Two hundred years ago brought us two transformative inventions: the advent of rail travel and Nicéphore Niépce’s View from the Window at Le Gras that introduced the possibility of recording and fixing a photographic image. Both offered new ways of seeing. Gazing from a train window, the landscape becomes a moving panorama—a private cinema where fleeting moments unfold in real time. It marked the beginning of a world in motion, where speed and time became paramount.

For the past few years, I’ve been retracing the same route every couple of months, journeying from London to Suffolk and back. These trips have become a ritual of reflection, offering me a front-row seat to ephemeral vignettes of life and nature.

Manmade structures pepper ancient fields and woodlands, the train streaking across the same Suffolk countryside painted by John Constable around the time of those two inventions. A pair of fawns in an empty field, our eyes locking for a split second. A herd of horses racing the train, their joy palpable in a game of chase. Alien-like pylons marching across the flatlands, their wires crisscrossing the rail tracks below. Each moment is transient, gone as quickly as it appears, the journey playing out like an unedited film.

Chronic illness has, in recent years, altered how I navigate the world. With my vision and balance affected, long walks or car journeys are no longer possible. The train has become my bridge to the landscapes I might otherwise miss, bringing me to moments of beauty and stark contrasts in a form that feels both intimate and expansive.