Going to Othona, on a six-hour motorway drive, I took some more random pictures. Every fifteen minutes (the same frequency with which Simon Templar (‘The Saint’) would light a cigarette in the earlier novels of Leslie Charteris) I snapped a picture from the passenger window.
Result? Lots of wood-fringed banks, seen in a rushed-past blur. A representation of monotony, but my looking-eyes hadn’t noticed this sameness – what I saw (but didn’t photograph) where the novelties, the less-frequent items: the shaded concrete underbridges, home to whatever the modern equivalent of trolls might be; the glimpsed field-and-wood scenes of absurd picturesequeness, like sepia Merrie England end credits of afternoon films; the low steel angles of retail and enterprise zones; the unimaginable motorway neighbours, doing normal household things a few metres from a neverending torrent of speeding vehicles; the M. R. James flapping ghost-bags bleached in black branches; the fields I had once slogged through to get to a service station bed; the swathes of corporate colours dimmed by oily dust on lorries passed and re-passed; the raptors, the radio-masts and the hi-vis man wiping the reflective collars of traffic cones clean.