Benches, phones and bleak modernity

click photo to enlarge
In a couple of blog posts I've commented on the lack of comfort of much public seating, observing that it veers towards either the "artistic" or the "indestructable" (and sometimes both), qualities which rarely do anything for one's posterior. A few days ago I came across a bench that, in my experience, surpassed all others for the torture that it inflicted on my backside. It was made of wood and had no back, but what made it especially painful was the spacing between the "slats". In fact there were only 3 slabs of wood each about 4 inches (10cm) wide. But, presumably for aesthetic reasons, the voids between them measured exactly the same. Thus, it was impossible to position yourself without part of you slipping through the gaps and coming up against the sharp edge of the wood. It made eating my sandwich a much less pleasant experience than I'd have wished!

The location of this bench, should you wish to avoid it, is Fisher Square, Cambridge. This is one of the few determinedly modern squares in Cambridge: elsewhere classical and gothic buildings provide the backdrop. It is tacked on to the shopping centre of Lion Yard, and has been furnished with the usual contemporary trappings - uncomfortable benches (of course), block paving with patterns, solitary "specimen" trees, steel railings, steps, and in the middle the mandatory modern sculpture (with uplighters), in this case an incised granite boulder by Peter Randall-Page called, "Between the Lines". All in all it is as bleak a bit of Britain as you'll find anywhere. It's a fairly recent development but already the sleek lines are being mottled by discarded chewing gum.

However, such locations often provide photographic opportunities, and as I munched on my ham and tomatoes I spotted one that captured my depressed mood. Across the square a man was pacing up and down, animatedly talking into his mobile phone. As he stopped and gesticulated - seeming to want to make his point more forcibly to someone who couldn't see him! - I composed this shot and pressed the shutter. The discomfort coming from my backside, combined with the depressing environment, seemed to converge and produce an image that summed up a dismal aspect of modern life!

Tune in tomorrow for another cheery blog post from the front-line of amateur photography ;-)

photograph & text (c) T. Boughen

Camera: Lumix LX3
Mode: Aperture Priority
Focal Length: 5.1mm (24mm/35mm equiv.)
F No: f2.8
Shutter Speed: 1/400
ISO: 80
Exposure Compensation: -0.66 EV
Image Stabilisation: On

The bridge chapel, St Ives

click photo to enlarge
Today's photograph shows the old bridge over the River Great Ouse at St Ives, Huntingdonshire*. It is one of only four bridges in England that still have their complete medieval chapels (the others are at Rotherham, Wakefield and Bradford-on-Avon). This crossing was built in the 1420s, replacing a wooden bridge that dated from around 1100, which itself superseded the shallow ford on the gravel river bed - the original method of getting from one bank to the other. Traffic used the single lane of this ancient bridge until 1980 when a new crossing was built on the town by-pass road further downstream.

Bridges have long had religious associations. In Britain many Bronze and Iron Age artefacts have been found deliberately placed in rivers next to fragments of wooden structures that may well have been bridges. The remains of a Roman bridge has altars dedicated to Neptune and Oceanus nearby. In the medieval period chapels were often built at one end of a bridge, or actually on the bridge. This continued the old association, but was also because the church frequently funded the construction of a crossing and then collected a toll to pay for its upkeep. Travellers would receive a blessing from a priest at the chapel after they made their payment. A few bridge chapels (such as that at Wakefield) were chantries, funded by a private individual, where mass was said daily for the salvation of their souls. During its lifetime the chapel at St Ives also saw use as a private residence, an inn and a doctor's surgery (though never a prison, the fate of some bridge chapels).

St Ives' bridge is unusual in having two newer, rounded arches to the left (as we look at it), and original fifteenth century pointed arches to the right. This came about because in 1645, during the Civil War, Cromwell's Republican army pulled down two arches and replaced them with a drawbridge in case of Royalist attack. The arches were rebuilt in 1716 to a design that reflected the fashion and constructional theories of the time. I visited this location on a late September morning of bright sunshine, and couldn't resist using the mute swans as foreground interest, despite the difficulty that their bright, white plumage presented in terms of metering the scene.

* For a number of reasons I tend to use the historic county names and boundaries that preceded the local government reorganisation of 1974. Consequently I assign St Ives to Huntingdonshire rather than Cambridgeshire in which it now resides for administrative purposes. For more information on this see the Association of British Counties.

photograph & text (c) T. Boughen

Camera: Olympus E510
Mode: Aperture Priority
Focal Length: 14mm (28mm/35mm equiv.)
F No: f6.3
Shutter Speed: 1/1000
ISO: 100
Exposure Compensation: -1.3 EV
Image Stabilisation: On

Remembering Sir Henry Fryer

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There are some people in this world, a relatively small group, often with more money than they know what to do with, for whom the prospect of death is a great inconvenience, because for them "shuffling off this mortal coil" means an end to their significance. Such people, and they have always existed, use their money to seek ways of extending their presence on earth. Whilst many are happy to do this through their offspring others require pyramids, palaces, terra cotta armies, massive mausoleums, foundations named after themselves, cryopreservation or the status of notable author. Through such things they imagine that their importance (often self-importance) will continue to make itself felt down the ages.

I came across an example of this the other day in the church of the Assumption of the Blessed Virgin Mary at Harlton, Cambridgeshire. On the south side of the chancel is an alabaster memorial to Sir Henry Fryer who died in 1631. This massive, opulent edifice fills the space between two south aisle windows, and features classical detailing - a pediment, a coffered arch, weeping caryatids, allegorical figures, etc - that frame four large, portrait figures. Kneeling in pious poses, are Sir Henry (in armour), flanked by his parents. Below, reclining in what to modern sensibilities looks like a casual, bored, almost devil-may-care way, is Bridget Fryer, who survived her husband.

