5.30am. The last morning before I flew back to England and I was missing home before I'd even left.

A table in a bar I remember because they would always give me two cherries in my drink instead of one. Now old enough to drink Bermuda Black Seal Rum instead of juice I added my name along with the hundreds left behind on tables walls and ceilings by locals and visitors alike.

The wonder I felt the first time I saw these caves was not so intense on my return, but the awe must be the same. I know how cave formations come into being, but the sight of them still contrasts so sharply with the land above that it seems an impossible existence.

The older I grow the less likely I am to see my home the same way as I did before. Instead of a platform to jump into the water I see a steady spot for my tripod. Everything is as it was, but everything has changed.

I awoke just after 4am to the sound of thunder rolling in. I threw on my clothes and threw a bin liner around my camera bag and then sprinted towards the sound. It was dark, I forgot a torch, and I misjudged where a slope began. I tripped, flew, and landed on rock which took a big chunk from my knee, but after hobbling on I made it to the waterside before the lightning ended. It was too far offshore to get a good shot, but I did get this one instead.

In the daytime these waters are filled with little coral feeding fish called black snapper, but before the dawn breaks they are like the entrails of a dream.

My feet are a lot bigger now than the last time I sat on the edge of this part of the ocean, but the feeling of peace and belonging hasn't changed one bit. Home will always feel like home.

My grandfather is a changed man. The years have not been kind to him. He defies old age still, but time has taken its toll. He still sits in the same chair though, and with the same smile calls me over to play spot the difference in the local paper like we used to all those summers ago.

Dawn approach over the pier where the local kids learn to fish. You can't jump off the end unless you want to risk catching your feet on the generations of fish bones that lie below the surface.

The pier I used to run along is no more. A hurricane tore it to its bare bones and there wasn't enough money to fix it. The cruise ships got too big to fit through my town's harbour, so now they don't come, and neither do the tourist dollars. St. Georges is slowly fading away.

Taken just after dawn broke. Bermuda rock is volcanic rock, it's sharp and unforgiving, but the waterside is worth the tentative scramble over them, even in the dark.

Yellow-crowned Night Heron, an immigrant from America. This one in particular was always on the same beach at dawn, sat on the old pier, just watching.

This is a tranquil looking paddling pool if you're a stranger to it. If not you'll know that every so often a massive wave will hit and knock down anyone in the pool face first. As kids we used to crouch down and wait, then try and run out before it hit us. You had about 2 seconds on a good day.

A single feather from the Bermuda Longtail waiting for me in the sand. A tuft of nostalgia that now sits in a frame and calls me back when I catch sight of it.

There used to be lizards and geckos all over the island, when I was young my dad taught me how to lasso them with a piece of long grass. Feral chickens have long since eaten them all and taken over, I saw maybe three geckos the whole 21 days which was really sad. I met this little fella after he got separated from his mother, he seemed to like being held which is strange for a wild thing.

The waves break strangely on this beach, because right about where you see it curling the sand suddenly drops away steeply. The bottom just drops right out, so as a child, one moment you're waist deep, the next, way out of your depth. It's still an unsettling feeling as an adult.

My great aunt cooking yet another batch of family biscuits. I already had two bags of them in my suitcase at this point, but she will always insist I can never have enough. I have to agree with her on this one. Even the smell of them sends me right back to when I was waist high and peering in at them over the oven door.

The Bermuda Longtail, fast and near impossible to photograph, it took well over an hour on top of a scaled rock in the midday sun to get this shot!

My father showing my grandmother pictures he'd just taken of the view as she's too old now to walk along the cliff to see it.

On British shores I used to find bottles. I would write notes home to Bermuda and throw them as far as I could into the sea. Who knows, maybe this was one that made it back.