HOUR 01. The Flower Field

We began the day at Burnt Fen Flowers, tucked away in the quiet sprawl of the Norfolk Broads, where the air feels softer and time moves with a kind of deliberate patience. It was a little cold not the dramatic, biting kind, but the sort that lingers in your sleeves and makes your hands search for warmth in pockets. The children didn’t seem to notice. They ran ahead anyway, disappearing between tall stems and white petals, calling to each other, stopping only to collect whatever caught their eye and stuffing their pockets with flowers like small, secret treasures.

By the time we started shooting, the ground had given way beneath our shoes and everyone was lightly speckled with mud, proof of a morning properly lived. There was laughter in the background, the quiet rustle of leaves, the sound of footsteps brushing through long grass. The field felt endless, generous, almost indulgent in its abundance. Nothing was perfectly arranged, and that was the point. The day had only just begun, and already it felt full of color, of movement, of that rare, fleeting sense that nothing else was waiting for us anywhere else.