Taking a break

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I'm taking a break from the blog for a while - it will be good for both of us. How long is a while? I don't know at this time; it could be a few weeks, it could be a few months, it could be longer.

photograph and text © Tony Boughen

Photo Title: The Boat House Pool, Belton House, Grantham, Lincolnshire
Camera: Olympus E-M10
Mode: Aperture Priority
Focal Length: 42mm (84mm - 35mm equiv.)
F No: f7.1
Shutter Speed: 1/200 sec
ISO:200
Exposure Compensation: -0.3 EV
Image Stabilisation: On

Disused swimming pool

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The other day we came across, for the first time, the former outdoor swimming pool in Grantham. This facility in Wyndham Park opened to the public in the 1880s and offered bathing to the residents of the town until the 1970s. Since then it has been used as a skate park, and more recently has been the boating pool for the local model boat club.

On the day we saw it the pool had been drained and it held only leaves and an inch or two of rain water (just enough for a grubby reflection). I read that there are plans to remodel it, a project that includes demolishing some of the Victorian buildings that are on two sides of the water. I hope that the symmetrical block in today's photograph remains; it looks better than some of the others and would be a tangible link with the site's past.

photograph and text © Tony Boughen

Photo Title: Former Outdoor Swimming Pool, Grantham, Lincolnshire
Camera: Olympus E-M10
Mode: Aperture Priority
Focal Length: 36mm (72mm - 35mm equiv.)
F No: f6.3
Shutter Speed: 1/640 sec
ISO:200
Exposure Compensation: -0.3 EV
Image Stabilisation: On

The tarnished mirror pond

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The purpose of a mirror pond is to re-create, usually in a man-made stretch of water, some of the qualities that a natural lake or pond displays on a calm clear day when the surface is completely still. In those circumstances a near perfect reflection of the surroundings, after the manner of a mirror, is possible.

The creators of the English landscape garden sometimes made a mirror pond near to the country house as one of the features to which the owners and their guests could walk and admire. Frequently they also constructed something - a building, statues, a bridge etc - whose purpose was to be the object that was reflected. On a visit to Belton House, near Grantham, we went to look at the example there and were disappointed to find it "broken". Water plants with delicate white flowers that had colonised the mirror pond had broken through the surface, spoiling the reflection of the rusticated stone pavilion that had been placed at the end of the rectangle of water, tarnishing, as it were, the surface. This effect probably worked in winter when the plants were dormant, but the onset of spring had spurred their growth. The diligence of the National Trust staff who care for the grounds at Belton is everywhere apparent, so I will not be surprised to find on a future visit that the "polish" has been restored to the water's surface and a flawless reflection of the pavilion will be mirrored for all to see.

photograph and text © Tony Boughen

Photo Title: Mirror Pond, Belton House, Lincolnshire
Camera: Olympus E-M10
Mode: Aperture Priority
Focal Length: 45mm (90mm - 35mm equiv.) crop
F No: f5.4
Shutter Speed: 1/100 sec
ISO:200
Exposure Compensation: -0.3 EV
Image Stabilisation: On

Organ pipes and case

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In September 2009 I took a photograph of an organist at the console of the instrument in the church of St Wulfram in Grantham, Lincolnshire. She sat in the warm glow of a light before no less than four keyboards, dozens of stops, a mirror and her music. Above her head, in wood, hinting at the splendours even higher, is Gothic-style fretwork, two gilded shields and a line of text in Latin - Laudate eum in chordis et organo - "Praise him with strings and pipes", a quotation from Psalm 150 in the Bible.

On my recent visit I concentrated my attention above the console, on the pipes and the magnificent case that Sir Walter Tapper RA designed for the instrument in 1902. This woodwork, combined with the re-gilding of 1972 makes a most impressive sight. The lighting and the painted wood ceiling give this area of the church a rich and opulent feel. We had a cup of tea and some cake in the church's cafe, but unfortunately on this occasion there was no organ recital taking place, something that we have enjoyed on a previous visit.

photograph and text © Tony Boughen

Camera: Olympus E-M10
Mode: Aperture Priority
Focal Length: 14mm (28mm - 35mm equiv.)
F No: f5.6
Shutter Speed: 1/8 sec
ISO:1600
Exposure Compensation: -0.33 EV
Image Stabilisation: On

Death and slate

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I was reading a piece recently wherein a writer was arguing that all mankind's actions are motivated, in some way or other, by the knowledge that we will all die. That this characteristic, one that distinguishes us from all other living beings, lies behind all that we do. Every action, no matter how important or trivial seeks to divert us from the thought of death, convince ourselves that we can transcend death, or prompts us to leave a record of ourselves that will last beyond the act of dying. I paraphrase rather crudely, but that was the gist of it.

