I live ten minutes from Carshalton Ponds, and I've walked past them hundreds of times. But it wasn't until I started painting them that I truly saw them.
The Ponds have been here since medieval times—natural springs that once supplied water to Nonsuch Palace. Now they're a conservation area, surrounded by heritage buildings and ancient trees. But they're also just a local park where people walk dogs, feed ducks, and cut through on their way to the station.
There's something profound in that ordinariness. This place holds centuries of history, yet it's also simply here, available, overlooked by most passersby. Painting it forces me to notice.
The light, for instance. How it changes with the seasons, with the time of day, with the weather. In winter, when the trees are bare, the Georgian facades around the pond reflect in the water. In summer, when the foliage is dense, the water becomes a private, shaded world.
Or the wildlife. Moorhens nesting in the reeds. Herons standing sentinel at dawn. The way ducks create ripples that catch the light and turn the water into moving stained glass.
These aren't grand subjects. They're quiet, local, easy to miss. But that's exactly why they matter. We don't need to travel to exotic locations to find beauty worth painting. Sometimes the most meaningful art comes from noticing what's right in front of us—the places we call home.
I've started a series: twelve paintings of the Ponds, one for each month of the year. Not because I think they'll sell (though perhaps they will), but because I want to know this place. Really know it. The way you can only know something by returning to it again and again, in all seasons, in all lights.
That's what heritage means, I think. Not just preserving buildings, but truly seeing the places we inhabit. Painting them. Honouring them with attention.
For anyone local: come to Carshalton Ponds. Not to take a photo and move on, but to sit. To notice. To let the place speak. You might be surprised by what's been waiting there all along.