I think I’ve said before, we tend not to be a flag-waving nation. We don’t as a rule have flagpoles or bunting except in times of ‘celebration’. There are, though, exceptions, like the Union pub on the shore of the Tamar.

There is no doubt, I am British – as British as they come really – I’m not desperately keen on leaving these shores, however often I seem to find myself needing to do so. Personally, I’d prefer a week at home than a week away in any exotic location in almost every circumstance. I do always have this fear I won’t be let back in, being, as I was, born by quirk of fate elsewhere on the planet. I have had a number of run-ins with the passport office and that tells me that if push came to shove I may not actually be very welcome here so perhaps that colours my view and makes me always a bit loathe to go just in case…..

Anyway, despite my worries about being ousted in a time of crisis, I have never been a flag-waver for these isles in anything other than the sense of wanting to tell the world about how much I love ‘England, my England’. They’ll have to drag me away kicking and screaming if they want me to go. I kind of feel a bit cheated that I talk to so many English people who can’t wait to get away from these shores, either for holidays or longer and they’re allowed to just be British yet I feel as I have to ask permission for that privilege and all I want to do is to stay. Does that make sense? It’s not that I’m suggesting people shouldn’t travel – far from it, just that I wish I could feel as though I’m welcome to stay without worry.

This is a shot that’s only possible for a small part of the day, for a large-ish part of the day, the vantage point is under water, as you’ll see by the barnacles. However, despite the sub-aquatic nature of the location, the out of focus union flag in the background is something I cherish as much as almost anything I can think of.

You see, it’s the first bit of Cornwall you see when you cross the Tamar bridge on the train on the way home from London. It’s on the quayside in Saltash, a rather cute little town just over the border from Devon – the first little bit of Cornish soil. Soil that I am going to declare is home. I don’t care who may or may not want me here, I’m stopping. I’m fed up with a life of moving on. Fed up of a life where I don’t put down any roots. Fed up of a life where I never feel like a local. This view is so special to me that it’s right up there with seeing home after a trip. This truly is my territory now – my neck of the woods, my homeland.

I like the Union’s strong statement and I like the fact that it jumps out and hits you in the face from the other side of the Tamar, you don’t have to look for it, it finds you!

Last year, I was photographing a cannibal!