The piece is a fascinating source of the art, design and fashion of its time, but also an interesting attempt at making one's presence continue after death. I see a lot of memorials in my tours of churches, but every now and then one jumps out as much more egocentric than usual. In this example, whilst the figures adopt the pose of devout believers in the Christian faith, everything else about the memorial screams pride (one of the seven deadly sins) and vanity. In terms of this small corner of England, and this church in particular, the memorial has achieved its purpose - up to a point. But what about in the wider world: how effectively did Sir Henry Fryer keep his importance alive? When I Googled his name I got one solitary "hit" with information about this memorial! Hardly a massive impact on posterity. But, after this blog post, Google will be returning at least two hits!

photographs & text (c) T. Boughen

Photo 1 (Photo2)
Camera: Lumix LX3
Mode: Aperture Priority
Focal Length: 5.1mm (24mm/35mm equiv.)
F No: f2.8
Shutter Speed: 1/160 (1/100)
ISO: 80
Exposure Compensation: -0.66 EV
Image Stabilisation: On

Pickups and bad styling

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When I first saw the Range Rover Sport I thought it the ugliest vehicle I'd laid eyes on. It seemed like the stylist had fashioned its form with a lump of wood and an axe, then tricked it out with details borrowed from the sort that are added to toy cars to make seven year olds part with their pocket money. Surely, I thought, this is the nadir of automotive styling. But then I saw the Audi Q7! With this car the designers apparently took a glob of dough, said, "Lets make everything BIG!", then for good measure connected it to a pump and inflated it even more. Its top-heavy, dodgem-car looks and over-fed demeanour achieved the seemingly impossible task of making the Range Rover Sport look stylish. Here, surely, was the low-point of vehicle looks. But I was wrong. The other day I saw a BMW X6, an automobile that looks like it's suffering from a personality disorder. Is it a luxurious saloon? Is it a sports car? Is it an off-road vehicle? It hasn't a clue! And neither have I! Like the "variety" stars of yesteryear, whose time has passed, it wants to be a bit of everything - all singing, all dancing, a little comedy patter, and an appeal to all ages. If it was an entertainer I'd say it should focus on comedy and ditch the rest of its act because when I saw it I had to suppress a smile - and I was laughing at it, not with it.

A smile also came to my lips when I passed this little old Morris Minor pickup in front of a house. I saw it on the same day that I saw the enormous BMW, and reflected that the world (and the roads) would be so much nicer if all vehicles were this sort of size and styled with this sort of cosy aesthetic. So often, it seems, big, boorish, styling seems to engender offensive, aggressive driving. There's probably a Toyota Aygo or Citroen C3 driver speeding around somewhere proving me wrong, but I have the feeling that the size of vehicles and the way we style them affects how they are driven. A few more "Postman Pat"-inspired cars on the road would be no bad thing!

Two final reflections. Firstly, I'm struck by how much my photograph looks like a model against a background set. The light when I took this shot was clear, strong, and at a good angle, and that, combined with the nicely refurbished Victorian semi-detached houses (remodelled into one dwelling) must account for it. Secondly, from what I've written you may think I'm interested in cars. Nothing could be further from the truth - I drive a small Honda that I chose principally on the grounds of economy and reliability. However, I am interested in the design and styling of cars, because I find the subject an endless source of interest and amusement.

photograph & text (c) T. Boughen

Camera: Lumix LX3
Mode: Aperture Priority
Focal Length: 5.1mm (24mm/35mm equiv.)
F No: f4.5
Shutter Speed: 1/1000
ISO: 80
Exposure Compensation: -0.66 EV
Image Stabilisation: On

Self-portrait in overrider

click photo to enlarge
Today's post is the latest of my reflected self-portraits - a bit of photographic fun. It was taken at the recent Bicker Steam Threshing weekend, and features the overrider of a 1967 Rover P5 Coupe, a tank of a car, that was the limousine of choice for government ministers and captains of industry in the "Swinging Sixties". This particular model was being shown alongside several other vintage and veteran cars.

As usual, I'm hidden behind the camera and lens, but my wife features quite well in the image. In fact we both feature twice because there's also a reflection in the bumper at the bottom of the image. Interestingly, in the top reflection my wife has the elongated proportions reminiscent of a supermodel or a clothes designer's drawing, whilst in the lower one the distortion makes her appear to be of a size more akin to one of the Munchkins in the "Wizard of Oz". Happily, in reality, she is perfectly proportioned!

photograph & text (c) T. Boughen

Camera: Olympus E510
Mode: Aperture Priority
Focal Length: 40mm (80mm/35mm equiv.)
F No: f6.3
Shutter Speed: 1/500
ISO: 100
Exposure Compensation: -0.7 EV
Image Stabilisation: On

Elephants in England

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The first elephant that was brought to England during historic times came in the Roman invasion of AD43, and is noted as being at Colchester. No further records of elephants in these islands exist until 1255 when Louis IX of France gave Henry III one for his menagerie that was housed at the Tower of London. Matthew Paris drew this animal for inclusion in his bestiary, and a contemporary carving of it can be seen on a misericord at Exeter Cathedral.

It is unlikely that too many elephants found their way across the English Channel during the Middle Ages, but the beast certainly became known through bestiaries similar to Matthew Paris's. These volumes collected drawings and writing about real and mythical animals. In particular they described the peculiar features of each animal, and what they symbolised. Church sculptors, painters, carvers and glaziers, as well as illustrators and writers made extensive use of these descriptions. Thus, the pelican represented Christ's sacrifice because it was said to peck its own breast and feed its offspring with its own blood, and can frequently be seen in church fittings doing just this. The Christian triumph over death and Christ's resurrection were associated with the phoenix, the mythical bird that rose from the dead in flames. Elephants often had a long entry in bestiaries, and were illustrated in warlike postures with small castles (howdahs) on their backs. They were described as intelligent, with a prodigious memory, gentle, afraid of mice, and protective of their comrades. However, this particular animal is more often associated with eastern religions than Christianity, though occasionally they can be seen in churches trampling snakes and representing Christ overcoming death and evil.

Today's photograph shows an elephant gargoyle on the church of St Peter & St Paul, Gosberton, Lincolnshire. It is the only gargoyle that I know in this form, and is contemporary with the tower which probably dates from the late 1300s. Did the people who carved this head ever see a real elephant? It's unlikely, but they would have been familiar with its illustration in the bestiaries, the inspiration for many of their grotesque and fantastic gargoyle faces. The lead spout formed into the animal's trunk catches one's eye when you look upwards, and probably dates from the church's Victorian restoration. However, I like to think that it was the medieval sculptors who first fitted one when they placed the head here as the exit for water draining from the top of the tower.

photograph & text (c) T. Boughen

Camera: Olympus E510
Mode: Aperture Priority
Focal Length: 150mm (300mm/35mm equiv.)
F No: f5.6
Shutter Speed: 1/1600
ISO: 100
Exposure Compensation: -1.0 EV
Image Stabilisation: On

Hooray for the Salvation Army Band

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In 1967 the U.S. guitarist, Jimi Hendrix, backed by the British drums and bass "Experience" of Mitch Mitchell and Noel Redding, released the song "Purple Haze". It was a product of the psychedelic times, all distorted guitar and obscure lyrics, and a great piece. A year later, in 1968, I heard a recording by the U.S. comedian, Bill Cosby, that was a wonderful spoof of "Purple Haze". This song was called "Hooray for the Salvation Army Band". To Hendrix's 60s sound he added lyrics that told how the religious group's band kept appearing every time the singer was getting down to a little sin.

