I was walking through a town centre when I spotted these two blokes sat outside Burger King sharing a meal with their two dogs. Before I could get close to strike up a conversation they walked off, so I followed at a distance as they entered the churchyard. They stopped a group of young lads who confirmed to me that they had been pan handling for loose change, which is when I made my approach. I introduced myself as a photographer and was greeted by Gary, on the left, and Grandad, which is his taken name. They were more than happy to pose for a few photographs in exchange for the money in my pockets ( I was down to my last £4).

Unlike my other subjects whom I have had to coax photographs from, Gary was straight up as the deal had been done:

"I'm not being funny but are we taking these photographs or what?" as I was explaining my motives for these shots. However, even though Gary had the mouth it was evident that Grandad had seniority in the pair.

Photographs taken I found myself walking in the same direction as them, Grandad's begging pitch was pointed out where he "worked" at night. Grandad was walking with a purpose as he had an evening meal to prepare: pork chops, mashed potatoes and green beans, all bought fresh from the town and prepared over an open fire. Their shopping bags also clinked, hinting at other purchases.

As it happened they were living "on site", their term for a camp they had established in the woods near to where I had parked my car, to which they invited me there and then. I cautiously accepted and followed the pair into the woods, not sure what to expect. Grandad warned me briefly about one of the site inhabitants, Tyrone, whom he travelled with and looked after in a father - son sort of way. " A big yeti who growls but is harmless" was his description.

At the end of a path into the woods we came out into a semi-clearing in the trees, raised off the ground where four tents were pitched around a central hearth made of brick where the ever lit fire burned. Tarpaulins were fixed above the tents to give extra waterproofing, but still the pervasive dampness remained. The surrounding was surreal, a dolls head and tinsel hung from a tree whilst a hi-fi cabinet contained a wide range of Schwartz spices, testimony to Grandad's cooking skills. A christmas tree accepted support from it's live connterpart. Litter and empty bottles was strewn everywhere.

In one of the tents sat Tyrone who greeted me cautiously and, after interrogating me for several minutes about my intentions made me welcome. Tyrone was nursing a badly injured leg from a motorbike accident, his initial hospital visit broke the news he would probably have to have the leg removed when he went for his follow up appointment with the surgeon. The conditions were hardly ideal for hygiene with no running water or sanitation. Grandad handed over a dressing pack which was costing him £6 a time even though he had no income and a Pot Noodle snack, and then in answer to Tyrone's question tenderly passed a small bottle wrapped in paper, a gesture totally at odds with their lifestyle.

Whilst I had no intention of getting the camera out there and then I was invited back anytime to take photographs if they helped raise any awareness as to the plight of homeless people. Small talk continued, and that was when the bottles appeared, cheap sherry, one bottle per person. This was when Gary came in for some not so gentle ribbing from the others about his ability to stick the lifestyle, apparently every 6 months or so he would get into trouble and earn a break from the streets in prison where he cleaned his system of alcohol. He didn't do drugs because, as he put it: "I'm high on life". Gary got up, openly urinated and proceeded to open his bottle of sherry, had a swig and showed his belly to the attackers by declaring "I guess I'm an alcoholic".

I made my excuses and left with the invitation intact. I didn't go back for a long time.

A few weeks later I bumped into a guy sitting on steps in one of the redeveloped areas of the town, families with children were stepping round him as he was obviously drunk, yet causing trouble to no one. I knelt down and introduced myself, we shook hands and he told me his name was Deano. Communication was difficult through his slurring, but he expressed amazement that a complete stranger would buy him a drink when I offered to.

Drink purchased and accepted, we got to chatting, it turned out he had spent time on the site with Grandad and the rest and also knew of Alan when he was in town. It appeared more and more that a homeless network existed, where everyone knew when a fellow traveller was in town. Deano recited me a bitter poem aimed at a lost love and we parted on good terms.

I saw him walking whilst driving past a week later and then no more. I read months later that he had been found dead on the campsite where Grandad was living, a friend took him back there drunk to sleep off his liquor and he never woke up. The autopsy revealed an excess of alcohol and dihydrocodeine, for which he had not been prescribed. Deano was in his early fifties. Time to go back to the site.

A few weeks later after reading of Deano's death I cautiously made my way up the path to the campsite. This is what I found:

If no-one knew any better it would look like fly-tipping gone wrong, not somewhere people had lived their lives at the sharp end. The thing that struck me was the sheer number of empty bottles, mainly sherry:

Moving through the camp images leapt out to be photographed, all poignant reminders that this was a place where people had lived, and died.

The crime scene tape hung like a poor christmas decoration, the tinsel was gone but the tree remained:

This contrasted with more mundane facets of every day life, the washing hung out to dry:

Old decorations trying to brighten up the place, even the camp had caught a mild dose of World Cup fever:

A house with people in has life, strip it of it's humanity and the meaningful contents, and it's just an echo complete with scuff marks from furniture and lost "treasures" discarded in the move. I found this back to a picture frame in the mud, the picture removed and it's front smashed elsewhere.

Whatever the picture, it meant enough to the occupiers of the site to bequeath it to one another. It looks as though the picture was hurriedly salvaged in the aftermath of Deano's death as the Police invaded the site and removed it's occupants. No longer a home but a crime scene.

No warmth remains from the hearth, with it's fitted carpet where toes could be toasted and boots dried out:

On my way out of the camp I spotted a glint amongst the trees and found a small bottle, discarded away from the site for some reason, but Tyrone's question and Grandad's tender offering made more sense:

I've since heard that Grandad has managed to get a flat from the local authority, so hopefully his days of sleeping outside are over. He had told me he couldn't stand to be confined in four walls, but would love the security of a room at night. Gary appeared at the doorway to a tattoo parlour I was in, he was clean with a shaven head and clutching a pint of water from the pub next door. Perhaps the fate of Deano had convinced him it was no life for him.

Update

Grandad lived in his flat for about a year. Autumn 2007 he was found dead in his flat. The Police are treating his death as suspicious and have charged a man with his murder.