​In 2020, during the pandemic, I discovered photography. Restricted to my local area, I woke early to photograph sunrises and stayed up late to capture sunsets near my home. The images were made on my phone and were technically poor, but they marked the moment I realised I wanted to become a photographer.​ During a period of self-doubt, I deleted those early photographs. I blamed the location, believing I needed to leave and make work elsewhere in order to improve. I was mistaken. I regret cutting them; their absence has since become part of the story.​

​Down the Lane reflects on the urge to leave and outgrow a place I once resented. By continuing to make work close to home, I have retained the physical limitations that shaped the beginning of my practice and re-established my connection to the place.​

​At that time of first shooting in 2020, I only worked in what I believed were “ideal” conditions. If light was absent, before sunrise or after sunsets I would capture, I would not make photographs. I had unknowingly limited myself. This series challenges that earlier mindset. Returning to the same spots I photographed during lockdown, I now work during twilight, when natural light is minimal and visibility is uncertain. These conditions lead me to look closer and make the most of any available light.​

​Twilight exists on the edge between night and day. This in-between state reflects my experience of lockdown: a period balanced between normality and disruption, optimism and pessimism. It also mirrors what it feels like to be a young adult, where things often lack certainty and definition.​

​This everyday landscape surrounding my home is both my subject and my anchor, a constant within a continual state of change in my life. Over the years, walking these lanes in near darkness, often alone with only a flashlight, has become contemplative. I enjoy the silence, occasionally broken by an owl, a passing car or gust of wind. In 2020, they were rare moments of solitude within a time defined by confinement.​

​Revisiting these spaces now carries a quiet nostalgia, alongside a recognition of personal and shared change. The familiarity is calming, allowing me to focus on observation rather than novelty. It will always be nearby, and I can always return to it.