The Last Light of Winter – Cley-next-the-Sea, Norfolk, England

Cley next the Sea is a quiet Norfolk village where sky and water appear to dissolve into one another. Narrow streets thread past weathered flint cottages before opening onto vast salt marshes that recede slowly toward the horizon, their character continually reshaped by light, tide, and season. Rising above this low, elemental landscape stands Cley Windmill, a solitary and enduring presence set against expansive skies. Together, village, marsh, and windmill form a landscape that feels unhurried and timeless, shaped as much by atmosphere as by geography.

In many respects, my favourite time to photograph these marshes is during the subdued winter months. The absence of visitors allows the landscape to breathe, and the sense of solitude becomes part of the composition itself. Without distraction, the subtler qualities emerge: muted tonal transitions, softened edges, and a heightened awareness of sound. The air feels dense with natural presence—wind brushing dry reeds, distant water, the occasional wingbeat—an environment that encourages patience and observation.

Cley Windmill is one of Norfolk’s most recognisable icons. In a county defined by flat fenlands and wide skies, it stands as a testament to centuries of human interaction with wind and water. The mill’s form is inseparable from the prevailing winds that have shaped both its function and its setting, anchoring it firmly within this austere and quietly powerful landscape.

This image is one of only two sheets of 4×5 large format film exposed that afternoon. From memory—it must have been February—sections of the reeds had already been cut by local reed cutters, their careful work destined for traditional thatched roofs. The day was cold and largely still, an unusual calm that lent itself perfectly to large format photography. With little wind to disturb the scene, the marsh revealed a rare sense of balance and order, ideal for transparency film and a slow, deliberate approach.

There had been a persistent bank of cloud sitting low on the horizon, intermittently obscuring the sun and filtering its warmth from the scene. Rather than rushing, I waited—watching the light slowly gather colour as the sun edged lower, its angle becoming ever more sympathetic to the marshes. Large format photography encourages this kind of patience; the image often reveals itself only when the light finally aligns with intent. As the cloud thinned, I was able to draw the final remnants of winter sunlight from the landscape, coaxing warmth into the reeds and subtle separation into the sky. The first sheet of film was perfect, the light rich and resolved. By the time I exposed the second sheet, the sun had weakened, its presence diluted, and the illumination had taken on a paler, more watery quality—still beautiful, but unmistakably diminished.

I worked with my trusted rosewood Wista 4×5 field camera, a beautifully crafted object in its own right, with leather bellows and brass fittings worn smooth through years of use. For this image I selected a Schneider Kreuznach APO-Symmar 120 mm f/5.6 lens which is about equivalent to a 35mm lens on a 35mm camera. This focal length allowed me to embrace the sweep of the marshes while keeping the windmill firmly embedded within its landscape rather than isolating it as a singular motif.

The camera was set level on my Giottos carbon-fibre tripod, and I added about 1cm of front standard rise with a small degree of front tilt to keep the foreground in focus. This all helped to preserve a sharp rendering of the horizon and verticals. As the light began to fall, I moderated the tonal range using an 85A warming filter and a light grey graduated neutral-density filter to hold back the sky and balance separation and contrast. I exposed Fuji Velvia 50 QuickLoad transparency film, rated at EI 32 despite its age, trusting in careful storage and familiarity with the material. The final exposure was approximately half a second at f/22, a duration that introduced a subtle ripple of movement through the reeds—just enough to animate the frame while preserving the underlying stillness of the winter marsh.

Large format photography is never about speed. It demands forethought, presence, and a willingness to wait. Arriving early, setting up without haste, and allowing the landscape to reveal itself reduces technical error but also deepens emotional connection. Slowing down heightens the senses: the damp, mineral scent of mud and salt, the cold air on the skin, the subtle shifts in light that pass unnoticed in faster forms of photography. In moments like these, the act of photographing becomes almost meditative, focused intently on the careful, considered act of capturing the image while remaining deeply attentive to place.