There comes a time when the mild panic sets in like the feeling you get when you buy something you don't really need and then realise you were supposed to pay that bill...

So my book is almost ready to go to print (yawn) with all but a few finishing touches. Whist fanning through the soft proof this afternoon a deep sinking feeling took hold like the Titanic's dinning set and I came to the conclusion that my four year project was nothing but a pile of absolute crap. I started to question the content, the reproduction, and then the cover. Even the title which I had mused over for half a century felt wrong. I hated the whole thing and was ready to bin it.

And then it hit me. This wasn't a pretty book or a collection of feel good images. It was a documentary of 4500 miles of coastline, a homage to my Grandfather, and a project triggered by childhood memories. It was like nothing I had done before and therefore could not be compared to anything I had done before. It was in fact unique. After fifteen years of shooting landscapes my work had matured and another chapter finished. And that my friends feels good.