Oborne frost
Oborne in the early morning frost, Dorset, England, UK. 08:42 local time. 20 February 2012
Far from the deep snows and profound winter silences of his childhood growing up in Canada, David Noton uses his local knowledge to capture a frosty Dorset morning
I open the curtains: frost! I wasn’t expecting that. I hurriedly grab my camera bag and head for the door. Forget breakfast. Forget all the red flags demanding attention in my inbox; conditions like this happen on only a few mornings a year. I have to make the most of it or a life of eternal remorse will ensue, but where to go?
I grew up in Canada, so English winters are usually a sad disappointment. My childhood was littered with memories of digging cars out of the deep snow and the sound of skates on ice. I associate winter with the silence that settles over the landscape as snow falls, but the reality of it now, especially here in Wessex, is one of short, dark, grey, wet, windy days largely spent indoors. So when the conditions we all associate with winter – but which are relatively rare – actually happen, the pressure is really on as they won’t last long.
Photography is all about the decisions we make, and the most crucial of those decisions, in fact the hardest part of the whole process, is deciding where to go and when. This morning the when bit is decided: I need to get behind the lens now. Right now. But the where bit is a dilemma, especially as this morning’s frost has taken me by surprise. Normally I would have looked at the weather forecast the night before and come up with a plan, but now I need to wash and go quickly. Settle down Noton; think logically. Where do you know locally that will have photographic potential when lit by the early light of day and draped in a sheen of frost?
Everywhere looks great etched in frost. Landscapes which normally look dead and bare this time of year are transformed into silver which sparkles in the first weak winter light of the day. But the rising sun will soon banish the frost; the decisive moment when the two briefly coexist is painfully short.
I mentally scroll through the possibilities. Oborne, from the ridge that we’ve walked virtually every week for the last 22 years; it’s a no-brainer. I’ve often looked down the valley running from Poyntington to Sherborne, admired the interlocking spurs and thought I must shoot here some day. Now is that day. The view looks south west so the sun rising far to the south east this time of year should side-light the scene well. It has to be worth a try.
As I head out, resolve replaces pressure; all I have to do now is expose. My chosen location may or may not work, but at least the decision has been made.
Half an hour later I’m extending my tripod legs. A long lens will compress the perspective, accentuating the strong diagonals of the interlocking spurs. The road weaving through the bottom of the frame is a strong curve. The frost reveals the texture of the soil creep ridges on the shaded slope. The hamlet of Oborne nestled in the valley is a nice touch and the mist lying on Sherborne Lake in the distance is atmospheric. It’s a scene of minimal colour; a hint of green can be seen underlying the frost and the light in the shade has a pale blue quality; otherwise it’s an exercise in restraint and subtlety. As usual my camera is set to daylight white balance. Auto white balance would neutralise the blue cast, but why would I want to do that? I’ll not touch the colour balance Mother Nature provides, either in camera or in Lightroom; I hardly ever do.
It’s all over in minutes as the sun starts to melt the frost. This was a shoot that came about through my local knowledge. The more I get muddy boots tramping the countryside the more locations I log. There’s an inescapable conclusion here: to be a better photographer I’m just going to have to walk farther. Next month laos, cambodia