The Breedon Angel

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The Breedon Angel is one of a number of fascinating pieces of Saxon sculpture to be seen in the church of St Mary and St Hardulph at Breedon-on-the-Hill, Leicestershire. The style of the pieces - small friezes, panels and individual figures -  is notably different from continental European sculpture of the period. Some is quite weathered and must have originally been placed on the exterior of this originally monastic church: it is all now inside for protection from the elements.

The "Breedon Angel", probably a depiction of the Archangel Gabriel, is the largest of the sculptures. The figure is framed by an arch and gives a benediction in the Byzantine manner. It is carved in stone quarried at Barnack near Peterborough. Dating the angel is difficult but it is thought likely to have been carved around 800AD.

The fame and value of this early and fine piece of sculpture is such that the piece on display in the church is not the original but a replica. It was made in 2001 by a process involving 3D laser scanning. Because Barnack stone is no longer quarried a very near match was sourced from Monks' Park Quarry in Wiltshire.

photograph and text © Tony Boughen

Camera: Olympus E-M10
Mode: Aperture Priority
Focal Length: 45mm (90mm - 35mm equiv.)
F No: f4
Shutter Speed: 1/100 sec
ISO:400
Exposure Compensation: 0 EV
Image Stabilisation: On

Sharpening marks and old churches

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On 30th June this year English Heritage published a report on the state of Britain's 14,500 places of worship that are officially "listed" as being of architectural and historical importance. It suggests that "about 90% are in good or fair condition but 10% are potentially in need of urgent major repairs." Given the dwindling congregations, the ever rising cost of maintaining historic buildings, and the tightening of the public purse strings, a lot of effort and ingenuity will have to go into raising the money that must surely be found to keep these important structures standing and open to the public.

On a recent visit to the church of St Mary and St Hardulph at Breedon on the Hill, Leicestershire, I was prompted to reflect on how we treat our churches today compared with the past. This building is famed for its prominent location on top of a hill of oolitic limestone and for its important Anglo-Saxon sculptures. I also like the contrast between the stone of the church and the plentiful eighteenth and nineteenth century slate gravestones. Like many medieval churches it has been knocked about a bit over the centuries, with parts taken down, new bits added, and restorations undertaken. The building as it stands today is a credit to all who have cared for it over the years.

So what prompted my reflection on the care and attitude of different generations to the fabric of the building? Well, the vertical grooves and holes in the stonework of the south porch look very much like those inflicted by people sharpening their metal tools on the side of the building. These may have been men who cut the graveyard grass, though the shapes make me think that it may have been people sharpening arrows when they were practising their archery skills, a not uncommon thing in English graveyards down the centuries. There seems to have been quite a bit of weathering after the holes and grooves were made, so one could reasonably assume that they were made a long time ago. Anyone today seen doing such a thing would be chastised with some force. But in past centuries, when people's perspective was not as long as ours, the church would have seemed a permanent, immutable object, that always had been and always would be, and scraping metal on its stones a small matter.

In the past I've said that clear blue skies are not what I wish for when out and about with my camera, and I was willing clouds to swing round behind the church before I took my photographs here. But it wasn't to be!

photograph and text (c) T. Boughen

Photo 1 (Photo 2)
Camera: Olympus E510
Mode: Aperture Priority
Focal Length: 13mmmm (22mm/44mm equiv.)
F No: f5.6 Shutter Speed: 1/800 (1/640)
ISO: 100 (100)
Exposure Compensation: -0.7 EV (-0.3EV)
Image Stabilisation: On

The price of stone

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I grew up in the Yorkshire Dales, an area of upland Carboniferous Limestone. Around the small market town where I lived the geological phenomena known as the Craven Faults produced a fractured landscape that, in places, marked the separation of the light grey rock from darker Millstone Grit. The limestone quarry at Giggleswick was in full production, its crushed stone being taken by overhead buckets to wagons at the nearest railway station. Bigger quarries still could be seen up the Ribble Valley near Horton-in-Ribblesdale. However, I discovered as a boy that wherever I walked, whether it was on limestone or Millstone Grit, there were old, small quarries dotted about the landscape where people had cut and broken stone from the plentiful outcrops and cliffs. This had been used to make the drystone field walls, the barns, farmhouses and domestic buildings of the locality. Because they were small they often looked like natural features, and in most cases they blended in with their surroundings very well. This was in strong contrast with the big, commercial quarries that produced aggregate in large quantities and had associated vehicles and industrial plant to facilitate the process. Their impact on the location was (and still is) in the nature of enormous, disfiguring scars.

