HYDRA CLOSE, 5.18am
There is an estate in Lower Broughton of social housing, with streets named after constellations. Auriga, Cygnus, Lacerata, names to transport you deep into other worlds. But when I looked up on this morning the stars were covered with drifting cloud, and the world below felt encased in darkness, separated from the distant universe above.
I was on Hydra Close, a short cul-de-sac. A single blackbird began to sing loudly from the upper branches of a tall tree, reaching up beyond the roofs of the houses before me, it’s call piercing the still, morning air. A single streetlight was the only illumination in an otherwise glum row of homes.
A union jack sputtered into action whenever a breeze began, casting awkward shadows onto a brick gable end wall.
Across the road was a bank of grass, on which some enterprising children had built a wooden treehouse, nestled tightly between two solid tree trunk, with a short ladder leading up to the entrance of the den. A large, round trampoline lay just to the side, and I smiled at the idea of children playing free outside, building worlds that belonged only to them.
Two geese flew noisily overhead, honking, and several rooks cawked loudly in the distance, as if there had been a disturbance. I raised my eyes and saw a half moon briefly appear from behind the racing clouds, glowing silver in the strange grey of first light.
The dark houses then began to reveal life within, as lights lit up numerous bathroom windows, forming a strange pattern along dark walls, and someone turned on a large television, which played bright images of some far off land of colour and energy, but somewhere I couldn’t identify or know from where I stood.
Just as the clouds lifted, more lights came on, and the estate felt alive. Even though it was only 5.30am, people began to emerge from houses and drive away to their places of work. A man in a hi-vis jacket appeared, walking his dog, the reflective bands on his sleeves shining bright as jewels as he passed beneath a nearby streetlamp.
From an alleyway a couple of women appeared, walking quickly, carrying electric torches. They turned onto a bridge that crossed the River Irwell, and soon, in the deep shadow of early dawn, all that I could see were sharp, bright lights illuminating the ground at their feet. Watching the estate come awake, I felt invisible.
I set up my camera to photograph the tree house, pulling the trampoline to one side. I looked over my shoulder. On the horizon behind me I could see three newly built apartment blocks rising above the roof line. The weak sun caused their glass facades to twinkle deceptively.
Down the slope, there was a huge piece of ground where the grass had been burned, leaving nothing but a blackened scar. It was probably the result of a bonfire, but it reminded me of a picture I’d seen where a meteor had landed and scorched the earth.