I only heard this song a couple of times and then it disappeared from the airwaves. But I remembered it, and occasionally mentioned it to friends. However, it seemed that I was the only one in my circle to have heard this quirky little piece. In fact, as the years passed and my mentioning of the song continued to be met by baffled looks, I began to wonder if I'd imagined or dreamed the whole thing - that it was one of those "if you can remember the 60s you weren't there" moments. But then along came the internet. Several years ago I searched for the song and found no sign of it. However, today I was prompted to look again, and turned up numerous references. It seems my sanity can longer be questioned!

What inspired me to search for Bill Cosby's manic ditty was the appearance of a Salvation Army Band from the Citadel at Boston, Lincolnshire, walking around our village. They were undertaking a charitable collection and pausing at frequent intervals to play a hymn or two. I heard them in the distance first of all, so went for my camera. When they obligingly stopped outside my gate we made a donation and then I took several photographs of the musicians and their instruments as they played away. As I snapped away, I thought, "Hooray for the Savation Army Band", a phrase that prompted today's reflection.

photograph & text (c) T. Boughen

Photo 1 (Photo2)
Camera: Olympus E510
Mode: Aperture Priority
Focal Length: 137mm (274mm/35mm equiv.) (150mm (300mm/35mm equiv.))
F No: f6.3 (f6.3)
Shutter Speed: 1/1000 (1/640)
ISO: 100 (100)
Exposure Compensation: -1.0 (-0.7) EV
Image Stabilisation: On (On)

Dumped TVs and fanciful imaginings

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On a warm and sunny afternoon we had a cycle ride that took us through the flat Fenland landscape in the vicinity of Donington, Lincolnshire. In many areas of Britain the countryside starts to get a slightly unkempt look at the beginning of autumn. Not in the Fens however. This intensively farmed area receives constant attention from man and machine as crops are planted, tended, and harvested, at which point the soil is prepared for the next crop. And, since maximising output is the aim, just about every acre is well-tended and tidy.

So, as I cycled alongside a field where regimented ranks of winter wheat shoots were just starting to appear, you can imagine my surprise at coming upon an old TV resting upright on the carefully manicured soil near the road. What kind of low life would drive into the open country, open their car door and throw an unwanted television down the bank on to a field? Especially when the local council's "amenity sites" (waste dump) will receive and recycle such articles at no charge. Sometimes I despair of the selfish irresponsibility of my fellow citizens.

However, rather than dwell on the disfigurement of the countryside by the oaf who dumped this article I thought I'd see the discarded TV as an "opportunity", and took this photograph. Remembering Marcel Duchamp's dictum that anything can be art as long as it is taken out of context, it occurred to me that the unwanted television was a "ready-made", not unlike his bicycle wheels and urinals, and consequently I pronounce my photograph to be a work of art! I'm thinking that, if I can secure a sponsor to help me develop my theme then today's image will be the first in a series that will comment on the "the condition of mankind." My next image will have a man buried up to his neck in the field with his head inside the TV (screen removed), and arms sticking up to left and right. Then I'll move on to life-sized straw figures standing in the ripe wheat and caught in the act of hurling the TV at an oncoming combine harvester. Yes, that TV has definite possibilities... Or maybe not!

photograph & text (c) T. Boughen

Camera: Lumix LX3
Mode: Aperture Priority
Focal Length: 5.1mm (24mm/35mm equiv.)
F No: f4
Shutter Speed: 1/800
ISO: 80
Exposure Compensation: -0.7 EV
Image Stabilisation: On

Serendipitous photographs

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One afternoon on my recent visit to Settle, North Yorkshire, I saw the bright yellow helicopter of the North West Air Ambulance descending into the valley, clearly intent on landing in fields by the river. Since our route took us near to the place that it uses we made a short detour to grab a couple of photographs. Fortuitously the path on the road bridge over the River Ribble gave a good vantage point from which to look down at the comings and goings around the helicopter, now at rest next to the town's football pitch. As I noted in an earlier post, the fun fair was in town, and unfortunately the showmen's lorries and caravans were parked near the bridge, slightly impinging on the photographs that I wanted to take of the helicopter on the ground.

But, serendipity is a wonderful thing, and as I stood with a few other onlookers, waiting for the helicopter and its passengers to depart, I spotted the shadows that we were making on the side of one of the large caravans slightly below us. The image I took is, to my mind, better than the shots of the helicopter that I intended to take. That's me on the right framing this shot!

I don't know about you, but I find that my best photographs are often taken in circumstances such as these. You know the scenario, you've a day to spend in an historic and scenic city, or you're going on a walk through some beautiful landscape, but all you come back with are boring and predictable shots of places and things that have been photographed to death by everyone. However, you also have a collection of much better shots of things that you happened to notice, such as street signs, fence posts, cafe chairs, people or brickwork, images that could have been gathered just about anywhere! Two of the important lessons I've learned during my forty years with a camera is that good photographs are available anywhere and everywhere, not just in the "special" places of this world; and, photographs often have a great way of finding you, rather than you always having to search them out.

photographs & text (c) T. Boughen

Photo 1 (Photo2)
Camera: Olympus E510
Mode: Aperture Priority
Focal Length: 119mm (238mm/35mm equiv.) (40mm (80mm/35mm equiv.))
F No: f5.3 (f5)
Shutter Speed: 1/500 (1/1600)
ISO: 100 (100)
Exposure Compensation: -0.7 (-0.7) EV
Image Stabilisation: On (On)

Hanging out the washing

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Many things have changed over the past fifty odd years of my life but one that hasn't is the best way to dry washing. I can't begin to imagine for how many centuries people have fixed clothes to a washing line and let the sun and wind do their work. However, I do know that my mother did it when I was young, and my wife and I do it still.

