A week ago, I went to visit my friend Patsy (she had lived in the flat above mine in halls), despite the lockdown still being reasonably in place.

Following a long, winding drive into Dorset, the roads became shrouded in thick and acrid smoke trailing from an out-of-sight farm. On the motorway, speeding cars agitated the hanging fumes while it seemed to linger amid the trees that lined the endless stretch of tarmac.

I took a number of pictures during a quick tour of Poole and Bournemouth as she showed me around her digs and the streets on which the memories of her childhood had been played out on…