The stories behind the pictures

Sometimes you just get lucky...

Every once in a while all the hard work pays off, and you find yourself in the right place, at the right time. There's no way I could have anticipated this shot. Foxes have a playful side to them, which doesn't always come across...



April blizzard... from a recent book, Dawdling through the Dales

Limestone pavements appeal to photographers, which is why I was contacted, out of the blue, by an advertising agency in Florida. The guy (I'll call him Greg, because that was his name) explained that his company was producing a television advert. It was to be one of those hi-tech extravaganzas, utilising just about every visual trick in the book. Dolphins would leap up waterfalls and turn into butterflies, and a beautiful woman would walk across an expanse of limestone pavement and... well, I rather lost track after that. But you get the general idea.

The upshot was that Greg wanted to fly to Yorkshire for three days, to get pictures of limestone pavements. What he wanted were sequences of still shots that, by means of computer wizardry, could later be dovetailed into the animated advert. I was to act as both photographer and guide. I named my price, Greg agreed, and a few days later we met up for breakfast at his hotel in Skipton. Having exchanged so many emails in a brief but breathless correspondence, we greeted each other like long-lost friends.

So far so good. As we tucked into our full English breakfasts, we pored over maps and discussed picture ideas. Greg described what he wanted, and I earmarked a handful of likely locations. Outside the window the sun disappeared behind a long bank of grey cloud. We laughed about the inclement English weather ("Spring?”, I said, “it's more like winter!") and set off in his hired car on a startlingly cold April morning. But even with frost still on the ground, I couldn't foresee any major problems.

First we photographed the limestone pavement at Malham Cove. Since there were to be no people in the shots, I was glad the chilly weather had kept visitors away. We investigated some other pavements around the Three Peaks before having lunch at the Station Inn at Ribblehead. Through the pub window the weather was looking decidedly wintry: hail, sleet, flurries of snow, from a sky the colour of unpolished pewter. I apologised for the weather, like it was my fault.

The ever-affable Greg just laughed. It was going to take more than bad weather to dampen his enthusiasm for the job in hand. We finished off our giant Yorkshire puddings (“The English pizza”, I explained to him), and headed off towards Wharfedale. We walked uphill from the tiny village of Conistone, as the snow whipped around our heads. Had I been on my own, I would have turned back there and then. But on this occasion I was just the sherpa; Greg was holding the purse-strings, and he seemed keen to carry on regardless.

By the time we reached the limestone pavement, we were caught in a blizzard. I thought I was in one of those Readers Digest articles: ‘I Faced the Frozen Hell and Lived’. Greg and I were dressed for typical spring weather in the Dales. We were prepared for sunshine or showers... but not for snow. Greg ploughed on, looking for suitable camera angles. As he viewed the disappearing landscape through the little rectangle made by his thumbs and forefingers, I began to question his sanity. Then, just for the sake of balance, I began to question my own. The jury was out on both counts.

Once the visibility was down to a few feet, even Greg began to realise what I'd known for some time: that we were in a bit of bother. The snow had created a total white-out; with no visible landmarks we were utterly disorientated. We might have been only a mile or so, as the crow flies, from warmth, safety and a pint of Theakstons Bitter at the Tennants Arms in Kilnsey. But at that moment it might as well have been a hundred miles. The landscape of Wharfedale - so pastoral, so familiar - suddenly seemed very threatening.

Even the irrepressible Greg had stopped smiling by now. Buffeted by driving snow, we sought shelter behind some rocks. A limestone pavement is no place to be when you can’t see where you’re going. One false step into a grike, and you’ve got a broken ankle to add to your troubles. Greg was starting to shiver. No-one knew where we were. I convinced myself we were going to die, though I tried to keep my mounting despair to myself. "Got any ID on you?", I asked Greg, trying to find an unconcerned tone of voice. "Yeah. Why?" "Oh, no particular reason...". My voice trailed off into the teeth of the wind.

Well, if our lifeless bodies were going to be found - huddled pathetically together - when the snow eventually thawed, I wanted to have at least one half-decent picture in my camera. “I’m just going to take a snap”, I said to Greg, who was huddled in a foetal position. “I may be some time”. Into that monochromatic moonscape I staggered, camera bag hanging from my neck like an albatross. I soon found an intriguingly spare composition of limestone pavement, a rock and a solitary tree. The wind was buffeting so strongly that I had to put all my weight against the tripod to stop it from being blown over. I rattled off a few frames with a grim kind of satisfaction, before retracing my steps to exchange doomed pleasantries with the sheltering Greg. His weak smile revealed a set of chattering teeth.

It was almost time to scribble the last notes to our loved ones: heartfelt things we wished we'd expressed years before. But then, as quickly as it had started, the blizzard abated. The snow stopped, the clouds parted and a shaft of spring sunshine illuminated the flanks of Wharfedale and made the snow sparkle.

Yes, we'd faced that frozen hell, and lived to tell the tale. Once we'd traipsed back down into Conistone, found the car, and headed back towards Skipton with the heater on full blast, we realised what a close shave we'd had. Dressed for April showers, we'd been totally unprepared for blizzard conditions. It was foolish - we knew it now - and we'd been lucky.

The pictures Greg eventually used were, ironically, the very first set, from the top of Malham Cove. As for 'my' picture: well, it looks so peaceful, so still, so other-worldly, with not a hint of the storm that was raging at the time. And they say the camera never lies...