Photo hunters - drink

This is Nar, our little Tonkinese girl, who has a curious habit of only ever drinking her water along the very edges of the bowl.

Photo hunters - salty

I have a very well-developed sweet tooth and can happily munch my way through a jumbo bag of mini eggs in one sitting. But I very rarely crave something salty, and when I do it’s usually more of a savoury craving than a need for salt.

But one salty thing I love is a good salt scrub for the body. Scrubbing away the dead skin until I’m pink and glowing like a piglet is almost a rebirthing experience, it leaves me feeling brand new. I love the whole idea of the bathing ritual and on a cold and rainy evening I like to make the bathroom warm and cosy, with scented candles, some moody music, and a hot bath.

But bathing isn’t just about running a bath and jumping in. Instead I like to de-muck beforehand, because there isn’t anything worse than lying in a tub full of grimy water. So a shower and a good scrub down with a deliciously scented salt scrub are essential preparations. I don’t think it’s necessary to accessorise with the ubiquitous glass of bubbly, or even a book, instead I like to take the opportunity to close my eyes and relax and let any tensions and worries slowly melt away.

Photo hunters - soft

Soft. It’s not exactly the word I would use to describe my mother or my relationship with her. We have never been very close, but it hasn’t been a particularly strained relationship either. I’ve often felt that she lacks some fundamental “mumsiness”, and as a result we’ve always been quite detached with each other. She told me once that when I decided to move to Canada at the age of 19 she had to make a choice, either worry herself sick every day, or switch off and let me go. And she switched off. Although I’m certain she did that long before then. I have often felt disappointed in her disinterest in my life and there have been long periods when I have been very angry with her for that.

But as she ages I have found myself softening towards her. I have been able to let go of expectations and instead started accepting her for who she is. She grew up in what was East Germany during the war, and I’m sure her experiences from that time go a fair way towards explaining her detachment. The stories she tells, with flourish and phenomenal attention to detail, are both spell-binding and horrifying, and we made a silent agreement some years ago to remain in that era, rather than talk about us and now. And as we moved onto safer ground, our relationship improved tremendously.

The real turning point probably came when she had to have hip replacement surgery a few years ago. Thanks to a very understanding boss I was able to go back to Sweden and spend 10 days with her following her operation, and helping out around the house, making sure she did her exercises brought us much closer. And when she was diagnosed with kidney cancer last spring, I was again able to go back, this time for three weeks.

After stubbornly refusing to think of her as anything other than my mother all my life, here I found myself face to face with her ill and ageing body and it didn’t scare me. In fact I welcomed the role reversal and it felt right that I should now look after her. It also felt important to acknowledge and accept that both she and my father are by now quite old. Thankfully my mother made a complete recovery and although we will never have an open relationship, I treasure the mutual understanding and appreciation that has developed in recent years.

My mother turns 79 today. Happy birthday mamma.

In the photograph my mother is in her early fifties, I remember how much I loved that fur coat she’s wearing. I loved its softness and how it smelled.

Photo hunters - antique

This is the interior of Torsång church, which is the oldest church in Dalarna, the region of Sweden where I come from. It's believed that the church was built towards the end of the 12th century, and that its position was chosen because it had once, according to legend, been a spot where sacrificial offerings to Thor (Tor), the pagan god of thunder took place. It's interesting to note that whilst Christianity reached Sweden sometime in the 9th century, the strong pagan beliefs meant that it was not until the middle of the 12th century that Christianity became well established. It was very common that churches were built on traditional pagan sites.


The west gable, showing the representation of Thor

Torsång church is very simple, build mainly from granite, while the gables and the upper parts of the friezes, along with buttresses, arches, windows and portal claddings are made of hard-baked tiles. There is an upright male figure on the west gable, which supposedly is a representation of Thor. Inside the church is breathtakingly beautiful, the carved and painted wooden pulpit dates from the early 17th century and there is a simple wood carving of Christ from the 15th century.

The parish of Torsång became an important hub in Dalarna, mainly due to its position, at the junction where lake Runn meets the rivers Västerdalälven and Österdalälven. The copper mine in Falun, the "capital" of Dalarna, depended heavily on timber from the large forests in the eastern and northen parts of the region, and the logs were floated down the rivers and into lake Runn by way of Torsång. In the mid sixties water transport was replaced by other means (mainly rail), and the village of Torsång started to die soon after.


A gravestone from the cemetery

But it is still possible to take an afternoon cruise on lake Runn from Falun to Torsång, something my mother and I inevitably do whenever I go home to visit. And after having coffee and cake or an ice cream in the cafe', it's aweinspiring to walk around grounds of the church and the cemetery, knowing that people have lived in this area since the stone age.

Photo hunters - broken

The skeleton of what once was the glorious West Pier

This is my very first photo hunter challenge. I'm looking forward to having a weekly theme to work with, which I'm sure will really help get the creativity flowing, and make me look at my surroundings in a different light.

Broken... one of the first things that popped into my mind was the once beautiful West Pier in Brighton (where I live). I see what is left of her nearly every day when I walk along the seafront, and as this photo shows she is still magnificent in a way, but her spirit seems broken and she has also come to represent the broken dreams of those who have tried to restore it.

The pier first opened in 1866 and in her heyday she played host to over 2 million visitors every year. The pier became a cultural destination, sporting both a theatre and a concert hall. The famous Russian ballerina, Anna Pavlova even performed here. In a way she became the perfect representation of Edwardian England.

The pier was forced to close during World War II, and when it reopened it had been transformed into an amusement pier, complete with ghost trains and a games hall. Her popularity faded over the years and was closed for good in 1975. In 1985 she was purchased for £100 by the Brighton West Pier Trust, and they had grand plans to restore her to her former glory. In 1989 the restoration project ground to a halt after the pier was badly damaged following the severe storms of 1987 and 1988. After finally receiving a grant in the late nineties things looked up, but it was not to be. In December 2002 the pier was again badly battered by another storm and partly collapsed into the sea. Only four months later, in March 2003 a fire ravaged what was left of it.

And now only the skeleton of her former glorious self remains. She plays host only to the tens of thousands of starlings that nest there and every night put on a dazzling aerobatic display as they cartwheel in perfect unison across the sky (if you look carefully you can see them in the photo just above the pier). But if I sit quietly on the water's edge on a calm night, it's not difficult to imagine that I can still hear the laughter, the music, the singing echoing across the water.