All His Horses Have Engines
I met Richard the way all the best things in life start — by pulling over for a Pontiac Trans Am.
It was black and gold, loud even when it wasn’t running — a near-perfect replica of the one from Smokey and the Bandit. Just sitting there like it had something to say. I didn’t even think. I pulled over. We talked. I told him I was a photographer and wanted to shoot him properly. He gave me his number.
Fast forward to last Saturday evening, just outside Stafford. I gave him a ring earlier that week. “Come by the barn,” he said. But it wasn’t just a barn. It was a whole layout — like a rural museum with no signs, no velvet ropes, just stories and rust and pride.
When I pulled up, Richard was already outside. We shook hands — firm, grounded, the kind that says, “Let’s get into it.” No preamble. Just straight into it.
There were four, maybe five buildings across the property. One had the milk truck — an old National Milk Board unit from back when he was a kid, halfway through a slow, careful restoration. Another barn was stacked with tractors. A Bedford truck was tucked behind everything like it had been exiled but not forgotten. The Trans Am lived inside a shipping container, ready to roar at a moment’s notice.
And the Ford Escort XR3 — that one stood out. Unlike the others, this one wasn’t weathered or half-torn apart. It was beautifully kept, gleaming under the low evening light like it had just rolled off the lot. It felt almost out of place, but in a way that made you look twice.
There were more cars rolling around loose. Bits and pieces of machines everywhere. But none of it felt abandoned — it felt in progress.
The first barn hit me immediately — dark, still, and hulking in its silence. Right inside, a vintage Ford tractor sat like a sleeping giant. You could smell the oil and the years.
Richard’s got that kind of presence that makes you listen without trying. Rugby shirt, shorts, thick grey hair, and a beard like a woolen stormcloud. He’s a dairy farmer by blood — third generation. Grew up learning engines with his dad, who he still talks about like he’s just in the other room. One of the vans he restored is the same kind his father drove. It lives at home, and when he drives it, he swears it feels like his dad’s in the passenger seat. You believe him.
This wasn’t some polished showroom. It was a place for things to breathe and break and get fixed again. Every machine had a voice. And Richard knew how to listen.
I shot the whole thing with my Epson R-D1. No plan, just conversation and instinct. The R-D1 slows me down in all the right ways — manual focus, tiny screen, hit or miss — but it makes the good frames feel earned. And the light was working with me — golden hour tipping into dusk.
My favourite moment? Richard pulling the tarp off the back of an old lorry to reveal another truck underneath. He’s bottom left in the frame, pulling with both hands, the shape of the vehicle just starting to emerge from shadow. Grainy. Balanced. Beautiful. Caught it fast — no second chances.
Most of the shots ended up black and white. It just fit. Stripped down. Honest.
This wasn’t just a shoot. It’s part of something bigger I’m building — a photo project about men and the spaces they go to work, fix, build, remember. Places where they can be alone but not lonely. Garages, barns, sheds, yards. Places full of noise and silence all at once.
Richard didn’t just show me his cars. He showed me what it looks like to hold onto history — not in glass cases, but in grease and bolts and memory.
He taught me what “DB” stands for in Aston Martin. Showed me how a Trans Am should sound. And gave me an evening I’ll think about for a long time.
Because some men ride horses.
And some keep them in barns, growling under hoods.