It's true that we have both a spin dryer and a tumble dryer. It's also true that in the past we had the high-tec version of the washing line - the rotary dryer with many feet of line folded into a web with a seven foot radius. But our method of choice is the tried and tested lines stretched between vertical posts. Not only is it the cheapest way to dry washing, and the most environmentally friendly method, but it also does the job quickly and efficiently. There is a washing line elaboration that we don't use, however: the clothes prop. This is a long piece of wood, about six or seven feet long, with a notch cut in the end that is used to elevate the line when the washing has been fixed to it. My mother used one but we don't. Perhaps her diminutive stature made it a necessity that our height means we can forgo. Our clothes pegs, made of wood with springs are also quite traditional. Plastic versions are available, as are newer (and older) designs, but we prefer this variety.

After I'd been cutting the grass the other day I noticed the sharp outlines of the washing on its line perfectly reproduced on the lawn, so I asked my wife to stand in a position that would make the picture complete. It took a few attempts over several minutes as the clouds kept drifting across the sun, but I eventually got the shot that I post today.

photograph & text (c) T. Boughen

Camera: Olympus E510
Mode: Aperture Priority
Focal Length: 150mm (11mm/22mm equiv.)
F No: f6.3
Shutter Speed: 1/320
ISO: 100
Exposure Compensation: -0.7 EV
Image Stabilisation: On

A poor box

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One of my childhood memories is being taken into the church of St Alkelda in Giggleswick, North Yorkshire (though it was in the West Riding at that time), and reading the words, "Remember The Pore" on the poor box that was fixed in the aisle near the south porch. The date on the box interested me, but the spelling of the word "poor" puzzled me (for I knew that must be what the word said.) It could well have been that seventeenth century carved lettering that gave me the first realization that words have not always been spelled as they are today.

My copy of the Oxford English Dictionary (OED) gives examples of the development of the spelling of the word "poor" over the centuries. Here is a brief summary: c.1205 pouere, c.1300 pouir, c.1375 powere, c.1380 poer and poeure, c.1440 power, 1434 poyr, 1536 poor, 1540 power, 1554-9 poware, 1592 pore, 1611 poore, 1629 pore, 1650 poor. Before attempts to standardise spelling began in the eighteenth century writers often went their own way with words, and the list of spellings in the OED in no way shows a sequence that was followed by all. In fact, the dictionary shows an instance of it being spelled peer as late as 1802! However, from the examples quoted above we can see that pore was certainly current in the seventeenth century.

Poor boxes are found in many English churches and often date from the 1600s. They are evidence of the role the church played in supporting the poor through the collection of money from parishioners. Such boxes and collections are often known as "alms", and in some areas the term "mite box" is also used. What I didn't know as a child when I read the words shown in the photograph is that they are probably a quotation from the Bible (Galatians 2:10), but, through the power of the internet I now do! Furthermore, what I never noticed as a child was the date A.D. 1844 carved at the bottom of the box, but, through the power of photography I now have! I imagine it was carved when the box underwent some restoration.

photograph & text (c) T. Boughen

Camera: Olympus E510
Mode: Aperture Priority
Focal Length: 22mm (44mm/35mm equiv.)
F No: f3.5
Shutter Speed: 1/15
ISO: 400
Exposure Compensation: -1.0 EV
Image Stabilisation: On

Thinking about walking

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When I was a youngster the act of donning boots, picking up a rucksack, and walking on the hills, or in the countryside in general, was called "hiking." These days it appears to be called "walking", which is a much less specific word, though sometimes it's also known as "trekking", a grander term conjuring up images of months long journeys in distant lands. During the intervening years walking was often called "rambling", perhaps after the organisation that sought (and still seeks) to promote the pastime in Britain, The Rambler's Association (now, apparently, known as Ramblers.)

Whatever we choose to call walking in the country it's something I've done for pleasure all my life. In most instances I've done it in company with my wife, or as a family when our children were younger and still lived with us. Before I was married I often chose to walk alone. Only on one occasion have I walked in a group with the Ramblers, though at other times I've walked with friends. Today when my wife and I go walking (we never go separately) we usually see walkers who are alone, or we see couples. I've often wondered about this. Do lone walkers choose to walk by themselves, or have they a partner left at home who doesn't care for this activity? And do couples walk together because they both enjoy it, or is there often a reluctant walker being dragged along by an enthusiast? My feeling is that walking alone or with someone you know very well are the best ways to enjoy this activity. In both cases you can get physical exercise whilst looking at the sights, as well as enjoying getting lost in your own thoughts about what you see and experience. Periods of silence are much easier with someone you know well: when you walk in larger groups the problem for me is that chat too often intrudes on the communing with nature - though I know that some find conversation part of the point of going walking.

Recently, as we were passing through the area known as Attermire, near Settle in North Yorkshire, we came upon a lone walker travelling in the opposite direction. We exchanged greetings, then, a couple of minutes after he'd gone by, I turned to see him paused at the top of a steep slope surveying the view, and I took this photograph of him, a small figure in a big space. This is one of those images that completely misrepresents the landscape because out of view to the left are drystone walls, scree and cliffs that rise up high above the path, to the right are the rugged limestone tops of Warrendale Knotts, and beyond the walker the track and the land falls away to a level area of marsh - an unusual occurence in an area of limestone upland - that is surrounded on two sides by more cliffs, scree and caves.

photograph & text (c) T. Boughen

Camera: Olympus E510
Mode: Aperture Priority
Focal Length: 150mm (300mm/35mm equiv.)
F No: f5.6
Shutter Speed: 1/1600
ISO: 100
Exposure Compensation: -1.0 EV
Image Stabilisation: On

Steam-powered log cutting

click photo to enlarge
On Saturday and Sunday it was Bicker Steam Threshing weekend. This is a small, Lincolnshire country fair featuring traction engines, the operation of an old threshing machine, vintage vehicles of many kinds, stalls, and more. The purpose of the event is to raise funds for the village's medieval parish church, St Swithun's.

