Having shown my dad my new/old/light-leaky camera he disappeared into his office. With the sound of intense stationary rustling from upstairs I had visions of principal Skinner stuck under stacks of paper for days. My dad has a knack of finding long lost (tidied away) things, and he emerged with a camera in hand. The Olympus OM10, and Oh My was it 10 out of 10. Terrible, I know. That's not really what OM stood for! (Ahem.)
a mini history interlude
So, Olympus brings out this range of SLRs in 1972, with the first model being called the M-1. Leica was all like "mate." as they already had an M1, so Olympus was like, "yeah, fine, alright." and renamed the system 'OM'. O for Olympus and M for Maitani (Yoshihisa Maitani was the chap who designed them).
Up Butt Hill (this is not funny, I am an adult), and down past Starcross to Cockwood's harbour (shh), I wandered under a railway bridge over the water. I grew up in this area and had never ventured on to the other side of the tracks. I'm typing and backspacing a lot right now as I'm struggling to convey how I felt when facing the estuary... I had this immediate internal conflict as to whether I would keep this place all to myself (and the couple of mussel pickers in the far distance) or use it as an edgy go-to date spot. Never had mud looked so romantic. I take that back. I also don't want to think about it too much. Anyway. It was overwhelmingly gorgeous and all the better for being on my doorstep this entire time.
Shooting my first roll with the OM10 (Fujifilm Superia 200) was this odd cocktail of familiar but fresh. A gin and tonic with like, passion fruit in it, or something. Looking back over the photos reminded me of stories from my childhood and early teens, but it also made me feel like I'd only dipped my toe into what was to be found around my home- hidden forest nooks and dirt paths up narrow cliff walkways, sheer drops either side.
The first photo I took with the OM10- out of the window at the top of the stairs. My neighbours planted a Christmas tree years ago. It never really stopped growing, and now it holds the title of Kenton's tallest tree. It doesn't, but it should.
My parents used to have a little boat like these. They kept it in the garden. I remember the day a man walked past and asked if he could buy it. I think I was picking cherries from the tree at the top of the drive. The tree, like the boat, is gone now.
This is a relatively new cycle bridge over the railway that runs through Exeter towards coastal towns like Dawlish and Paignton. The path after the bridge leads to a pub, the Turf Hotel, my first job. I ran food, cleared tables and washed dishes.
Lots of forests surround my village, mostly private- younger Sam found an old tire in one of them and proceeded to chase it down a hill. Later, I was told it contained squirrel poison, so, naturally I figured death was imminent.
This is one of my favourite metal structures on the estuary. I always had a fascination with metal things as a kid. I used to fill my pencil case at school with nuts and bolts and odd paper clips I'd find on the floor. It was a really heavy pencil case.
Hanging from the tree near the bridge in the distance was once a rope-swing. My brother lost his shoe to the water on one daring over-stream swoop. My grandparents used to tell us how there were eels in its depths. I still look to see if I can spot any.
Around this time a thick mist rolled over Exeter. The city's new coat suited it, a costume for the old buildings' imagined roles in some theatrical Georgian or Victorian gothic horror. A couple months previous, I moved back to Devon from Singapore. The mist there was more of a far-away-palm-oil-burning-that-leads-to-dangerous-breathing-conditions-so-much-so-that-one-occasionally-should-not-leave-the-house haze. Scarier than spooky water vapour.
With a white winter sky, the seafront walkway from Dawlish Warren to Dawlish takes on a bleakness. You'll hear waves washing pebbles across one another with a long grind- in fact, I feel like this is where I learnt to skim stones.
In the summer tourists from around the UK come to visit Dawlish. It's warmer down in the south. On sunny days you'll see people carrying hot sugared doughnuts and taunting each other to walk as far as they dare down the beach's slippery groynes.
This pile of logs was at the side of the path on one of my favourite childhood walks. The Magic Walk, complete with secret woodland routes, an oaken portal, stepping stones, a troll tunnel, endless steps and an abandoned witch's hut.
I was called Four Eyes once in a game of 'It' on a campsite when I was about 11. I found it funny. But, with my Dad's old OM10, I felt like Five Eyes- not only because of the extra lens, but, the fact that I felt like I was seeing more around me.