I took this photo a couple of years ago. It’s the bridge over the railway tracks at Cottingley Station, newly renovated and in marked contrast to the rusty graffiti-strewn edifice I remembered from years ago. It was late on a Saturday afternoon and the low winter sun was casting long eerie shadows, bathing everything in a strange honey glow. As I crossed the bridge I wondered how long it would take for the kids of Churwell and Cottingley to cover it in all kinds of arcane symbols, and then I remembered that we live in a different age, one in which kids don’t really hang around outside at night anymore, getting up to no good like they really ought to be doing. I thought I would make a painting of it to express how I felt about that curious sense of loss, but I realised it would be a painting no-one would ever sensibly want in their house, so the photo will have to do.