The eyes focussed no longer on the travel book, a white telephone box was all what could be seen on that moment. The elegant classical lines of a rather dilapidated theatre was my companion on one side, whilst the sweet smell of beer being brewed was invitingly close on the other; and nowhere to stay.
The date was September 1976. This was my encounter with Hull, friend and foe. The reality and the fiction, all at once then and there.
The curiosity of those first two or three years led me, and my camera, to the welcoming embrace of her streets. Hessle Road environment attracted my eyes, as many of my compatriots were working on the fish processing factories.
Features of not so much of a topography of the city as it might have been, or not, during this period, but more of a morphology of my mind, of my memory, and of an interaction with an environment which was, then, new to me; one to be viewed from this time.
By 1980 the end of this milieu was already in sight, as more and more houses and shops were vacated. A piece of Edwardian furniture laid in bits on what remained of that bathroom, pondering on a glorious past built on pomposity and bones, already having become ash and dust. I had managed to rescue most of my possessions, even on one occasion snatching them from the hands of a couple of intruders, as I abandoned the house just ahead of the tidal of vandals preceding the demolition squads.