Chloé fell asleep. Her head pressed hard against the train’s window, the Leica bound round her neck, a metal albatross bouncing in time to the reverberations of the train track.
My opportunity came one spring morning which saw the day breaking to clear, sunny blue skies. My dawn raid on King Arthur’s Camelot saw me enter the park through a large hole on the fence at the back of the complex. After a short walk across a field I entered the animal centre. This was the same farm I visited with my son only four years before. Once full of life with all sorts of inhabitants roaming free, I now found it to be a desolate and empty place. An eery ghost town.