The Sunlight At My Feet by The Narratographer

The Sunlight At My Feet by The Narratographer

There is no better place in the world to watch the birth of a morning sun.
Glynn was my uncle. Well, he wasn’t actually my uncle, he was my mothers cousins husband (I have no idea what that made him to me). I think its second-cousin-once removed-in-law. Or something like that :). Either way, he was quite possibly the most gentle, most decent person I have ever had the opportunity to meet. He had lived in Corfe for the last thirty or so years, having moved down here from Huddersfield when he was in his early twenties. He met his soon to be wife, got married and never returned north. He never lost his accent, but he became a Dorset man, through and through. Up until about 18 months ago, I barely knew him, but spent the latter part of 2014 really getting to know him. He liked me and became a bit of a father figure. He showed huge interest in my photography, his favourite ever image being one I took of Corfe a few months before. He loved to see how it looked in the mist and sunrise from the top of the hill and he would offer me suggestions on where I should go to get the best views. This hill was his favourite place and although he had gotten older and could not longer bring his dogs up here for walks, he used to tell me how this hill gave the best views of the castle and village. He was one of the most popular people in the village and he would often frequent the local British Legion. He took me in there a few times, introducing me as his “nephew, the photographer”. He knew everyone, and everyone knew him. What’s more important, everyone who met him, liked him. They loved him, in fact. He was such a kind person and one of the funniest people I have ever met. He was a giant of a man, at least 6ft 4 but built like a coat hanger; wiry and slight. But his heart was as big as all of Dorset and he is missed sorely. He died suddenly last January. Ever since then, I haven’t been able to come back to this hill to take photos. That was until this morning. I am happy with this image, I wish I could have shown my “uncle.”
I arrived at Corfe Castle at just after 5.45am, when the sky was still dark and my path invisible. Slowly, I made my way upwards, letting my memory guide my burning feet and was accompanied by nothing but the eerie silence. A cockerel crowed in the distance, most likely annoyed that I was awake before him. He sounded flustered and irate; I am sure that howl was for me.
After what seemed like too long, I arrived at the top of the hill with aching legs and stretched lungs. There was a little more light at the top, thanks to the moon that still sat perched above the clouds and for once its beams were not broken by the trees. I could see the path I needed to follow, that snaked down and around the top of the hill, flanked on either side by furs and gorse. Eventually, I made my way into position.
The hill was deserted. The moon vanished behind the gathering clouds and once more I was plunged into darkness. The rustle of the bushes and trees began to echo in my ears. I heard something scamper into a nearby bush as I stood in position, waiting for the sun to rise. Slowly, the darkness lifted and I was faced with this…

The Narratographer: Photos