That article came to mind when I was checking up on the progress of the repair of the spire at St Wulfram, Grantham. The usual entrance through the west door is not available due to scaffolding and a temporary path leads round to a door on the south side. This takes you through an area of the graveyard that surrounds the church where slate memorials predominate. Green Swithland slate, purple-tinged slate, grey slate and slate with a hint of blue can all be seen. Oolitic limestone is also present, but it is slate that catches the eye. The gravestones made of this material date from around 1760 through to the second half of the nineteenth century. And, the fact that they are made of slate means that they can still be easily read, the incisions almost as sharp as the day they were cut two hundred and fifty years ago. I've said elsewhere in this blog, and I'll repeat it again: if you want a tangible memorial to tell the world of your existence then it's hard to do better than a piece of inscribed slate placed somewhere that will not be disturbed.

photograph and text © Tony Boughen

Camera: Olympus E-M10
Mode: Aperture Priority
Focal Length: 116mm (232mm - 35mm equiv.)
F No: f5.6
Shutter Speed: 1/250 sec
ISO:200
Exposure Compensation: -0.33 EV
Image Stabilisation: On

Repairing Grantham church's spire

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On a recent visit to Grantham we went to see the parish church of St Wulfram where renovation work is being undertaken on its marvellous spire that sits on top of its beautiful tower. It is 282 feet from the ground to the tip of the octagonal stone needle, not the tallest such structure in the land, but by common consent, one of the best.When the finest parish church spires are being considered the Lincolnshire trio of Louth, Grantham and Brant Broughton are rarely absent, along with Nottinghamshire's Newark.

This spire dates from the medieval period. However, like most spires, it has undergone repairs on a number of occasions since it was first built. The inescapable fact is that every church spire is open to the full force of the weather. Wind, cold, heat and rain all take their toll of the stonework. In the case of St Wulfram's major rebuilding and restoration occurred in 1664, 1797, 1883 and 1945-7. It is now happening again. I read that the use of cast iron in the repairs of 1797 is one of the reasons that work needs doing now. Iron rusts and where it isn't separated from the stone by molten lead it can easily damage the stonework. £600,000 is being spent to take off the top 40 feet of the tower and repair it. That isn't going to be a quick job.

On our visit I looked up at the steel scaffolding on the west face of the tower and encasing the spire, at the nylon ropes, clamps, wooden planks and steel cables, aluminium ladders and reflected for a few moments. I'd recently read Ken Follett's "World Without End", a story about the fictitious town of Kingsbridge during the period of the Black Death. One of the main characters is engaged in building a tower and spire on a priory church, and the description of his labours on this task came back to me. As I looked at the scaffolding above I imagined all the metal replaced by wood, the nylon by hemp and further reflected that the means of working on such a structure today isn't too far removed from the methods of six or seven hundred years ago.

Incidentally, if you enlarge and look at the smaller photograph you'll see, on the left, the Beehive pub. In the tree nearby you'll also see the working beehive that makes this pub much visited by pub enthusiasts and unique among British public houses.

photograph and text © Tony Boughen

Photo 1
Camera: Nikon D5300
Mode: Aperture Priority
Focal Length: 140mm (210mm - 35mm equiv.) - cropped
F No: f8
Shutter Speed: 1/250 sec
ISO:125
Exposure Compensation: -0.33 EV
Image Stabilisation: On

Notoriety, fame, Newton and Thatcher

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"Fame, we may understand, is no sure test of merit, but only a probability of such: it is an accident, not a property of a man." Thomas Carlyle (1795-1881) Scottish philosopher, essayist and historian

My first introduction to the architecturally preposterous tower of Grantham town hall was in the 1970s, from the train, as we passed through on our way to London. We were living in the city of Kingston upon Hull at the time and the east coast mainline goes through the town. Not until thirty or so years later did I visit Grantham, have a walk around, and take in the full splendour of William Watkins' hodgepodge building. By that time the town had gained some notoriety as the place where Margaret Thatcher was born. Admirers of our first woman prime minister see her birthplace, her father's grocery shop, as something of a shrine. I have no such illusions, regarding her as a stain on our country's life and history, a divisive politician who abandoned the post-war consensus and returned Britain to a society of haves and have-nots.

