My wife was born in Hungary, a landlocked country in Central Europe, and I feel as though I’ve adopted her nationality by proxy. 

Her family lives in Pilis, a town 45 minutes’ east of the nation’s capital, Budapest, and we try to visit at least once a year. When we do, it’s a chance to just be still and recharge, and gorge on my mother-in-law’s soups and stews. Life does move more slowly here.

When I lived in London, more than 10 years ago now, I learnt the Hungarian language at a university in Oxford Street. It’s a unique and difficult language to pick up for a native English speaker like myself, who by luck of birth can go through life without needing to speak another tongue. Mastering Hungarian grammar is like trying to teach a seal to play Pac Man: it’s a lot of flapping about attempting to land on the correct syntax and verb conjugation. 

But I gave it a damn good go and, for a short while, I could communicate with relative fluidity. Now, due to being out of practice, I have to resort to toddler-like sentences and Google Translate.

On this visit, my wife and I would go for walks shortly after dawn and I’d take my camera. The morning sun cuts across the village and throws pockets of orange light onto weathered fences. The local pub opens at 6.30am and men come on bikes to start the day with a liquid breakfast. Two houses in the neighbourhood keep pigeons and the birds are let out shortly after daybreak so they can fly in tight circles. 

You also still see the occasional horse-drawn cart. 

I enjoyed the opportunity to make photos in the village; the different faces and slower pace were a welcome change to the busy streets of Melbourne.  I’m now keen to shoot more deliberately on our trips back to Hungary. I don’t think I’ll make this into a project of my own because I don’t want to tread on my wife’s toes - I believe she’s planning to shoot a series in Pilis and it’s her story to tell - but I really like the challenge of shooting in a quieter environment.