My Slow Moment

My Slow Moment 2018

What’s your perfect Slow Moment? We asked you to take a photo, put pen to paper, or record a short video and share it with us for the chance to win a holiday to the fascinating shores of one of Europe's largest and most scenic lakes, Lake Constance.

Find out more >

All of the monthly winners, plus a selection of highly commended entries, were exhibited at the Joe Cornish Gallery at the start of the year. The exhibition has now finished, but you can still view the images below.

Below are 2018's winning photograph, our two runners-up, the other monthly winners and a selection of each month's highly commended entries. For more information about the winning photograph, see our Overall Winner page.
For 2019, we plan to run another competition over the summer and autumn, so look out for details!

MY SLOW MOMENT ENTRIES, Winners and Runners up 2018:

Intermittent bells heralded his arrival. Out of the pink dawn mist, its tendrils curling around his silhouette, he emerged from amongst the grey rocks. Goats nibbled pungent alpine herbs selectively as they approached us. Like a bearded biblical prophet he rested on his stick to greet us. Aeons of grief and toil were etched on his furrowed face: 'German?' he asked. 'No, English.' It was the right answer.

Valerie Henstock

As time goes on , I no longer rush but can't forget being in that race. Then, my slow memory, it recalls all the things I've done in haste. In life we have slow moments, when our memories flood our thoughts. They fill us with a happy calm, the way that memories ought. We never see them arriving, those thoughts from days gone by. They quickly creep upon us, sent from a cloudless sky. The sunlight on my garden chair brings thoughts that fill my brain. Memories, old, of days gone by, of lovers down a country lane. Memories of our life we shared, memories through thick and thin. Some were good and some were bad but now they all mix in. Today our lives would be as nought without memories in slow time, and all those things we think about, precious things that make life rhyme.

Dick Heath

Sleep eludes me; I sit in a soft cushioned chair by the window, enjoying the soft dawn light, sipping my tea. My mind drifts. I realise I am not alone, three fox cubs are playing in silence on the lawn. I keep very still and watch them frolic: tumbling, skipping, jumping - so innocent of the slumbering city around them. The mother fox raises her head and suddenly they are slinking away along the dark roots of the hedge and I am left with a treasure, a brief insight into their secret world.

Jessie Newitt