On a recent visit to Breedon Hill in Leicestershire I was reminded of the quarrying that was familiar to me in my childhood. Though not on the scale of those in Ribblesdale, this limestone quarry is also making a significant and damaging mark on its location which is an area of ancient settlement and the site of an important medieval church. It's ironic that the main product here is a "gold" coloured aggregate that is marketed as suitable for maintaining and enhancing the appearance of historic buildings!

That said, I did find photographic interest in the stone crusher that I could see from the wall at the edge of the churchyard above the quarry. Stone is being delivered to the machine's hopper by the digger at the right of the image, and is then passed though  its bowels and broken into aggregate of different sizes which are deposited in separate piles ready for collection. Looking down on the scene that resembled an alien landscape I reflected that the price of stone is much higher than the cost per tonne to the customer.

photograph & text (c) T. Boughen

Camera: Olympus E510
Mode: Aperture Priority
Focal Length: 70mm (140mm/35mm equiv.)
F No: f5.6
Shutter Speed: 1/1000
ISO: 100
Exposure Compensation: -0.7 EV
Image Stabilisation: On

England's patchwork quilt

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Visitors to England, and particularly to the lowland areas of these islands, frequently comment on the way much of the landscape is parcelled up into fields bounded by hedges. Natives returning from faraway places often only really notice the contribution that the patchwork of fields makes to our environment when they have been absent for some time and have the opportunity to see English farmland with fresh eyes. And in the minds of many - natives and non-natives alike - there is a feeling that this quintessentially English scene is one of long standing: that it has always been thus.

In fact, the hedges and the fields that they enclose are, for the most part (and especially those of the English Midlands) the product of planning and planting that took place only two hundred years ago. At that time, under a legal process known as "enclosure", the common fields shared by multiple farmers were parcelled out to individual landowners who then enclosed them with hedges. In a few areas of the country, such as the South West, small fields with hedges had long been used, but elsewhere they were imposed in the interests of agricultural efficiency. Many saw the enclosure process as a usurping of ancient rights and a re-distribution of land from the poor to the rich: hedges were disliked because they were part of that process. It is somewhat ironic, therefore, that the disappearance over the past fifty years (in the interests of agricultural efficiency!) of more than half our hedgerows, is widely lamented.

Today's photograph shows the patchwork effect of the fields near Breedon-on-the-Hill in Leicestershire. Each field is a slightly different colour depending on whether it grows wheat, barley, pasture, hay, oilseed rape etc. The dividing hedges are either neatly cut to a uniform width and height, or left to grow in a more natural way, depending on the owners' predelictions, and may or may not contain trees for similar reasons. The best view of this effect is from an aeroplane, but a prominence that rises above the general area, such as Breedon Hill from where I stood to take this shot, serves almost as well. The distant power station with its cooling tower plumes and man-made cloud is at Ratcliffe-on-Soar in nearby Nottinghamshire, and the large buildings in front of it (and actually some distance away), is East Midlands Airport.

photograph and text (c) T. Boughen

Camera: Olympus E510
Mode: Aperture Priority
Focal Length: 34mm (68mm/35mm equiv.)
F No: f5.6
Shutter Speed: 1/640
ISO: 100
Exposure Compensation: -0.7 EV
Image Stabilisation: On

Political and architectural revelations

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There was great interest, general approval, and the sound of hands rubbing together at the TV networks' headquarters when it was announced that the leaders of the UK's main political parties would engage in three TV debates in the campaign run-up to the general election. From my house came a moan, followed by a groan. It seems to me that TV debates, where the politicians field questions thrown at them by a television pundit, is more akin to bear-baiting than serious politics. The capacity of a prospective prime minister to answer questions in such an arena, his ability to project an "image" that appeals to the public, and the extent to which he fails or succeeds relative to the others, says absolutely nothing about his fitness to hold the highest office in the land.

You can guarantee that a journalist, somewhere, will rate the politicians' TV peformances on the "is he the sort of man you'd like to have a drink with at the pub" scale of 1 to 10. As though that has a bearing on whether or not you should vote for him, or on how he might prepare a programme to take the nation forward over the next five years. Others, regrettably, will cast their vote according to how they come across on TV. Are they authoritative? Are they confident? Do they look the part? Can they speak in language that the man in the street understands? Do I like them? I've heard people say that they want politicians of integrity, dynamism, honesty, etc, and that these debates will help them make that judgement. Rubbish! We delude ourselves if we think that we can judge the character of a person through the distorting lens of television. No, the only thing that we can make a judgement on is the party manifesto - what they say they will do if elected - and then how they perform once in office. My feeling is that many people don't want to engage with politics sufficiently deeply to make a judgement of that sort, and will vote on the basis of "It's time for a change" or "I like him".

