A few months ago I went for a long walk, out of my familiar territory, across the metal bridges that squat over the muddy river Hull, and out along Holderness Road. It was near here that dad used to work, in the late 60s and early 70s, in the years before my exile began, in 1974. Now the factory complex is out of bounds. So I explored the length of this arterial road, not part of the Hull I really know, and I became the one who walks unseen, yet observing, mingling and unnoticed, armed with my camera and my eyes and my soul. I wanted to stroll in East Park, as I had before, and I discovered the lake, and then I slipped into the side roads to venture further, away from the artery of Holderness Road and into the smaller streets. In the Garden Village the sun was tiring and its gold transformed arts and crafts houses into a hologram of rural bliss.The flowers scented the air, the hedgerows darkened. Later, as darkness was coming, I returned to the main road, along rows of houses laid out with mathematical precision. The sun gave one last gasp, spilling hues of orange and yellow onto century old bricks before vanishing into the Humber which lies beyond. When I was home I transformed the view into a painting, using a palette of burnt sienna and yellow, revelling in the warmth of colour.