Sabelo Mlangeni’s photography and the quiet revolution of rewilding Britain

The photographer who captures the unseen

Sabelo Mlangeni’s photographs do not announce themselves. There are no dramatic landscapes, no staged portraits, no decisive moments caught in mid-air. Instead, his images emerge from long immersion in communities—queer networks in Johannesburg, rural labourers in Mpumalanga—where the camera becomes almost incidental. Last week, the South African photographer was awarded the James Barnor Prize, a recognition that carries particular weight in Britain, where his work has been exhibited at the Barbican and the Tate Modern. The prize, named after the Ghanaian photographer who documented post-colonial Accra and Swinging London, is not just an accolade for Mlangeni; it is a quiet endorsement of photography as an act of witness, not spectacle.

Mlangeni’s method is deceptively simple. He spends months, sometimes years, within a community, allowing relationships to form before he even picks up his camera. The resulting images—of a drag queen adjusting her wig in a dimly lit room, of farm workers resting in the shade of a tree—feel intimate without being intrusive. They resist the voyeurism that often accompanies photography of marginalised groups. In Britain, where debates about representation and cultural ownership have grown increasingly fraught, Mlangeni’s work offers a counterpoint. His photographs do not seek to explain or exoticise; they simply exist alongside the people they depict.

The James Barnor Prize jury cited Mlangeni’s ability to “capture the soul of a community” as central to their decision. It is a phrase that carries particular resonance in a cultural moment dominated by algorithms and viral content. Mlangeni’s images, by contrast, demand patience. They reward slow looking. In an era where photography is often reduced to a tool for engagement metrics, his work insists on its capacity to document, to complicate, and to endure.

Rewilding Britain: when land becomes a political battleground

On a windswept farm in Lincolnshire, a radical experiment is underway. Sir Charles Burrell, the 10th Baronet of Knepp Castle, has spent the past two decades transforming 1,500 acres of intensively farmed land into a rewilding project that has become a lightning rod for Britain’s polarised debates about land use, food security, and climate change. Last month, Burrell gathered a group of sceptical landowners and investors on his estate to make a case that rewilding is not just an ecological necessity but an economic opportunity.

The arguments against rewilding are familiar. Critics warn that it threatens food production, undermines rural livelihoods, and turns productive farmland into “wasteland.” Burrell’s response is pragmatic. At Knepp, the reintroduction of free-roaming herbivores—longhorn cattle, Exmoor ponies, Tamworth pigs—has not only restored biodiversity but created new revenue streams. The estate now sells “wild meat,” offers safari-style tourism, and has become a research hub for ecologists. “We’re not asking farmers to abandon their land,” Burrell told the assembled group. “We’re asking them to rethink what productivity looks like.”

The timing of Burrell’s pitch is significant. Britain is in the midst of a reckoning over its agricultural policies, with post-Brexit subsidies favouring environmental outcomes over production quotas. The government’s Environmental Land Management scheme, which pays farmers for ecosystem services, has been criticised as both too generous and too restrictive. Rewilding, once dismissed as a fringe movement, is now being seriously considered as a tool for meeting the UK’s net-zero commitments. Yet resistance remains. A 2025 report by the Country Land and Business Association found that 62% of its members viewed rewilding as a threat to rural communities.

Burrell’s project is not without its contradictions. Knepp is a privately owned estate, funded in part by inherited wealth. Its model is not easily replicable for tenant farmers or those without capital reserves. But its existence has forced a conversation about what Britain’s countryside should be for. Is it a factory for food, a carbon sink, a playground for the wealthy, or something else entirely? The answer, as Knepp suggests, may lie in letting the land decide.

The superstitions we build into stone

For years, English Heritage and Historic England have identified “witches’ marks”—symbols like daisy wheels and intersecting lines—carved into the walls of medieval churches, barns, and houses. These marks, they claimed, were ritual protection symbols, intended to ward off evil spirits. Now, a leading architectural historian is challenging that interpretation. Dr. Matthew Champion, author of Medieval Graffiti, argues that there is “absolutely no evidence” that these marks had any mystical significance. Instead, he suggests, they are the working marks of stonemasons and carpenters—guides for construction, not spells.

The debate is more than academic. The idea of witches’ marks has captured the public imagination, appearing in guidebooks, heritage tours, and even Halloween marketing. English Heritage’s website describes them as “a fascinating glimpse into the fears and beliefs of our ancestors.” But Champion’s research, based on a decade of studying medieval buildings, suggests a far more mundane explanation. Many of the symbols, he notes, appear in clusters near structural joints or load-bearing points—exactly where a builder would need to mark measurements or alignment. Others resemble the kind of notations found in medieval craft manuals.

The persistence of the witches’ marks narrative speaks to a broader cultural tendency: the desire to find meaning in the past, even where none exists. It is easier to imagine a world of superstition and magic than to confront the reality of medieval craftsmanship—a world of precise calculations, collaborative labour, and practical problem-solving. Champion’s work does not diminish the beauty or intrigue of these buildings. It simply asks us to see them as they were: not as relics of fear, but as testaments to human ingenuity.

Nuclear’s quiet reprieve

Britain’s last nuclear power plant, Sizewell B, was scheduled to shut down in the early 2030s. Last week, the government granted it a 20-year life extension, pushing its closure date to 2055. The decision, announced without fanfare, reflects a broader shift in the UK’s energy strategy. With demand for electricity expected to rise—driven by the expansion of data centres, electric vehicles, and heat pumps—nuclear is no longer the pariah it once was.

Sizewell B, which began operating in 1995, is a pressurised water reactor, a design considered safer than the older Magnox plants that once dotted Britain’s coastline. Its extension comes as the government pushes forward with plans for new nuclear projects, including the controversial Sizewell C, which has faced opposition from environmental groups and local residents. The life extension of Sizewell B is, in part, an attempt to bridge the gap between the decommissioning of older plants and the completion of new ones.

The move has been met with cautious approval from the nuclear industry, which has long argued that the UK’s energy security depends on a mix of renewables and nuclear. But it has also reignited debates about the cost and safety of nuclear power. A 2026 report by the National Audit Office found that the lifetime extension of existing plants is significantly cheaper than building new ones, but critics argue that the money would be better spent on renewable energy and grid storage. The government, for its part, has framed the decision as a pragmatic one. “We need all the tools in the box,” a spokesperson said. The question is whether the public will accept nuclear as a necessary evil—or reject it as a relic of the past.

What to watch

The final episode of The Traitors US airs tonight on BBC Three, with Maura Higgins, the former Love Island contestant, facing off against a cast of American celebrities in a high-stakes game of deception. The show, hosted by Alan Cumming, has become a surprise hit in Britain, where its blend of strategy, melodrama, and campy aesthetics has resonated with audiences. Higgins, a rare British contestant in the American version, has emerged as a fan favourite, her Irish charm and sharp instincts making her a formidable player.

Meanwhile, Ruth Madeley, the Years and Years actor, explores her family roots in a new documentary, Who Do You Think You Are?, which airs tonight on BBC One. Madeley, who was born with spina bifida and uses a wheelchair, has spoken openly about the challenges of navigating a world that often overlooks disabled voices. The documentary follows her as she traces her lineage from Manchester to rural Ireland, uncovering stories of migration, resilience, and identity.

Both programmes reflect a broader trend in British television: the blending of entertainment and introspection. Whether through the artificial drama of a reality show or the personal journey of a documentary, audiences are increasingly drawn to stories that ask not just “what happens next?” but “what does this mean?” In an era of algorithmic content, that question feels almost radical.