I went to Nerja in southern Spain with the usual good intentions: travel light, take a few photos, pretend I was on holiday.

Of course, I failed on all counts.

I was following the way the sunlight inches down a wall or people drift through it as though they have nowhere to be in days.

It wasn't exactly street photography — there wasn't much street left under all that light.

People talk slowly, shadows take their time crossing the sidewalk, and even the sea looks like it's trying not to do too much.

I started to realize that the real story wasn't the place — it was how time works there.

Many of the photos occurred in that languid space between errands — people paused, looking at nothing in particular.

I didn't crave drama or composition so much as proof that light can be indecisive.

Every time I thought I'd caught it, it changed its mind and went somewhere else.

When I arrived home, I opened the folder and found a story I hadn't meant to tell.

All the photographs hummed with the same low pitch — white walls, pale skies, and that half-dead condition you fall into when it's too hot to think.

That's when the idea of making a zine struck, in the same casual way the light struck: uninvited, informally.

I called it When the Light Turns Slow because that's exactly what it did — both in Nerja and in my mind.

Laying it out was another slow ritual: choosing the paper, choosing the order, scowling at a gutter that refused to behave.

I learned that saddle stitching is an art form and an exercise in subtle frustration.

But at last it was there — forty-eight pages of heat, silence, and the odd person trying to remember what shade looks like.

It's not quite street and it's not quite travel photography.

It's a letter to a place, in bright ink and a little sweat.

I didn't need to show where Nerja is on a map; I needed to show what it's like when the world takes the afternoon off to slow down.

People ask me what the zine is about.

I say "heatstroke and timing," which is not far off.

But really, it's about noticing what the light does when no one else is too busy having fun to pay attention.

Every copy of When the Light Turns Slow is hand-numbered and UK-printed.

It's my first zine — a small book about the slow pause between moments.

You can order it from www.dljphotography.co.uk/zines if you like things that move quietly and don't apologise for it.

When the Light Turns Slow (and other excuses for lingering with a camera)

Molten Light and Muddy Paws: A Sunset Session at Tresilian Bay