East Anglia’s vanishing Fen skating tradition

London-based director and photographer Harry George Hall finds his inspiration in emotional stories and human experiences, so when he discovered the niche world of Fen skating, photographing its devotees became a multi-year pursuit.

Fen skating is a traditional form of ice skating that takes place on frozen Fenland – a naturally marshy region – in East Anglia. During sustained periods of cold weather, flooded meadows freeze over, creating ideal – and safe – conditions for skating. The perfect surface depends on a delicate balance – just enough flooding before a cold snap. When everything aligns, the opportunity to skate is exceptionally rare. Even in winters with optimum conditions, there are only a handful of skating days every few years. As global temperatures rise and weather patterns become increasingly unpredictable, Fen skating is becoming rarer.

I’ve always been fascinated by the things people choose to dedicate their time to. Hobbies often reveal something deeper about who we are. They reflect our interests, our values and the communities we build – or inherit – around the things that matter to us. As a photographer, I find this endlessly compelling. These pursuits create rich, authentic stories, offering a window into people’s lives that extends far beyond the activity itself.

During the winter of 2022, I began reading about Fen skating, a tradition that dates back to the medieval period, when farmers would skate on sharpened animal bones. At the time, I was in Cape Town during a heatwave shooting a commercial project. Back in the UK, a prolonged cold spell had transformed the Fens. As soon as I saw drone footage of a lone skater dancing across the ice, I couldn’t stop thinking about it. Creativity is so powerful in moments like these. The urge to capture and create is what made me pick up a camera for the first time, so rediscovering that feeling during a project was both reassuring and nostalgic. It’s one of the reasons I shoot personal work between commercial campaigns.

When I arrived back in the UK, the cold weather was still holding. After subscribing to weather alerts for obscure corners of East Anglia, I made countless trips to Fen skating “hotspots”, only to find thin or melted ice, rain, flooded roads, no sign of the wonky telegraph pole (a well-known meeting point), or simply no skaters. “Too late”, I thought, knowing that the rare conditions and narrow window could mean waiting several more years for another chance.

I think optimism is a huge part of a photographer’s toolkit. There are many aspects of the job that you can – and should – plan for, but just as many that you can’t. I trusted that when the conditions finally aligned, it would be worth the wait.

On my next visit, I met NHS workers skating before their shifts and ice hockey players practising for free instead of going to a rink. I met farmers taking to the ice after feeding cattle, people wearing the skates of their grandfathers, locals who told me their parents had taught them to skate on the same Fen, speed skaters, first-time skaters, skaters with broken ribs, and people in their late seventies who found skating easier than walking. I met Richard during my first visit to the ice. He said, “Fen skating is like life – enjoy it while you can.” I have seen Richard on every visit since, sticking to his word.

I approached a farmer (pictured above) on the ice in 2023 and told him I’d love to email him a copy of the portrait I took. He asked if I could deliver it by hand because he didn’t have access to the internet. Maybe there’s an irony in me writing this on a screen and you reading it on one, but there’s something special – perhaps even unique – about Fen skating being shaped by its relationship with nature, away from the busy and ever-changing digital world on which we depend so heavily. In the same way, there’s something refreshing about holding a print of a memory, rather than adding another image to a digital archive.

People often ask me what my plans are for the project, and I often ask myself if it has an end point. I don’t think it does. For as long as the fields keep freezing, I’ll be out there documenting them. Maybe the body of work will become a book or an exhibition, but as this tradition meets transformation, these fleeting days on the ice reveal the resilience of those who keep it alive and continue to adapt to this beautiful, and quite surreal, landscape. That’s what I like most about it: people with a shared interest coming together, having a good time and enjoying something simple.

On my third visit to the Fen, I sat and watched, choosing to write instead of photograph. I’ll finish with my notes from that day, which feature Richard’s lovely metaphor that he shared with me on my first visit.

“I see ice. I see life. I see generations; traces of faces; laces, tied by great grandfathers. Leather stretched by distant but significant others. Memories that never melted. Stories shared of what was, and what will be; immortalised frozen history. And now, more memories made, not only by skate and blade, but by today: the perfection of the creaks and the cracks, the lines and the tracks, the way we can interact and gain so much comfort from something so small, but glacial. Perhaps to feel warmth, first we must feel cold, because even the most frozen eyelashes can’t help but blink at the golden glow on nature’s rink. It’s amazing how sitting still can be so moving. How did something that began with a flooded Fen and a chill end up producing this great metaphor for life: enjoy it while you can.”

See more of Harry’s Fen Skaters project.