Events of this sort are ripe with photographic opportunities and I'll be posting a few shots that I took there over the coming days. Today's image shows log cutting on a bench circular saw. The common methods of making logs for the fire is to saw them to size then split them with an axe, or use a hammer and a purpose-made metal log "grenade" to make the fire-sized pieces. However, a gathering of traction engines (I wonder what the collective noun for that is?) is a gathering of sources of power. One was towing a trailer giving rides round the village, another was harnessed to the threshing machine, and another was powering the wood-cutting saw with a long belt drive. That left other engines quietly sulking, puffing and whistling, hoping that they too would be selected for gainful employment.

I spent a good few minutes watching as the logs were trimmed to size and thrown into the trailer, and found myself mentally transported back to the time when this sort of power was the norm. In those days traction engines would move from village to village, from farm to farm, working a few days here on the harvest, a few days there powering a saw. A simpler time. But then I was struck by the slight absurdity of what I was actually seeing - a machine that gets its energy by burning large amounts of coal being used to cut up woood that will be burned over the coming winter to provide heat energy. I started to do mental calculations about the energy used in the cutting process compared with the energy available in the wood, but the complexity and futility of that gave me a headache, and I soon stopped and simply enjoyed the spectacle!

For anyone who was wondering, yes, the two photographs are shots of the same scene taken from different angles.

photograph & text (c) T. Boughen

Photo 1 (Photo2)
Camera: Olympus E510
Mode: Aperture Priority
Focal Length: 114mm (228mm/35mm equiv.) (14mm (28mm/35mm equiv.))
F No: f6.3 (f6.3)
Shutter Speed: 1/250 (1/500)
ISO: 100 (100)
Exposure Compensation: -0.7 (-0.7) EV
Image Stabilisation: On (On)

Looking and thinking

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Recently I was talking with my wife about what people used to do in the days before mobile phones. Today, it seems, many people spend a large amount of their walking time either talking on them, texting from them, or checking them. It's impossible to go down a street these days without passing people speaking into their phone, or poking its buttons. So, the question that arose in my mind was, "What have people stopped doing, as they walk about, that they used to do before mobile phones filled so much of that time?" And the answer I came up with was, "Looking and thinking."

Now you might argue that many people were doing very little with that sort of time in the past: that walking around a town was dead time, because the imperative was to get from A to B, and the mobile phone now fills it with something more meaningful. However, I don't buy into that theory. The snippets of conversations that I overhear are mainly chit-chat, the passing of the time of day, so not deeply significant. Moreover, people who engage in this kind of talk by mobile phone are likely to do it face to face too. So, the ability to chat anywhere at any time must have increased the amount of this sort of casual conversation. And that is likely, I think, to have been at the expense of looking and thinking.

One of my favourite Henry David Thoreau sayings (that I've quoted before) is, "What is a course of history, or philosophy, or poetry, no matter how well selected, or the best society, or the most admirable routine of life, compared with the discipline of looking always at what is to be seen?" And he might have added, "and reflecting on it." In our busy world, where everyone wants a slice of our time, the ability to look and think must be jealously guarded because it helps to make us who we are, and to make sense of our world. There are so many people, politicians, media, advertisers, etc. who tell us what to look at, and what to think, that the ability and time to do these two things for ourselves is something we should cherish. If the mobile phone deprives us of that time then perhaps it needs putting in its place.

I guess today's reflection marks me out as one of the older generation, to which I plead guilty. However, one of the benefits of age is perspective; the ability to see recent developments in context, and to make more informed judgements of them. Well, that's my defence anyway! Today's photograph was taken as I was looking and thinking in my sister's garden. I peered into this plant, felt like I was looking into infinity, and took this shot of it!

photograph & text (c) T. Boughen

Camera: Lumix LX3
Mode: Aperture Priority
Focal Length: 5.1mm (24mm/35mm equiv.)
F No: f4.5
Shutter Speed: 1/250
ISO: 80
Exposure Compensation: -0.33 EV
Image Stabilisation: On

Ye Olde Naked Man Cafe

click photo to enlarge
Ever since I moved from near the bustling Fylde Coast of the north west of England to a village in rural Lincolnshire, my output of early morning, early evening and night-time photographs has declined. It was never high, but it has reduced to the point where I've been feeling that I must do something about it. Consequently, when I found myself in Settle, North Yorkshire, in early September, the time when the fun fair arrives and sets up in the market place for a fortnight, I felt that I might be able to do something to rectify my night-time drought.

So, with the best of intentions I went after dark to photograph the fair attracted by the prospect of capturing the coloured lights, the people enjoying themselves, the garish amusement arcades, etc. However, when I arrived I found I was too late and it had closed down for the night! What to do? Looking round the dark centre of the small town I saw three glowing pools of light on the facade of Ye Olde Naked Man Cafe, and so I seized the moment and made this image. There are only two things that this photograph offers the viewer: the contrast between the small illuminated areas and the surrounding darkness, and that very unusual name! I've known this cafe for almost all my life, and it has always had this name. I was led to believe that it comes from the figure on the datestone of 1663 that can be seen on the lower range of the building to the right of this facade. However, when you look at it carefully - as I did when young - you can imagine that the man is not naked, but is clothed in a pair of shorts that he is holding up to protect his modesty! As a child I was also told that at the dead of night, when his absence would not be noticed, the olde naked man walked up the hill to the nearby village of Langcliffe to a building of a similar age (1660) that features a naked woman! What happened next I'll leave to your imagination.

Had I been thinking about posts for this blog rather than securing night-time images I'd have photographed Ye Olde Naked Man Cafe during daylight, and also snapped a photograph of the naked woman when I was in Langcliffe, the better to illustrate my story. But I didn't! However, here is someone else's shot of the cafe, and here's a sketch of the naked woman (who also looks clothed)!

photograph & text (c) T. Boughen

Camera: Lumix LX3
Mode: Aperture Priority
Focal Length: 5.1mm (24mm/35mm equiv.)
F No: f2
Shutter Speed: 1/30
ISO: 400
Exposure Compensation: -0.33 EV
Image Stabilisation: On

Millstone Grit

click photo to enlarge
The Yorkshire Dales are known for their limestone scenery and drystone walls. Places such as Malham, Ingleton and Sedbergh are visited by tourists keen to see the upland farms, caves, potholes, wild landscape and small villages of this picturesque area. The district known as Craven, which includes the market town of Settle, is visited for similar reasons. However, in this location geological faulting has produced a land that departs, in some areas, from the stereotypical Dales landscape.