What has this to do with a house facade of 1691 in Hallaton, Leicestershire? Well, just as politicians' real motives and character are hidden beneath a veneer that they project to the world, so too are many houses. The first time I saw this building it was under a layer of foliage. However, I later came upon it in March when the thin veil of branches of Virginia creeper(?) only partly masked its simple, symmetrical face, and its true age was revealed . The main elevation is of a time when the seventeenth century had begun to turn towards Georgian. Its windows, in particular the single mullion dividing each into two "lights" betrays its pre-Georgian status, but the absence of transoms hints at a later date. However, the strict symmetry and stone window and door surrounds point to the next century. Beneath the creeper branches is not stone, but a layer of stucco, and under that the construction is brick. Another instance of a building hiding its true character.

What attracted me to this shot was the light reflected across the narrow street from the buildings behind me. It lifted the shade, put colour into the walls, showed the blue sky in the upstairs windows, and allowed me to position myself so I could be seen in the left window of the door.

photograph & text (c) T. Boughen

Camera: Olympus E510
Mode: Aperture Priority
Focal Length: 16mm (32mm/35mm equiv.)
F No: f6.3
Shutter Speed: 1/80
ISO: 100
Exposure Compensation: -0.3 EV
Image Stabilisation: On

Nevill Holt, Leicestershire

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The first time I saw Nevill Holt in Leicestershire was when I'd cycled up out of the Welland Valley from Drayton. I was breezing along cheerily, having left the uphill section behind me when it appeared between a line of mature, roadside trees. What was it? A country house? A private school? A little research showed that it had been both those things, and was also a small village of 28 people (2001 census).

The oldest part of this scenic collection of buildings is the church of St Mary with its Norman font, late C13 transept arch, sedilia and piscina, tower of C15, porch of 1635, and various parts from restorations of 1865 and 1878. However, parts of Nevill Holt Hall, the country house that is physically attached to the church, and constitutes most of the buildings seen in the photograph, also dates from the 1300s (hall and roof), a large bay window is from the 1400s and much else is C16, C17, C18 and C19: this is a place that grew with successive inhabitants -principally the Nevills, and in the C19 the Cunards (of shipping line fame). Incidentally, the large brownstone building on the right with the clock tower was the late C16 stables. Around 1830 the owners Gothicised much of the Hall's main elevation. In 1919 the house was sold and became a school. This closed in 1998, and by 2000 the building was once again in private ownership.

So what of the village? Well, behind this magnificent assemblage of buildings are a few houses, the dwellings of the small number of people who live in this lovely rural location. I took this photograph on a cool March day of blue skies and sharp shadows, when cycling was quite the best way of getting around. I composed my shot with the shadows of the roadside trees filling the grassy foreground, the Hall's facade stretched across the frame, and the blue sky and clouds above.

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: -0.3 EV
Image Stabilisation: On

Morning light at Stockerston

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The Leicestershire village of Stockerston is no more than a few houses clustered around the junction of a road and a lane, with, a little higher up the hillside, a medieval church and a large house, Stockerston Hall.

My first visit to the village was made last year to see the church of St Peter, the tower of which can be glimpsed through the trees in the top centre of today's photograph. This building is noted for its stained glass of the 1400s and for a selection of good memorials. However, the photograph that I posted from that earlier visit wasn't of anything architecturally significant or historically interesting: rather, it was the morning light slanting down through the old church windows. And, as I post my second image from Stockerston it is, once again, the morning light that is the main feature of the shot.

This view was taken from King's Hill, on the other side of the Eye Brook valley, in Rutland. The small stream that flows into the Eyebrook Reservoir marks the county boundary in this area, so here I was photographing Leicestershire from Rutland. On this October morning the air seemed thick, and the hillside, buildings and autumnal trees were suffused with a faint pink tinge. But, since it wasn't strong enough to affect the nearer grass and trees, the resulting image has a feeling of depth and distance that I find pleasing.

photograph & text (c) T. Boughen

Camera: Olympus E510
Mode: Aperture Priority
Focal Length: 73mm (146mm/35mm equiv.)
F No: f6.3
Shutter Speed: 1/100
ISO: 100
Exposure Compensation: 0 EV
Image Stabilisation: On

Autumn landscapes

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A few days spent walking, cycling and driving in the area of England where Leicestershire, Rutland and Northamptonshire bump up against each other have given me an opportunity to reflect on the relative merits of each form of travel as a means of securing photographs. It confirmed my instinctive preference for walking with a camera because its slow pace gives more opportunities to see and compose images. More than that, however, if your walking isn't in a known photogenic location, then it presents you with more "ordinary" subjects which you can try to turn into extraordinary images. Furthermore, it places shots before you that are unlikely to have been taken by anyone else - a consideration in our modern world where the yearly output of digital photographs probably outnumbers the grains of sand in a Saharan erg!

