I live in a small town in New Zealand situated an hour from the spectacular Southern Alps which I enjoy from afar as I drive back and forth on the school run. I don’t ski, so I have no need to get up close and personal with our homegrown mountain range. The reason I don’t ski is simple; I’m as coordinated and graceful as a bull in a china shop. Me and a set of skis just wouldn’t hit it off. I was the five-year-old podge in ballet class; you know the girl who always pirouetted the wrong way. Truth be told I only went to ballet because my mum carpooled with a lady who owned a dairy which is Kiwi speak for a Corner shop. On the weeks it was her turn to pick her daughter and me up, we got a mince pie from their shop to munch on the way home. My ballet career was short lived – once the dairy was sold I had no further interest. Anyway, by then, I’d graduated to be the teen that needed a helping hand over the vault in gym class, and I grew up to be the woman who always managed to have the wrong arm up in Aerobics.

Yoga is good for coordination, and so I’ve been attending regular classes and currently can’t turn my head to the right as a result of attempting a headstand. Hence, I don’t see myself cutting a fine figure in a padded suit on the slopes any time soon. Despite the Alps having been around for millions of years, New Zealand is a relatively young country and my maternal, and paternal connections are in Liverpool and Southampton in the United Kingdom. I think this is why I’ve always felt an affinity with the Northern Hemisphere. I’ve lived in the UK and Ireland and loved the history, the different cultures and the traditions of that part of the world with the exception perhaps of Morris Dancing. Sure, we have an interesting cultural heritage here in Aotearoa, but we are pretty short on the history and tradition bit.

I’ve grown up with parents who are Scousers – and can recall being told off for looking like something off Scotty Road as a teenager amongst other things! It’s the sayings and the stories that stay with you, though and my mum told plenty of these. One of which was how when she was growing up in Bootle the Tinkers as they were called, used to knock on the door, always the back never the front. They’d be selling posies of violets, or dolly pegs and Nana obliged them as they’d give a blessing in return. They were regarded with superstition in so much as if you didn’t find a few pennies; they might leave you with a curse instead of a blessing. 

These Travellers Mum spoke about were so different to the ones depicted in recent reality TV shows and when I came across a book in our local library by Alen MacWeeney, a renowned photographer called Tinkers no More it triggered the story behind The Traveller’s Daughter. The people depicted in the book’s stunningly raw photographs had nothing much in the way of material possessions, but they lived their lives with music and stories. Their traditions had been handed down for generations and had remained a part of who they were. I wanted to capture a bit of their culture which is both a secretive and when you scratch beneath the surface beautiful one in The Traveller’s Daughter. It’s a story about the Travellers, Gypsies or Tinkers, whatever you want to call them and a daughter’s quest to find out who her mother really was. There’s not so much as a hint of orange spray tan, Beyonce dancing or a blingy dress between its pages. Okay, well maybe the teensiest of hints but that’s all I’m saying, you’ll have to read it for yourself.