The mist was already there when we arrived, settled low and waiting for us. The conditions I had been hoping for all season.

Dark and only the call of the local little owls to be heard, Richmond Park at that hour felt less like a place and more like a secret. The gates had only just opened, the sky still undecided between night and morning. A pale suggestion of light stretched along the horizon, but the world around us remained hushed and dim.

Tony, a regular workshop participant walked beside me, his camera bag over his shoulders, breath drifting in small clouds as he suggested that I use my own camera this morning. Something I don’t typically do when running workshops but he’d asked, more than once and today felt like the right day to join him.

We moved slowly, instinctively lowering our voices as though the park itself might hear us and close up again. The ground was damp beneath our boots, the grass silvered with dew. Somewhere deeper in the mist, a stag let out a low, resonant bellow. It rolled through the air like distant thunder, ancient and unhurried.

“Best sound you’ll hear all day,” I said. “It also means we’re in the right place.”

We followed it.

The mist thickened as we walked, wrapping around us until the trees became silhouettes. The temperature had dropped just enough to bite at the fingers, the kind of cold that sharpened everything—the air, the senses, the moment. And then, the herd appeared.

They weren’t all visible at once. Emerging slowly, the outline of a stag—broad, steady, crowned with antlers that seemed to catch what little light there was.

We crouched instinctively, keeping our distance. Cameras came up, settings adjusted without a word. The quiet between us wasn’t awkward—it was shared focus, a kind of understanding that didn’t need explaining. For a while, we simply watched the deer’s behaviour.

They grazed, lifted their heads and moved through the mist like thoughts. Occasionally, one would look directly toward us—not alarmed, just aware—before returning to its slow rhythm. The horizon had begun to glow more decisively now, a thin band of gold pushing through the grey. It didn’t flood the scene all at once. Instead, it seeped in—

The moment we’d been waiting for was building.

Tony shifted slightly, adjusting his angle. I moved quite a few steps back, framing the stag against the growing brightness. The composition wasn’t just about the subject—it was about the space, the atmosphere, the way the light would interact with everything in front of it.

Then it happened.

The sun broke the horizon.

Not fully—just enough. A sliver of brilliance cutting through the mist, sending beams of warm light across the cold field. The deer were suddenly outlined, their forms edged in gold. The stag lifted its head, breath visible, antlers tips glowing as if lit from within.

There’s a particular rhythm to shooting in moments like this, not frantic, but deliberate. Each frame mattered. Each slight shift in position, each movement of the subject, each change in light could transform the image entirely.

Tony was fully immersed. I could see it in the way he moved—subtle adjustments, careful timing. He wasn’t just taking photos; he was responding to the scene, anticipating it.

We kept shooting. Time slipped by unnoticed, measured only by the changing light. The golden tones deepened, then softened. The mist began to lift, slowly revealing more of the park—the trees, the distance, the ordinary world returning.

We moved around the herd carefully, exploring different angles. Low shots through the grass. Silhouettes against the brightening sky. Close details—the texture of fur, the

After nearly two hours, the light had changed enough that the moment was clearly passing. The mist had thinned to wisps. The deer, once ethereal, now stood plainly in the open field.

Still beautiful—but different.

Tony lowered his camera first and we stood there for a moment longer, just taking it in. The park was beginning to wake up now. In the distance, a few early walkers, cyclists, photographers appeared, their presence grounding the scene back in reality.

But something of that earlier quiet remained with us.

We walked back through the park. The cold had eased, replaced by a gentle warmth from the rising sun and a strong coffee at Pen Ponds cafe.

Behind us, the deer continued their morning, unaware of the images they’d given us.

And ahead of us, the day waited—ordinary, busy, full of its own demands.

But for a couple of hours in the mist, we’d stepped outside of all that.

And that was enough.