On that first visit I also became aware of Grantham's connection with the great scientist, Isaac Newton. The town isn't his birthplace; he was born in nearby Woolsthorpe Manor. However, it was the place where, between 1655 and 1661, he was educated. The Free Grammar School dates back to 1327 though the oldest currently standing buildings, ones that Newton would have sat in, were erected in about 1497. Education still takes place there today, but it is now known as The King's School. Grantham is sufficiently proud of the connection with Newton to have erected his statue in the main civic space in front of the town hall. There can be no denying Newton's achievements and it is right that he is recognised in this way. As I took my photograph the other day I wondered whether, in the fullness of time, Margaret Thatcher would take her place alongside him. In Britain we are, quite rightly, wary of commissioning statues to the living. There seems to be a recognition that time can change the esteem with which the famous are regarded. The death of Margaret Thatcher last year has prompted calls for public statues as a tribute to her achievements. I feel that generally, and especially in the north of England, Scotland and Wales, the public mood would not welcome such a step. However, the one place where that feeling might not prevail is the place of her birth. I will, with interest, watch the space next to Newton in front of Grantham's hideous town hall.

photograph and text © Tony Boughen

Camera: Sony RX100
Mode: Aperture Priority
Focal Length: 19.1mm (51mm - 35mm equiv.)
F No: f5
Shutter Speed: 1/60 sec
ISO:125
Exposure Compensation: -0.3 EV
Image Stabilisation: On

Hatchments

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"His means of death, his obscure funeral -
No trophy, sword nor hatchment o'er his bones"
said by Laertes in "Hamlet" (Act 4, Scene 5) by William Shakespeare

For the layman the sight of hatchments hanging inside a church, on the wall of the nave or on inner east face of the west tower, is something of a puzzle. They are heraldic, like the commonly seen royal coats of arms, and like them are painted on a square board that is placed point upwards. But whose coats of arms do they show and why are they found in churches?

"Hatchment" is an Anglicization of the French, "achievement", and therein lies the clue to what they are. Medieval noblemen had their armour, weapons and heraldic colours displayed in church on their tomb during their funeral. In later centuries this was formalised in the custom of the family coat of arms being painted on a square board that was hung, lozenge-wise over the main entrance to the family home during the period of mourning. After the funeral the board, now called a hatchment, was often moved to the church and displayed there on a longer-term basis. Some of these have survived and adorn our churches still.

By the eighteenth century many conventions had grown up around hatchments. For example, if the wife lived on after the passing of her husband then the sinister side of the background (left from the point of view of someone holding it like a shield but right as we view it) would be painted white (see top example above), with the reverse (dexter side) indicating that the husband was the survivor. The status of women as unmarried or married was marked by the former's arms being decorated by gold cord and the latter with a golden, winged, cherub head. The last of a family line was indicated by a skull and cross bones painted under the coat of arms. It's regrettable that names and dates were never put on hatchments (though they are on royal coats of arms) and that considerable detective work has been necessary to work out who it is that they commemorate.

The parish church of St Wulfram in Grantham, Lincolnshire has six fine hatchments and two royal coats of arms (one dated 1586, the other some time before 1701). In recent years these have been grouped for display purposes and they make a fine sight spot-lit against the stone of the ancient walls.

photograph and text © Tony Boughen

Camera: Sony RX100
Mode: Aperture Priority
Focal Length: 12.3mm (33mm - 35mm equiv.)
F No: f5
Shutter Speed: 1/40 sec
ISO: 3200
Exposure Compensation: -1.0 EV
Image Stabilisation: On

Chandeliers, electroliers and names

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On a couple of occasions I've reflected on the way that words pass out of daily use and acquire the status of "archaic" in the dictionary. Today's photograph prompted me to wander down that path again.

