Sometimes bringing about change means you have to make enough people so irate they want to bring back lynching....
The Kaikoura township is named from the Maori, meaning roughly “a meal of crayfish”. The stretch of coast that bears its name is one of my favourite drives in the world. Whether in a sportscar or enjoying life's ramble in a campervan I never tire of its rugged beauty. But sometimes it can really seem like the edge of the earth, which I suppose it really is. I recall travelling north from Christchurch late one night in a driving primeval rain, the sort where your universe shrinks to the snick of the gear shift and the soft glow of the headlamps weakly seeking out the way ahead. On that part of the coastline where the road and rail share a narrow finger of land the mountainside had surrended to the elements and by the dark of the moon fallen into the sea. A solitary policeman swathed in oilskins stood on duty holding aloft a flare, a silhouette against a black night with the light flickering across his worn face. All night he guided travellers through the ruined stretch of road and with a wave of the hand bade them godspeed.
That same year but in better weather I was heading to to Picton with a friend to catch the Interislander, and we stopped just north of Kaikoura to pick up some seafood. Now normally I am strictly teetotal, but if enough people are likely to be seriously annoyed then I am willing to bend the rules. So it happened that the departing ferry found us sitting near the stern with a crayfish and bottle of Marlborough sauvignon blanc while the rest of the ship's company had mince on soggy toast, railway pies and generic beer from the cafe. I see lately the food has inproved and an anouncement is made that consuming food and drink not purchased on board is STRICTLY FORBIDDEN. Sometimes I lie awake at night thinking please oh please dear Lord let that be my fault.
And speaking of being annoying on ferries, here is how to embarrass Scottish sailors. Boarding the 6am ferry from Tarbert to Skye after a brief stay on the Isle of Lewis, and after our car had been loaded, I noticed a good number of the ship's crew standing around on the stern ramp waiting to close it. As you do, I pulled out my camera and called out “right lads, line up!” I swear a good third actually blushed. They fled into the depths of the ship leaving their supervisor alone and wearing the expression of a naked man locked out of his hotel room.
I had been on the Outer Hebrides to photograph the standing stones of Callanish. That trip triggered an interest in both megaliths and lighthouses. Do you have something you love to photograph? Is it a joy or an obsession? Sometimes the border between the two can blur. Sometimes the joy and obsession become one and like a car on a road at the edge of the world I am driven. Standing stones are one of the few things about which I feel I have something original to say in my photography. Something of my “own voice” I suppose. The climate has weathered faces and expressions in many of their features, and though much of what made these places special has departed long ago, when standing before them with a camera I still feel an echo of the past and an awareness of their presence. They have watched over the mountains and valleys of Britain and Europe for some four thousand years, and raise more questions than they answer. Do they suffer the weariness and neglect that shipwreck our mortal hearts? Do they understand when I have cause to give thanks to some new Stevenson as I play the ship to fate's Bell Rock?
To do something fresh with with what has passed may well be beyond my powers, but I have learned to place my trust in following the things I love. Taking something that I love doing and being fortunate enough to be able to explore its possibilities has led me to some strange and wonderful places. Places of the spirit.
There is no doubt in me that the love of what we do will carry us safely through all our endeavours. And I can see a time ahead when, of the ones dear to me, more will have left this world than remain behind, and for those gone ahead the love for them in my heart will become a true compass and I will quietly put aside my toys and step surefootedly across into that last mystery to be with them again where the Maker of all that is gently lifts us onto His knee and with a smile brushes away our tears.
It is love that underlies Michael's gift of this web site to us. (And not forgetting Chris and those who help them).
Similarly you who contribute to this forum. You know who you are.
Thank you.
The death of love. It will never happen.
Godspeed.
