I was commissioned to photograph this building by the Landmark Trust and I was booked in on a day that was forecast with snow.
My trip to Cowside, along the Langstrothdale valley was perilous at best. I got stuck in my vehicle in Hubberholme and had to be pulled out by a farmer. Eventually, I left the car safely at the side of the road and walked the final mile towards the site. I'm glad I did, because I managed to get the building in context. I love the way the lines meet up in this photograph: the diagonal wall line, the horizon line across the hillside and the line of the road diminishing with perspective. They all meet at the loci.
I’ve used the rule of thirds for this shot. The rule of thirds is a compositional guide that divides an image into an imaginary three-by-three grid, placing important subjects along those lines or at their intersections to create a more balanced and engaging photograph.
The horizon sits roughly along the upper third, drawing attention to the house, which itself intersects with the grid along the angled line of the hill. The track leads us directly towards it, turning the photograph from a view into a journey. The house is not simply there to be looked at, but something we feel ourselves moving towards.
It isn't just the house that we are moving towards but also a number of ideas and concepts that are revealed with constant looking.
There is the smallness of our human presence within the vastness of nature, and the idea of the house as respite, shelter and home. A house is never simply an object in a landscape. It carries the suggestion of lives lived within it.
I love the way the trees embrace the building and then break through the upper third and reach into the sky. They make the house feel both protected and vulnerable.
Human geometry and natural form meet here too: the walls, roof, track and field boundaries impose a kind of order, while the trees break upward in a more unruly way.
There is also a sense of survival in the face of adversity. The trees seem to belong to the house, and their form in this rugged landscape suggests that they may have been planted by human hand. There is something sacred about them - almost like standing stones.
The snow strips everything back and in doing so, the photograph becomes less about a house and more about the idea of home itself.
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That aura, those echoes - the muted light is transporting. What a space to feel rooted in history. I'd love to make that journey myself; you've stirred the opera lover and architectural dreamer in me.
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