This painting came from an autumn evening walk with Bruce around the village. It had been raining, so the streetlights were reflecting in the wet road — that soft shimmer you only get after rain. I was just taking the right‑hand fork at the junction on our way home when I realised another moment in the changing lights story was right there in front of me.

The road to the left, the one that goes past my cottage, was still lit by the old sulphur‑orange sodium lamps. The road to the right had already been converted to bright white LEDs. At the junction, the reflections of the orange and white lights met on the wet tarmac, and between them stood the faded 30 mph sign — a detail that stuck with me because at the time the Welsh government, where two of my brothers and my dad live, had just brought in the 20 mph limit.

I stepped into the centre of the two roads and took the photograph. I knew instantly it was something I wanted to paint one day.

The canvas itself has its own story. Just before Covid, my brother Mark had given me a 90 × 90 canvas because I wanted to paint a big seahorse. I painted the whole thing black in preparation… and then Covid happened. I never painted anything more on it. It hung around for the entire lockdown — large, black, gathering dust, getting mud splashed on it when Bruce shook after walks, even getting holes from being knocked about.

After Covid, during a clear‑out, I almost threw it away. Then I stopped myself and thought: I’ll clean it, repaint the background black, and do something quick on it. If it doesn’t work, I’ll throw it out anyway — nothing lost.

So that day, I sat down and painted Changing Lights. It took about four hours — the quickest and biggest painting I had ever done. And it finally gave that battered canvas its purpose.