Nearing the end of the road and fearing nothing would come of my stalking the bow-legged man with the wonderful gait, a building appeared at the top of the last bend on the edge of the village.
The building, I would later learn, was the village dump site, the same location where the year before a polar bear was shot by a man with one arm. The result of a calamitous whale hunt, the arm was removed by a harpoon gone astray.
But this was my first night in the village and these stories would unfold in the coming weeks.
I stopped walking, held my breath and squeezed off two frames before he closed the gap between himself and the building. The colour palette was pure luck.