You keep photographing me. Why? Is it because you’re worried you’ll miss me when we are not together? I don’t recall when the very first photo happened but the oldest known that remains intact can currently be found at the Devon Heritage Centre, at Chidleigh Babbots. It was taken in 1886 by Cecil Boyland, who, as a well-off rector, became the first resident in the village to own a camera. I am not the focal point of the image. That honour goes to the peat-cutting brothers Jude and Peter Mortimer, who can be seen outside their one-storey cottage, leaning proudly on their spades. A spectacularly large cockerel pecks away at grain to Peter’s left. But I’m dominating the background, looking pretty damn fine, feeling myself in a major way, a slight monochrome suggestion of swirling mist above my rocks. It’s probably the most mysterious and impressive I’ve looked on film, with the possible exception of a shot from 1977, where I’m looking down casually on a merganser duck taking flight above a clam bridge, captured by a lone, gangly figure, a regular visitor to the area, American. There was something about that day, too. A dank magic. I was in one of my moods, in the best and worst possible way. I think you can almost feel it in the photo, but not quite.

So, yes, there have been some good photographs of me. That is a stone fact and I have no quibble with it. But please can you stop taking them? Take a few, maybe, but not so insanely many. It’s not helping anyone in the long run, least of all me. Why not paint me instead? Paint me like one of your French hills. Paint me like Joyce did. Not exactly like Joyce did, but as freely as Joyce did. Paint my trees in a way that reminds me of the time your Palaeolithic ancestors hunted wild pigs within them, swirl the colours and shapes in a way that hints at the still-discernible cellar holes where my old farmsteads have rotted back into the earth. Elevate me with your art, rather than devitalising me with your mimicry. Conjure your version of the fire-breathing cardinal enigma I once was.