A biography of an incoming tide. Holkham Beach, Norfolk, England. Midwinter dawn. A day of gorgeous, magnificent, drizzle.
The beach at Holkham has one of the largest tidal ranges in England. Flanked on one side by the East Fleet river, the beach itself faces directly out into the North Sea. The tide moves in slowly at first, before gathering speed to walking pace, making a soft hissing sound as it creeps over the sand. Sandbanks quietly change shape before your eyes, before being gently devoured by the blanket of slow moving water.
On days like this the sky can act like a really diffuse lightbox, softly picking out subtle changes in shape, form, and texture. Nuances in the contours of sandbanks that on any other day would be lost in a sea of high contrast dynamics. Dawn itself was like someone bringing the lights up on a dimmer, waiting a bit, then quietly turning them down again at the end of the day. It was a welcome reminder to me that the soft, flat light in between, the damp drizzly “why oh why isn't it doing anything dramatic” light, can, in its own way, be absolutely beautiful.
