Being from a relatively small town called Burnley in the north of England, I always assumed I had to travel to the bigger cities to practise street photography. For a long time I spent my days off catching the train to Manchester, wandering around with my camera. It felt like the natural thing to do. Cities are often seen as the heart of street photography: busy streets, constant movement, and an endless supply of strangers. But after a while I realised I was taking the same kinds of photographs I saw online every day. The locations changed, but the images began to feel familiar and repetitive. So I decided to stay closer to home and see whether Burnley itself could become a project.
That turned out to be more difficult than I expected. I often received negative reactions from people, and a couple of times I was verbally confronted. Even the town centre security seemed unusually hostile to anyone with a camera, which is frustrating because it’s the busiest and most interesting part of town. I still plan on returning to document Burnley properly one day, but for now it doesn’t feel like the right environment, and I’m still trying to understand why.
It’s possible that in Burnley it’s simply not normal to see someone walking around with a camera taking photographs, so you stand out more than you would elsewhere. It could partly be psychological, but I often feel like people are hyper-aware of me when I’m out with my camera, especially in comparison to other small market towns like Todmorden and Hebden Bridge. There’s also the possibility that people feel judged when a camera is pointed in their direction, unsure of why I would want to photograph them or what I plan to do with the image afterwards. Street photography can be difficult for people to get their heads around, particularly when there’s no obvious commercial or official reason for taking photographs.
My hometown is something I’ve wanted to start a project on for a long time. I feel a strong urge to document daily life as it really is: the ups and the downs, the good and the ugly. But I’m still trying to figure out how to do this in a way that feels safe and respectful. Some areas of Burnley can be quite sketchy, and unfortunately these are often the places that would make for the most interesting and honest photographs. Balancing personal safety with the desire to document reality is something I’m still learning.
After the confrontations I experienced shooting in Burnley, I began driving a little further out to the small market towns of Todmorden and Hebden Bridge. Both have markets running throughout the week, and they immediately felt like promising places to explore with a camera. Every day I have off work as a chef, I make the 30-minute drive and spend hours walking around, watching for the small details of everyday life. Compared to the intensity of kitchen work, this slow observation feels grounding.
Hebden Bridge attracts a lot of visitors and tourists, and there’s a creative energy that comes with that. Todmorden, on the other hand, feels very much like a locals’ market: a place where people know each other, chat with stallholders, and slow down long enough to be photographed. The two towns offer very different atmospheres, but both feel genuine in a way I hadn’t expected. I never set out to start a project on market towns, but it has grown organically from simply spending time there and paying attention.
What I’ve come to enjoy most is returning to the same places over and over again. You begin to see the same faces: the same people serving coffee, the same stallholders setting up each week, and the same buskers playing guitar for loose change. The more these people see me walking around with a camera, the more comfortable they seem with my presence. I still get the occasional person asking what I’m doing, but the more time I spend there, the less this seems to happen. Familiarity builds trust, even without conversation.
“Market Towns in Monochrome” has become a long-term body of work for me. At a time when cities and large towns are racing to modernise, these smaller places feel like time capsules. Watching locals chat with the butcher, pick up vegetables for dinner, or bump into a neighbour and stop for a conversation feels increasingly rare in bigger cities, where people are often focused on getting from A to B as quickly as possible. In these market towns, time seems to stretch.
I try to capture those small, human moments in my photographs. Shooting in black and white helps me strip everything back to the essentials, removing distractions and focusing on emotion, expression, and the quiet rhythms of community life. Colour can often anchor an image to a specific time, while monochrome allows the photographs to feel more timeless. It also encourages the viewer to look more closely at gesture, light, and interaction rather than surface detail.
When I first started, I would usually go out with the nifty fifty. While I liked the compression and subject separation, I found that I was isolating people too much and losing the sense of place. I then moved to a 35mm lens, which felt like a good middle ground, but I really started to find my feet when I switched to a 28mm. With the wider field of view, I can capture more of the environment and better show how people exist within their surroundings. It also forces me to get closer to my subjects, something I’ve been gradually building the confidence to do.
At first, getting close felt daunting. There’s a vulnerability that comes with stepping into someone’s personal space, even briefly. But the more you bite the bullet and get on with it, the easier it becomes. Over time you also learn small techniques to reduce attention. Sometimes shooting from the hip works well, while other times a simple smile is enough to diffuse tension. I often photograph someone and then continue walking past them, as if I’ve noticed something behind them. These methods haven’t failed me yet.
Interestingly, it’s usually the people I’m not photographing who stop me and ask what I’m doing. Once I explain the project, most seem more intrigued than offended, often on someone else’s behalf rather than their own. These small interactions have helped me realise that curiosity often outweighs hostility, especially when people sense genuine interest rather than judgement.
As my confidence has grown, documenting street and market town life has begun to feel almost meditative. In a time when everything feels fast paced and stressful, going out with my camera helps quiet my mind. Even if I spend hours walking and come home with nothing, it still feels worthwhile for my own peace of mind. Photography, in this sense, becomes less about productivity and more about presence.
I’ve come to realise that it’s not always the final image I enjoy the most, although coming home with a photograph I’m proud of definitely helps. It’s the process itself: the walking, the familiar faces, the overheard conversations, and the quiet observation of everyday life. I’ve been visiting these towns for around two years now, and I’m not sure when I’ll stop. This may simply be an ongoing project with no real ending.
Maybe one day I’ll move to a city and document life at a busier pace. But for now, my circumstances keep me local, and that limitation has become a strength. Focusing on these market towns has taught me to slow down, look closer, and appreciate the beauty hidden in ordinary moments. For the time being, that feels more than enough.