I took the shot near the west door of the church of St Wulfram at Grantham, Lincolnshire. The faceted glass or perspex is the top of the new internal porch which, on the dull day of our visit had its light turned on. Above is the Victorian glass of the west window. Appearing to float in the darkness nearby, like a spaceship in Kubrick's "2001: A Space Odyssey", is a ... well, what shall I call it? Like many such examples of branched church lighting this one dates from the early 1800s and started life as a chandelier - a hanging ornamental light fitting that held candles. It would have been lit and replenished by someone standing on steps or by the whole light being lowered using a chain or rope. Both these methods of servicing this kind of light were inconvenient. Consequently it is no surprise that when electricity became widely available churches frequently converted their chandeliers from candles to light bulbs. The flick of a wall switch was much easier than struggling to light 18 or so candles with a flickering taper. But with this change-over came the problem of nomenclature.

The first "chandeliers" that were purposely made for electric light bulbs were named, quite sensibly, "electroliers" (the first instance of use cited in the Oxford English Dictionary (OED) is 1882). It was a good marketing tactic and it better described the new take on an old idea. Moreover, the gas versions that preceded them were called "gaseliers". But immediately a problem arose: what do you call an old chandelier that is converted from candles to electric light bulbs? Do you stick with the name that indicates what it was originally or do you use the newfangled "electrolier" to show how progressive you are and to more accurately describe the updated light? There was no great debate on this matter, usage alone determined the course of what happened. The newly made electric chandeliers, for a few decades, often (though not always) were described as electroliers. Conversions generally (though not always) stuck with chandelier. Then, over time, the use of the word electrolier declined and chandelier re-asserted itself to describe the electric versions, which had become the dominant type, as well as those versions continuing to use candles. Today the word "electrolier" is mainly restricted to describing the early "electric chandeliers" that would have had that name applied when they were first made. The OED doesn't yet describe "electrolier" as archaic, but it can only be a matter of time.

photograph and text © Tony Boughen

Camera: Canon
Mode: Aperture Priority
Focal Length: 50mm
F No: f7.1
Shutter Speed: 1/20
ISO: 1250
Exposure Compensation:  -0.33 EV
Image Stabilisation: On

Seasonal colour

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Recently, as I was looking through my 2012 collection of photographs, I got to thinking about basic natural, seasonal colours. It seems to me that in a country such as ours green, blue, grey and white are colours that are constants throughout the year. Grass, sky, clouds and snow provide those. To these three staples winter adds the black of wet trees and the brown of dead vegetation. Spring injects the yellow and yellow-green of new growth into the mix. Autumn adds the tints of yellow, brown, orange and red of turning leaves. But it is summer when nature deploys the fullest colour palette. To all of the colours of the other seasons are added every other colour that nature offers. But more than that, it offers them in deeper hues. Consequently when in September autumn makes its presence first felt in subdued tones, longer shadows and the first chill in the air, I look at the colours around me with a sense of what I'm about to lose.

On a walk in mid-September at Market Deeping I stopped on the bridge over the River Welland and looked downstream at the trees overhanging the shallow water. The sun was shining and the light was bright and clear revealing every detail.  The colours were deep and glowing with a touch of autumnal brown in some of the leaves. The view offered little in the way of a main subject but the mix of colours was beautiful and evocative of the summer that was beginning to pass out of reach. So I tried to hang on to it through the photograph I took.

A week earlier we'd been in Grantham and I took another photograph. It offered a nice contrast between the sharp angularity of the building and the irregularity of the planting. But it too offered that memory of summer. Here the flowers were starting to turn and the first fallen leaves of a silver birch were littering the grass. In a few short weeks the leaves would be gone and the flowers too. But the scene retained the essence of summer whilst at the same time prefiguring the autumn to come.

photographs and text © Tony Boughen

Photo 1
Camera: Canon
Mode: Aperture Priority
Focal Length: 24mm
F No: f8
Shutter Speed: 1/60
ISO: 100
Exposure Compensation:  -0.67 EV
Image Stabilisation: On

Louth steeple

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"That Louth parish church is one of the most majestic of English parish churches need hardly be said. It is what it is thanks to its steeple, which has good claims to be considered the most perfect of Perp (Perpendicular period) steeples." Nikolaus Pevsner (1902-1983) German-born British historian of art and architecture

The spired steeples of Lincolnshire's medieval churches individually and collectively surpass those of the churches of any other English county. From the austere beauty of the early broach spires of Sleaford and Frampton, to the fifteenth century magnificence of Grantham and Louth, with a host of others between, they are without parallel. Only a very few, such as Newark in Nottinghamshire, come close to matching the splendours on display in Lincolnshire.

