner analogous to terror, is a source of the sublime; that is, it is productive of the strongest emotion which the mind is capable of feeling.