Here the various lines of the Craven Faults have produced places where the ubiquitous Carboniferous Limestone meets the Millstone Grit that dominates the nearby Forest of Bowland. At these boundaries the light coloured limestone gives way to areas where the rock is darker, less obviously stratified, has fewer outcrops, and produces less scree. Close inspection of Millstone Grit shows that, like limestone, it was laid down under the sea: the stone is flecked by water-smoothed pebbles of white quartz. In the Millstone Grit areas the fields are less well-drained, feature more rushes, and are more acidic: pine trees, silver birch, oak and rhododendrons will grow where woodland has been encouraged. However, the drystone walls that are characteristic of the limestone areas are also found on Millstone Grit, though here more of the building material was produced by small-scale quarrying rather than scree scavenging and field clearing.

Today's photograph shows Lambert Lane above Settle. This route connects an area of Millstone Grit with one of Carboniferous Limestone. In my shot the nearer walls are constructed of the darker stone, but the most distant ones are limestone. At points between both kinds of rock are found in the walls. I took this photograph for the complexity of the walls at this juncture - the lane, the curved sheep fold and the two walls in the foreground that serve to channel sheep to a tunnel under the lane into an adjoining field. All these walls were built as a result of the Enclosure Acts, and were probably erected in the nineteenth (or possibly eighteenth) century. I felt my image would benefit from a figure to give a visual focus and some scale, so I stayed behind whilst my wife strode on ahead, and I waited for my moment to press the shutter.

photograph & text (c) T. Boughen

Camera: Olympus E510
Mode: Aperture Priority
Focal Length: 90mm (180mm/35mm equiv.)
F No: f6.3
Shutter Speed: 1/160
ISO: 200
Exposure Compensation: 0 EV
Image Stabilisation: On

Penyghent and walking

click photo to enlarge
I've just spent a few days in the small Yorkshire Dales market town of Settle, the place in which I grew up. From the town you can look north and see, five or six miles away, the peak called Penyghent, one of the "Three Peaks". This mountain, along with Ingleborough and Whernside form a trio of summits that constitute a well-known walk. Moreover, the side of Penyghent that faces down the valley of the Ribble to Settle, also has a track that forms part of the long-distance footpath called "The Pennine Way" - named after the range of hills and mountains that the 267 mile trail follows.

Each time I go to Settle I gaze at Penyghent to see if the Pennine Way path is visible, and each year the scar that it makes grows more obvious. When I was young an enclosure-period drystone wall climbing up the slope and cliffs was all that the naked eye could see from where I lived. But, by the late 1960s, the track was succumbing to the erosion of thousands of booted feet and it was becoming ever more clear. Today it is an irregular gash many tens of yards wide in places. Repair work by the National Parks authority has not mitigated the disfigurement. I remember, in my 20s, someone asking where I came from. When I replied Settle, the person said, "Oh, you'll have done the Three Peaks Walk then". My response, that I wouldn't do that walk because of the damage it does to the area, was seen as odd, even offensive. But, it's a view I still hold today. The Three Peaks Walk, and the Pennine Way, seem to be undertaken by people who regard walking as a challenge rather than an exploration, or a literal and metaphorical path to greater understanding and appreciation of a landscape. Their physical and psychological needs seem to be superior to the needs of the environment in which they pursue their hobby, and the effect is there for all to see.

The photograph above was taken on a walk over Giggleswick Scars. The shadows of the clouds and the beautiful autumn light and colour gave the scene an attractive quality that I tried to capture. The track that so offends me, mercifully, isn't visible in this shot and this light!

photograph & text (c) T. Boughen

Camera: Olympus E510
Mode: Aperture Priority
Focal Length: 40mm (80mm/35mm equiv.)
F No: f5.6
Shutter Speed: 1/800
ISO: 100
Exposure Compensation: -0.7 EV
Image Stabilisation: On

Colour combinations

click photo to enlarge
In a post in 2008 I made the point that in painting (and photography) "sometimes it's all about the colour." That is to say, the subject, composition, etc, play second fiddle (or no fiddle at all) compared with the importance of the colour.

This shot is a case in point. It shows the last few plants for sale on a rather basic dispay at a garden centre. There are some rather straggly geraniums (pelargoniums if you prefer), a cranesbill and a house leek, arranged quite haphazardly on shelves in front of the end of a shaded greenhouse (glasshouse if you prefer!) The composition isn't as I would have had it, given any choice in the matter - I'd have kept only the geraniums, and re-arranged the pots so that a few red blooms were lower down too. However that doesn't matter to me, because I do so like the colour combination of the blue of the shelves, the green of the shading, and the violent red/orange of the blooms. The green of the leaves add subtlety and detail, but any qualities that the shot has comes (to my mind) mainly from the colours themselves.

Your point of view may be different!

photograph & text (c) T. Boughen

Camera: Olympus E510
Mode: Aperture Priority
Focal Length: 19mm (38mm/35mm equiv.)
F No: f7.1
Shutter Speed: 1/100
ISO: 100
Exposure Compensation: -0.3 EV
Image Stabilisation: On

Georgian lead planters

click photo to enlarge
Leadwork in architecture became increasingly popular in the 1400s when church roof pitches were made shallower, and the thatch, tile and shingle coverings were replaced by large sheets of lead. In the seventeenth century lead was widely used for drainpipes, rainwater heads, and lining the valleys between adjoining pitched roofs. Water cisterns were also constructed out of the metal.

It was during this century that the practice of embellishing rainwater heads with the date of construction, paterae, swags and the like, began. The accession of William and Mary brought Dutch styles to England, including a taste for garden statues made out of lead. Classical goddesses, mythical beasts and portrait busts made of lead peered out of parterres and knot gardens alongside those made of stone. London lead yards, often run by Dutchmen such as John van Nost, also turned out garden urns made of lead. These were based on classical Greek and Roman examples, and were usually decorated with masks, leaves, flowers, swags, or historical friezes with people and animals. The popularity and duarability of these urns was such that they continued being made into the eighteenth century and even down to the present day. Cylindical and square planters were made, as well as more traditional urns, and country house owners and more prosperous urban dwellers bought them in sets to place next to doors, as eye-catching features in gardens, or in rows along terraces and paved areas, as in the example above.

