We wandered the streets of Picton, photographing houses we loved, guided by the lovely David Taylor's walking tours, my friend listening patiently to my endless blather on architectural styles and local history as I recall it (in bits) from my childhood and youth in this town - "that house was my Latin teacher's, and my Mother's Latin teacher's", a day's end creep through the exquisite and moody Glenwood Cemetery...Appreciating the glow of afternoon sun, golden leaves and a yellow Craftsman bungalow, perfect shadows cast by a wrought-iron fence, sun glow on a hand-made brick parapet wall, and at the end of it, a close-enough-to-touch red sun setting across fields of dry corn and beans.
A day of loving old houses, without the obligation of preservation activism, just being among them, and their massive overhanging trees, and their lovely sheds...some gentrified, lovely but somehow sterile, some crumbling but with authentic voices from long ago. Jaywalking like high school kids, watching for cars while we shoot from the centre of intersections, pick-up trucks with locals indulgently shaking their heads at the foolish tourists immersed in the irresponsible joy of being fully present in a day of old houses.
...and seeing the town and heritage buildings through different eyes - a very good thing! Makes me want to do it again soon.
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