Every November, the people of Ottery St Mary do something that defies explanation until you see it. They hoist burning tar barrels onto their shoulders and run through the streets of the town. No barriers. No distance. Just fire, crowd, and centuries of tradition playing out in real time.

What drew me there was the spectacle. What kept me was something quieter. This is a community enacting something for itself, not for an audience. This is a rite of passage. Young people line up for their turn, and the community watches. There is a weight to it beyond the flames, a sense that something is being handed down, tested, and earned.

There is chaos here, and physical absurdity, and genuine laughter. But underneath it is a seriousness about belonging that I find endlessly worth photographing.