When one considers this subject from the perspective of architectural history, and one looks at proportion, innovation in design and decoration, and the relationship between the rest of the church and the spired steeple then, despite Pevsner's praise of Louth, I think it's quite a close call between that church and Grantham. However, a spired steeple is more than a piece of architecture. It is also a major vertical accent in a town, and the way in which it contributes to views and vistas from near and far needs to be considered too. An example of a spired steeple that makes much less impact on its surroundings than might be imagined is that of Norwich Cathedral. When one considers Louth and Grantham, both in towns with hills, both without any real competition as far as tall buildings go, then it is Louth that clearly makes the greater impact.

Today's photographs were taken on the same, very changeable day. The darker shot is a view from Bridge Street, the sunlit one shows the church seen from Westgate, a fine street of distinguished, mainly Georgian, buildings. Both try to show something of the way this tower and spire are often framed by the surrounding buildings. This is something that happens very little at Grantham. Nor does Grantham's fine church advertise its presence from miles away over rolling hills as does that at Louth. Perhaps that's the next photograph of this building that I'll try to take.

photograph and text (c) T. Boughen

Photo 1
Camera: Canon
Mode: Aperture Priority
Focal Length: 48mm
F No: f7.1
Shutter Speed: 1/500 sec
ISO: 100
Exposure Compensation:  -0.33 EV
Image Stabilisation: On

The Angel and Royal Hotel

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Several establishments claim to be England's oldest inn. The Old Ferryboat at St Ives, Cambridgeshire, proposes a date of 560AD and Ye Olde Fighting Cocks in St Albans says its origins go back to 795AD? Many would think the most ancient was Ye Olde Trip to Jerusalem in Nottingham, a building that includes construction of  around 1189 and a cavern excavated in a cliff face. Today's photographs show The Angel and Royal Hotel at Grantham in Lincolnshire. The earliest date it claims is 1203 though cellars and foundations are reputed to stretch back to the 800s. So though decidedly venerable it probably can't be called the very oldest inn. However, what is indisputable is that there can be few with so much history attached to them as this Lincolnshire hostelry.

The building started life as a property of the Knights Templars during which time, in 1213, King John thought it would make a good stopping off point for his court during its tour of the country. Then the building came into the ownership of the Knights Hospitallers who, like the Templars, were known for offering hospitality to travellers. In the fourteenth century Edward III and his queen visited. The gilded angel holding a crown is said to be a tribute to his patronage. In 1483 Richard III stayed at the hotel and in the Chambre de Roi (now the King's Room Restaurant) set in motion the order for the execution of the Duke of Buckingham. Charles I stayed there in 1633 and in 1643 Oliver Cromwell was a visitor following his success in battle near Grantham. In the eighteenth century The Angel (as it was then known) became a notable coaching inn offering accommodation for travellers, including George IV, on the Great North Way. The name of the inn was changed to the The Angel and Royal after the visit in 1866 of the Prince of Wales. He later became Edward VII.

The main elevation of the building we see today is stone-faced, two storeyed, with bays, buttresses, a parapet, rather fine grotesques and gargoyles, and dates from the late 1400s. The central carriage arch is now glazed with doors. Above is an oriel window supported by the gilded demi-angel holding a crown. There is an eighteenth century extension to the left (out of shot), and internal rooms show details of, principally, the fifteenth, sixteenth and eighteenth centuries.

I took today's photographs after, on a cold and clear day, we'd eaten lunch in the King's Room below sagging beams next to a stone fireplace, warmed by a roaring fire.

photographs and text (c) T. Boughen

Main Photo
Camera: Canon
Mode: Aperture Priority
Focal Length: 65mm
F No: f6.3
Shutter Speed: 1/200
ISO: 100
Exposure Compensation:  -0.33 EV
Image Stabilisation: On

Trains, cars and photography

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I've never been a car buff, I've always preferred my bicycle. Though I do own a car it's with reluctance and I've always seen motor vehicles as destructive, things that have wreaked havoc on planning and urban settlements. However, I've also found them an undeniable source of humour as regular readers of this blog will know. With this outlook, as you can imagine, my conversations with other men about cars don't follow the usual path. My wife pretty much shares that outlook. And yet it is her proud boast that in the 1980s she could identify most of the cars seen on Britain's roads. How so? Well, our oldest son, from the age of two and from the vantage point of his pushchair, wanted to know what to call each one he saw, so my wife had to read the names and then tell him. He would delight in spotting further examples and tell my wife about them.