Cycling is, for me, the second best way of going about photography. When you're on two wheels you tend to choose the less frequented highways and byeways, places where it's easy to stop and snap, that pass through more interesting areas, and that haven't succumbed to the sanitising effect of the traffic engineer. However, even the speed at which you travel by bicycle means you miss a lot. Photography by car comes last, in my estimation because, by and large, when car-borne we gravitate towards the more obvious locations, or are forced to disembark where we can park, and consequently end up taking the more obvious shots. And, we tend to look less searchingly once there because if we don't find anything of interest it's so easy to move on to the next place. That's not to say, of course that good photographs can't be harvested using each of these modes of travel.

During my few days away I took photographs on a day-long walk, a day-long cycle ride and a couple of drives. The first of the two images in today's post was gathered near the start of our walk from the Leicestershire village of Hallaton, looking back at our departure point in the morning sunlight. It is an image that for many people will represent the quintessential English village, with church spire dominating, roofs of slate, tile, thatch and stone clustered around, trees changing colour as autumn progresses, and green fields beyond the settlement's edge. This particular shot can only be taken if you stretch your legs. The second was taken on the cycle ride (which also started at Hallaton), and was snapped after I'd screeched to a halt on a downhill section of lane, next to a gateway in a hedge. This scene of the Rutland village of Lyddington, when compared with the first shot, is "the same but different": a more distant prospect of a more wooded location. It was the autumn tints in the trees that prompted me to "slam on the hammers" and take this photograph.

photograph & text (c) T. Boughen

Photo1 (Photo 2)
Camera: Olympus E510
Mode: Aperture Priority
Focal Length: 137mm (274mm/35mm equiv.):(70mm (140mm/35mm equiv.))
F No: f6.3
Shutter Speed: 1/200 (1/320)
ISO: 100
Exposure Compensation: 0 EV (-0.3 EV)
Image Stabilisation: On

Defaced and refaced

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It is all too easy to imagine the zealots of the English Reformation rampaging through our churches, smashing the "idolatrous" medieval stained glass windows, flinging the statues of saints from their niches, scraping and scoring the wall paintings and knocking lumps off the effigies that decorated the tombs of the well-to-do. The fervour that gripped many following the split with Rome, and particularly during the Puritan period of the seventeenth century Civil War, led to many such crimes against art, history, culture, and yes, religion.

Visit a few English churches and you can't help but notice tomb effigies with missing noses, with hands broken off at the wrists, snapped swords and headless mourning angels. The parts that projected from the tombs were the easiest to destroy, and the evidence of the depredations of these early Protestants remains today. Interestingly it wasn't all tombs, or all areas that suffered in this way: many medieval masterpieces remain largely untouched by either religious fanaticism, casual vandalism or the accidents of time. In some churches subsequent generations took it upon themselves to restore damaged tombs, with varying degrees of success. In the church at Ashbourne, Derbyshire, I recall seeing alabaster effigies with noses replaced by stone that is a fair match in terms of colour, but which is much more translucent than the original material. Consequently the noses of the deceased glow when the sun shines upon them from a certain angle, and their pious countenances become comic.

Today's photograph shows an early fourteenth century alabaster tomb effigy of a lady flanked by mourning angels. It is in the church of St Mary at Melton Mowbray, Leicestershire. The identity of the person is unknown. However, at some point in the past - probably the nineteenth century - the church took the decision to restore the tomb. They did quite a good job in terms of making it convincingly whole, though to what extent it draws upon the original I can't be sure. If you look carefully you can see the edges of the joins where the replacement pieces were inserted. I took my photograph in "challenging" lighting, but managed to hand-hold this shot, the best of the series that I captured. Some post-processing has been done to minimise the distracting background and also to emphasise the main areas of interest of the effigy.

