Finding Light in Epsom Downs: A Watercolour Journey

The alarm goes off at 5:30am. Outside, it's still dark. But I know that in forty-five minutes, if I'm standing on Epsom Downs with my sketchbook, I'll witness something worth capturing: that particular quality of light that only happens at dawn, when the sun is low and everything glows. Living with ADHD means my relationship with routine is complicated. But there's something about early morning painting that bypasses all the usual resistance. Perhaps it's because dawn doesn't wait for you to be ready. It simply arrives, and if you're there, you get to witness it. If you're not, it happens without you. Today's study began as a simple horizon line—the gentle roll of the Downs meeting a pale sky. I've painted this view dozens of times, but it never looks the same twice. Today, the light was golden-pink, and there was a quality to the air—a kind of softness—that I knew wouldn't last. Working quickly with wet-on-wet technique, I let colours bleed into each other: Quinacridone Gold, Cobalt Blue, a touch of Permanent Rose. The trick with dawn light isn't to paint what you see, but what you feel. It's about translucency, about layers of atmosphere rather than solid forms. By 7am, the light had changed completely. What had been luminous and tender became ordinary daylight. But I had my study—imperfect, spontaneous, alive. Back in the studio, I'll use this as a starting point for a larger piece, but the painting itself isn't the point. The point is being there. Showing up. Letting the landscape teach you what only direct observation can teach. For anyone considering plein air painting: start small. A postcard-sized sketchbook. Simple palette. And go to the same place repeatedly. You'll learn more from painting one view twelve times than twelve views once. The landscape becomes a teacher, and you become a student of light.