Logic vs Instinct.

During my last year as a photographer I was kept going for the first five months by a number of commissions from an illustrated partworks magazine on country walks. They gave me one job photographing a walk near a town called Ulverston in South Cumbria. It was early spring and the weather was awful. Those kinds of publishers like their illustrations to be cheerful and sunlit, preferably with fluffy white clouds. Flat grey light and rain are definitely out.

After several weeks I was becoming desperate. The deadline was looming and I badly needed the fee. The recession had been biting for two years by then and I was nearly broke, but there was no point in giving them bad pictures because they would simply have struck me off their panel.

One Saturday night all the weather forecasts for the whole of northern England gave more of the same: heavy cloud cover and incessant rain, some of it heavy. I went to bed knowing there would be no chance of doing the job the next day. The problem with most commissioning fees was that, although they were high – one day’s work more than paid a month’s rent, – they were flat rate. Expenses weren’t paid separately, so any money wasted on petrol for an abortive day effectively came out of my own pocket.

As I was climbing the stairs something started to nag at me. I seemed to split into two people. One part of me was writing off the prospect of getting the job done the next day; the other part was insisting that I set the alarm. Battle raged, but I’ve never been one to ignore instinct. I set the alarm.

I got up to see that the forecast had been spot on. Low cloud, a misty atmosphere and rain. I decided to go back to sleep, but Mr Instinct became insistent again. It told me to get up, have breakfast, prepare a packed lunch and drive into the gloom. And so I did, reluctantly and telling myself what an idiot I was being.

Ulverston was about 150 miles away, and the drive was mainly in three legs: a few miles of country lanes, then a long trek on the A69 that connects Newcastle with Carlisle, and finally a trip down the M6 motorway. By the time I was half way along the A69, the weather had become even worse. The cloud was so low that it was almost foggy, and the rain was lashing down. I considered turning around and cutting my losses, but Mr Instinct said no.

When I reached the junction with the M6 I realised that my wipers were scratching. The rain had stopped and the sky was noticeably lighter. Twenty miles down the motorway, I spotted a tiny patch of blue sky over to the east. My optimism remained checked because I was going the other way, but as I approached Ulverston I saw that there were more patches of blue. I found a car park in the town, and – can you believe this – as I opened the car door the sun came out. What’s more, it stayed out all day. The pictures I got were so good that the publisher used one on the magazine cover.

And that’s the story I tell people who insist that logic must always take precedence over instinct.