photograph & text (c) T. Boughen

Camera: Olympus E510
Mode: Aperture Priority
Focal Length: 11mm (22mm/35mm equiv.)
F No: f5.6
Shutter Speed: 1/20 seconds
ISO: 400
Exposure Compensation: -0.7 EV
Image Stabilisation: On

Colonel Cheney at Waterloo

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I first came across the church of St Luke at Gaddesby, Leicestershire, a few years ago when holidaying in the area. The other day, when I was returning home from a trip to Worcestershire, I called in again. This church is full of interest: the architecture, the opulent decoration of its south aisle, the ancient woodwork - even the rustic floors - are all fascinating. So too are the memorials, many of them slate, which date from the medieval period through to the twentieth century. However, one nineteenth century memorial is unique among those found in English churches. My description of it below is based on the small guide in the church that visitors can read.

The almost life-size equestrian statue of Colonel Edward Hawkins Cheney of the Royal Scots Greys was carved in 1848 by Joseph Gott. The Colonel fought at the Battle of Waterloo on June 18th, 1815. He had four horses killed from under him on that day, and the command of the regiment fell upon him when he was mounted on his fifth steed. Here he is shown on a collapsing horse that is dying from a bullet that has entered the front of its body below the bottom of the neck. The panel on the base of the memorial shows Sergeant Ewart in hand-to-hand combat with a French cavalry officer, trying to recapture a lost Napoleonic eagle standard.

Colonel Cheney married Eliza Ayre whose father owned Gaddesby Hall, and he inherited the property on the death of his father-in-law. This memorial was carved three years after the Colonel's death in 1845 and stood in the conservatory of the Hall. However, when the estate was sold in 1917 it was moved, on tree rollers, to St Luke's, where it was placed in the chancel, becoming the only equestrian statue to be found in an English church. There is a story, probably apocryphal, that the sculptor, after completing the statue, realised he'd forgotten the horse's tongue, and in despair, committed suicide! The horse's teeth have been stained by the apple placed in its mouth each year at the time of the Harvest Festival.

My photograph was taken using available light from the chancel windows. Thanks to Image Stabilisation I was able to hand-hold the shot at 1/13 second and still produced an acceptably sharp image.

photograph & text (c) T. Boughen

Camera: Olympus E510
Mode: Aperture Priority
Focal Length: 14mm (28mm/44mm equiv.)
F No: f7.1
Shutter Speed: 1/13 seconds
ISO: 100
Exposure Compensation: -1.3 EV
Image Stabilisation: On

Angels, pins and peacock feathers

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"...Angels can contract their whole substance into one part of space, and therefore have not partes extra partes..."
Richard Baxter (1615-1691), English theologian

The question of what exactly an angel is has long taxed Christians and others. Thomas Aquinas and other medieval theologians were lampooned by later writers for enquiring too gravely about their physical, gender (male, female or genderless?) and religious characteristics. The probem of "How many angels can dance on the head of a pin?" is ascribed to such debates, though without much historical authority. As far as the physical appearance of angels goes, the fact is that every age has interpreted them in its own way, based on the few clues contained in the Bible, other early texts, and the depictions of previous generations.

Thus, the earliest angels of the C2 and C3 are without wings. However, by the time of the mosaics at S. Apollinaire Nuovo at Ravenna (c.520) they have halos, wings and toga-like clothes, perhaps derived from Roman murals. In the Book of Kells (c.800) the clothing changes to a mixture of toga-style drapery combined with the edged tunics worn by nobles of that period. The Winchester Psalter (c.1150) shows angels in what look like regal, ermine-trimmed robes, in a style of painting that derives from the Byzantine of Eastern Europe. From Duccio onwards the Italian Renaissance painters settled on flowing, often diaphanous dresses-cum-robes, but the ever-present halos and wings continued. Later Renaissance artists of the C16 and C17 combined the tradition of the Christian angel with the putto of late classical antiquity.

The eighteenth century didn't depart too strongly from these conventions, though William Blake, characteristically, went his own way showing a rebel angel as a naked, anguished man. In the nineteenth century they sought "authenticity" in their depictions. Thus, artists like William Morris looked back at medieval precedents and then updated the basic idea using the aesthetic of the time. Today's photograph of a musician angel is by the stained glass firm of C. E. Kempe & Co. and dates from 1882. It draws on the ideas of Morris and the Pre-Raphaelites, uses pale subtle hues overall, but with bold highlights in primary colours. The drawing is very strong, as is the sense of pattern, but what stands out is the clarity of the conception. The angel has Kempe's characteristic peacock feather wings, and is one of a group of six such musicians (each with a different instrument) that fill a south window in the chancel of St Michael in the village of Hallaton, Leicestershire.