Some of the planters shown in the photograph, which was taken at a Lincolnshire country house, are dated - 1714 - as I recall, showing the long-lasting properties of these interesting containers. Here they are filled with closely cut box, and gaze across a lawn at a topiarized hedge with peacocks and other fanciful shapes. I took my photograph from one end of the line of planters, and focused on the second, ensuring it was the only sharp example in the row.

photograph & text (c) T. Boughen

Camera: Olympus E510
Mode: Aperture Priority
Focal Length: 119mm (238mm/35mm equiv.)
F No: f6.3
Shutter Speed: 1/100
ISO: 100
Exposure Compensation: 0 EV
Image Stabilisation: On

View of Grimsthorpe Castle, Lincolnshire

click photo to enlarge
I had an email the other day from someone in the United States who'd been following my photographs from Grimsthorpe Castle with some interest. In the course of quite a long passage my correspondent asked if I had taken a shot of the main elevation that I could post.

It occurred to me that the idea of a main elevation is an interesting one. On most buildings it can be identified quite easily - it's where the main entrance lies. However, on some large buildings there may be more than one significant entrance, so it's not so easy to identify which is the principal one. Many years ago I took part in a planning inquiry into a proposed public building. The organisation I was associated with had concerns about the way the new building would fit in with the older buildings around it. In particular, we could see that the main elevation faced the main road, and the subsidiary, less well-managed elevations faced a selection of historic buildings. The architect was at pains to point out that his design gave equal importance to all elevations - it plainly didn't - and that he had put great emphasis on harmonising with the context. Successive owners and builders of Grimsthorpe Castle have also tried to give all four elevations strength and purpose. However, it seems the case that over time there has always been a recognisable main elevation, but it has moved from the south (see this earlier blog post) to the north (above).

What makes me say that the shot above shows the principal facade? Well the straight, third of a mile drive in a direct line, from the park gates towards the centre of this composition, gives it massive emphasis. Then the walled courtyard with its low corner towers and carriage turning space builds on this. And finally the imposing front, with banks of windows, tall flanking towers, and a large, central doorway seal the argument. Interestingly, a north-facing elevation is never seen with quite the effect that those facing other directions manage, simply because it is in shadow for much of the day, and the sun cannot model the architecture so well. That also presents a problem for the photographer. My answer was to stay well back for the shot and give the facade the context of parkland, trees and sky.

I took a photograph of the west elevation earlier in the year whilst walking near the Castle. The way the roof line falls from the north front (left) down to the south front (right) clearly shows where the main emphasis lies.

photograph & text (c) T. Boughen

Camera: Lumix LX3
Mode: Aperture Priority
Focal Length: 12mm (24mm/35mm equiv.)
F No: f6.3
Shutter Speed: 1/800
ISO: 80
Exposure Compensation: -0.3 EV
Image Stabilisation: On

Early 1800s houses

click photo to enlarge
The first few decades of the nineteenth century, when Georgian turned to Victorian, is an interesting period in English architectural history. It is a time when the middle classes began to build houses outside the towns and cities in which they made their money, and when those who had the inclination, and could afford it, established themselves as nouveaux squires.

A style of spare, stripped down architecture evolved at this time. It incorporated something of the proportions of Georgian buildings, but with updated "modern" classical detailing, often yellow brick, stucco, shallow bows and angled bays, deeply overhanging eaves, verandas and new sources of inspiration from southern Europe. Italianate villas were popularised by architects like John Nash, and erected in rural areas as new country houses, and in towns as desirable modern residences. However, the English have frequently been an architecturally conservative nation, and whereas these features are very visible in London, the Home Counties and provincial metropolitan areas, in the smaller towns old styles hung on longer.

Today's photograph shows a detail of a large, early nineteenth century town house on Swinegate in Grantham, Lincolnshire. Despite its date it is very much a symmetrical facade in the Georgian manner with a centrally-placed door, with windows regularly disposed on each side of it and above. The style of the doorway, with its window at the top letting light into the hall, and the stubby canopy supported by brackets with two volutes are developments of Georgian details, but stylistically are clearly later. Similarly, the indented window lintels with their reticent keystones have a mechanical feel that the Georgians would eschew. However, the brickwork, in Flemish bond (alternating headers and stretchers) has yet to become the all-pervasive stretcher bond, and could be that of an earlier building, as could the "Gothick" glazing bars. Then there are the shutters. In England these are usually thought of as "foreign" - we don't have sun that is strong enough for long enough to warrant them - but this period liked them in cottage ornes (where they added to the ornament), and on Italianate villas (where they suggested the Tuscan origins more forcibly). I don't know when these were fixed to this facade, but I suspect they date from the twentieth century. The interesting thing is, even though they are probably later than the building itself, they help to make it look more of its time!

This photograph is another attempt by me to get away from my usual shots of building facades, where verticals are carefully corrected.

photograph & text (c) T. Boughen

Camera: Olympus E510
Mode: Aperture Priority
Focal Length: 12mm (24mm/35mm equiv.)
F No: f5.6
Shutter Speed: 1/400
ISO: 100
Exposure Compensation: -0.3 EV
Image Stabilisation: On

Fingers and visual dislocations

click photo to enlarge
In a recent post that features a photograph of my feet I observed that, after the face, the part of the human body that is felt to be most expressive of a person is the hands. A while ago I was making a pair of display boards for a local club of which I'm a member, and, as I fixed the screws that held the hinges, I looked down at my busy hands and wondered how I could incorporate them in an image.

As is often the case with me, I let this thought float about in my head for a few days, turning it first this way, then that, until an idea began to coalesce. I'd been looking at some photographs I'd taken a couple of years ago that involved placing objects on mirrors. What interests me in images made like this is that you not only get the reflection of the object, but you also have an element of confusion on the first viewing as the mind works out what is going on to create the visual dislocation.