But, I am not a complete transport illiterate, and I do have some expertise in locomotive identification, particularly those that travelled the lines of British Rail in the 1980s. You might have guessed that I gained it from the same source. My son's interest in things transport-related expanded to trains and I learned the names alongside him. So, I can tell a Deltic from a Class 37, a Class 47 from a Class 50, and the minutiae of the Class 8 shunter is no stranger to me. However, my interest continued only as long as it took for my son to learn more by himself, and so I have little knowledge of subsequent developments. Consequently, when I came to give a title to the photograph of the diesel multiple unit (DMU) in today's photograph that I took while waiting at Grantham station to meet someone travelling on it, I had to look it up.

Of all the specialist photographers, those photographing trains are some of the most driven. Invariably (and unlike me) they do it in support of their hobby or interest, and with a dedication that is a marvel to behold. Moreover, they document each image with a level of detail that few other photographers match: name of type of loco, specific name, number, location, route, time, specific variables of one sort or another, camera details etc. My poor effort doesn't match this level of care and attention.* It was an "opportunity shot", and is only the third train photograph to appear on this blog. My other efforts are here and here.

* In the spirit of a real train photographer I should say that this photograph was taken on Wednesday 21st September and shows a Class 180 (No. 109) First Hull Trains DMU on the 10:30am Hull to King's Cross service at Grantham station, Lincolnshire. It had departed 20 minutes late and arrived at Grantham at 12:19pm, 18 minutes late, due to a line problem.

photograph and text (c) T. Boughen

Camera: Lumix LX3
Mode: Aperture Priority
Focal Length: 5.1mm (24mm/35mm equiv.)
F No: f4.5
Shutter Speed: 1/800
ISO:125
Exposure Compensation: -0.66 EV
Image Stabilisation: On

Early 1800s houses

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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

Photographing in dark churches

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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

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"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)

Converging verticals

click photo to enlarge
One of the problems in photographing tall buildings is converging verticals. If you want to include most or all of a tall structure you have to point the camera upwards causing the verticals to converge on a "vanishing point". In the days of film, and still today, photographers used "tilt-shift" lenses that can be adjusted to correct this effect. However, they are prohibitively expensive for most of us, and are largely confined to professional architectural photographers. But, the advent of digital imaging allows anyone to correct verticals in software with varying degrees of success.

Today's photograph shows my attempt to secure an image of the west elevation of the the 282 feet high medieval Gothic church of St Wulfram at Grantham in Lincolnshire. A gateway into the churchyard, nearby buildings and trees prevent the photographer moving back far enough to photograph the building without tilting the camera upwards. So, I took a shot from as far back as I could, knowing that I wanted to "process" it back to vertical. Back home at the computer it was easy enough to correct the verticals, but that resulted in a very vertically compressed image in need of elongating with bicubic interpolation. The width of the church is 79 feet, so to get the proportions right I had to stretch the building until it was 3.6 times as tall as it was wide. But, because I'd tilted the camera the relative sizes of parts of the structure, particularly the spire, were wrong in the original shot, and stayed wrong in the "corrected" version: even though it was "right" it looked wrong. Consequently I compromised with this version that understates the height of the church but looks more correct. In fact, in my photograph St Wulfram's is 2.6 times as tall as it is wide, and though it makes for a reasonable picture, it is a definite failure in architectural photographic terms.

This example of the problem of "converging verticals" is quite extreme: most photographs that need correction are able to be amended without the problems encountered here. Why was I doing it? Well, many consider this spire, the third tallest on a medieval parish church after Louth and St Mary Redcliffe, Bristol, to be the finest example in Britain. Though it has much to admire I wouldn't go that far, preferring the broach spires of the fourteenth century to later examples such as this one. However, I thought that if I could see it without the distortion that you experiences during a visit as you look up, and as you see it in an uncorrected photograph, perhaps my appreciation of its architecture would change. So far it hasn't.

photograph & text (c) T.Boughen

Camera: Olympus E510
Mode: Aperture Priority
Focal Length: 11mm (22mm/35mm equiv.)
F No: f7.1
Shutter Speed: 1/250
ISO: 100
Exposure Compensation: -0.7 EV
Image Stabilisation: On