Incidentally, one of the angel's colleagues provided a great Christmas card illustration for me a couple of years ago!

photograph & text (c) T. Boughen

Camera: Olympus E510
Mode: Aperture Priority
Focal Length: 94mm (188mm/35mm equiv.)
F No: f6.3
Shutter Speed: 1/200 seconds
ISO: 100
Exposure Compensation: -2.0 EV
Image Stabilisation: On

Tourism, travel and serendipity

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Fritz Baedeker and Thomas Cook have a lot to answer for: their travel books and companies were instrumental in starting the mass tourism that blights our planet today. The nineteenth century idea of telling people where the "best" places are, and making it easy to get there, spawned today's queues at the Tower of London, the throngs around the Grand Canyon viewing points, the acres of tourist buses on the Giza plateau, and the trails of litter on the flanks of Kilimanjaro.

Today's publishers, from the "Lonely Planet" and "Rough" guides, to "1000 Places to See Before You Die" continue the early travel organisers' task of directing tourists, but now to the places they've seen in photographs and on television. Countries, places and sights have become, for many, objects on tick lists. I've always felt that travel needs to involve effort and time commensurate with distance, and should involve discovery. The idea of stepping on a plane and a few hours later being deposited in a completely different part of the world is one I find abhorrent. Furthermore, I've never bought into the idea of going to the honeypot locations:for me the interest in travel lies in coming across the unexpected, not looking for what I know is there. I remember reading, many years ago, Daniel Boorstin's 1962 book, The Image: A Guide to Pseudo-events in America, in which he described how tourist authorities across the world were working hard to ensure that visitors to their countries saw the things that they expected to see: that's a phenomenon that has only deepened with time.

On my recent church-visiting break in Leicestershire I was told about Foxton Locks, a section of the Grand Union Canal where barges negotiate an incline using 10 closely spaced locks. On my visit to this fascinating, and still working part of England's industrial heritage I took a lot of photographs. Today I post one that I didn't expect to take, but that just presented itself to me. It shows the metal steps that lead up to a viewing platform on top of an engine shed where there is a panorama of the whole of the site. A wide angle lens and my wife at the bottom in cold-weather wear seemed to be an interesting composition. One that was all the more rewarding for its serendipitousness!

photograph & text (c) T. Boughen

Camera: Olympus E510
Mode: Aperture Priority
Focal Length: 11mm (22mm/35mm equiv.)
F No: f7.1
Shutter Speed: 1/125 seconds
ISO: 100
Exposure Compensation: -0.7 EV
Image Stabilisation: On

New light through old windows

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The other day, as I pedalled my way around the lanes that criss-cross the rolling landscape where the counties of Leicestershire, Northamptonshire and Rutland meet, I kept glancing skyward. The morning sun that had appeared with a sharp frost and dense mist had given way to thick, grey cloud that rolled in from the west. And, though the weather man had said there would be intermittent sun, it looked quite unlikely. But, as my wife, ever the optimist, reminded me - it wasn't raining, so we were enjoying the ride.

Our route was taking in a succession of villages with medieval churches. In that part of the country a cycle ride is a sequence of fast freewheels interspersed with hard climbs either standing up on the pedals or on foot, pushing the bike. As we dismounted at Stockerston to ascend the short, sharp hill on the which the church of St Peter stands, I reflected that I needed some strong, directional light to replace the flat stratus above. My wife went to borrow the church key, and I took a couple of shots of the exterior of the building just as some brightness began to appear - how often doesn't that happen! Unfortunately the filtered sun was coming over my shoulder from the south-east, so was too much of the floodlight and not enough of the spot to model the contours of the ancient building.

However, whilst we were inside the church the gods of photography smiled on me, and for a couple of minutes strong sunlight pierced the leaded lights of the Gothic windows. The medieval glass for which the building is renowned glowed like rubies and sapphires, and I took some photographs of the kneeling nobles and church dignitaries. However, it was these two quite plain windows that caught my photographer's eye because of the shadows that the spring sun was throwing across the old, water-stained stone. The composition suggested itself, but it took a few shots to get the exposure right.

photograph & text (c) T. Boughen

Camera: Olympus E510
Mode: Aperture Priority
Focal Length: 12mm (24mm/35mm equiv.)
F No: f5.0
Shutter Speed: 1/250 seconds
ISO: 400
Exposure Compensation: -2.0 EV
Image Stabilisation: On