The result is today's photograph, which isn't strictly a shot of hands, but of fingers, the most expressive and useful part of the hand. It includes some of the screws I'd been using to fix those hinges that I placed on a mirror laid flat on a table. I tried various permutations of fingers and screws, but this one, which with the reflection of the opposing index finger and thumb combined with the actual digits, makes a sort of figure "8", is the one I preferred. It isn't the greatest shot I've ever created, but the "floating" screws add a slightly unusual dimension, I think, and cause the viewer to do a "double take".

photograph & text (c) T. Boughen

Camera: Olympus E510
Mode: Aperture Priority
Focal Length: 35mm macro, (70mm/35mm equiv.)
F No: f5.6
Shutter Speed: 1/60
ISO: 100
Exposure Compensation: -0.3 EV
Image Stabilisation: On

Photographing in dark churches

click photo to enlarge
This is the third of my shots taken on a recent visit to the church of St Wulfram, Grantham, in Lincolnshire. The interior of this particular building is a challenge to the photographer who wants to capture images without the use of a tripod because of the large number of windows that are filled with stained glass. They have the effect of making the inside quite dark.

In the past in these circumstances I've been happy enough to use a tripod to achieve the images I require. But, since the advent of image stabilisation technology, I've found it liberating and less tiring to dispense with a tripod and to hand-hold my shots. However, the particular camera I use, though it is small and portable, and therefore gets more use than I would give to the bigger, heavier models of other manufacturers, doesn't have the best high ISO performance, and I'm reluctant to shoot above 800. Consequently the darker churches and the dim corners of those that are more brightly lit are still off-limits to hand-held shots. You might wonder why I don't use flash. Well, in churches with lots of visitors, or those that have a service in progress, flash is very intrusive. And in empty churches it too often seems to detract from the atmosphere of the place: those attractive dark corners, when filled with light, lose the air of mystery that the builders sought.

Fortunately, on the early September morning of this shot, sun was streaming through the south-facing fourteenth century windows of the Lady Chapel, and not even the dense Victorian glass (and certainly not the lighter twentieth century examples) could dim it to a level that prevented me shooting. Furthermore, when I saw my wife looking up at a piece of architecture, and providing not only a foreground subject, but a silhouette with slight haloes, I knew an image was required. Perhaps it's a family album snapshot as much as anything, but I think the light and shade, and the glow from the glass give it a little more than that.

photograph & text (c) T. Boughen

Camera: Olympus E510
Mode: Aperture Priority
Focal Length: 11mm (22mm/35mm equiv.)
F No: f6.3
Shutter Speed: 1/100
ISO: 400
Exposure Compensation: -1.3 EV
Image Stabilisation: On

Church organs

click photo to enlarge
"Laudate eum in chordis et organo"
(Praise him with strings and pipes),
from The Bible (Psalm 150)

The sound of a church pipe organ is probably my second favourite organ sound (after the Hammond B3). However, whilst it's something I see a lot of during my visits to churches I remain fairly ignorant of the instrument. What I do know is that, as far as English church music goes, it is a relative newcomer. The unaccompanied plainsong of earlier times was superseded, in parish churches and elsewhere, by a consort, ensemble or small orchestra of instrumentalists. These players on their fiddle, crumhorn, flute, hurdy gurdy, shawm and other early instruments, accompanied the hymns of the medieval church and continued through into the nineteenth century, when their playing - on more recognisable oboes, trumpets, flutes, violins and so on - often took place from a gallery at the west end of the nave. A number of churches kept, and now display, the instruments of these earlier accompanists.

From the seventeenth century onwards organs started to make an appearance in churches, often cased in wood beautifully carved by the likes of Grinling Gibbons. The first instruments were hand-powered with bellows pumped by a boy hidden away behind the keyboard. In the twentieth century an electric pump replaced this method of raising wind, though the original hand levers often remain. The Victorians installed many beautiful (and often very large) church organs, bequeathing not only a magnificent instrument on the parish and future ages, but also the attendant large bills for maintenance, repair and restoration. These costs became too much for the declining church memberships of the second half of the twentieth century, and quite a few parishes substituted a cheaper electric or electronic instrument.

St Wulfram's church at Grantham, Lincolnshire, received its first organ in 1640, but it was destroyed in the Civil War in 1643. In 1736 a three manual organ manufactured by Byfield was installed. It was extensively rebuilt in the 1860s but was described as "quite worn out" by 1904 - a testament, perhaps, to the religious and musical enthusiasm of the intervening years! In 1906 it was rebuilt and enlarged with a beautiful case designed by Sir Walter Tapper RA. Further overhauls and rebuilds occurred in 1972 and 1993/4. Interestingly some of the original pipes of 1736 continue in use today.

I took my photograph of the keyboard of the organ during a visit to the church. It was being played by someone who was practising their craft, and its thunderous sound was the perfect accompaniment for our architectural exploration.

photograph & text (c) T. Boughen

Camera: Olympus E510
Mode: Aperture Priority
Focal Length: 22mm (44mm/35mm equiv.)
F No: f6.3
Shutter Speed: 1/15
ISO: 800
Exposure Compensation: -0.7 EV
Image Stabilisation: On

Chained libraries and the value of print

click photos to enlarge
The furore over Google's desire to digitise the world's books is a reminder of the power of the printed word. That power derives from its value to publishers, booksellers, and authors in terms of income, but more importantly, from print's ability to convey information across space, time and language barriers. Information is power. But it is also the source of enjoyment, enlightenment, intellectual growth, and much else. Moreover, it has always been these things ever since Johannes Gutenberg, around 1439, first used his printing press with movable type to make multiple copies of books.

Today I was in the Francis Trigge Chained Library in Grantham. This fascinating place is located in a room above the medieval south porch of St Wulfram's church. A chained library is just what those words describe - a collection of books, each of which is chained to a desk or shelf so that it can't be removed from the room, or be stolen. In the first few centuries after the invention of printing books were expensive and precious, and chaining them down was quite a common practice. Usually the books rested on benches so that they could easily be opened. However, in this library later generations installed shelving and so the books are stored vertically, still chained. They are fixed by a metal plate on the edge of an outer cover and consequently when they were put on shelves the cover titles (where they existed) could not be seen. As a result these had to be written across the ends of the pages. The library was established in 1598, and now contains 356 items of which 82 remain chained. The oldest book dates from 1472.

photographs & text (c) T. Boughen

Photo 1 (Photo2)
Camera: Olympus E510
Mode: Aperture Priority
Focal Length: 11mm (22mm/35mm equiv.) (ditto)
F No: f6.3 (ditto)
Shutter Speed: 1/13 (1/40)
ISO: 800 (ditto)
Exposure Compensation: -0.7 (-1.7) EV
Image Stabilisation: On (ditto)