Autumn duck pond reflections

click photo to enlarge
There's nothing like a walk on a bright autumn afternoon for suppressing in one's mind the memory of the lies, bile and bigotry that has surrounded both Brexit and U.S. presidential election. And though deep concerns would, I knew, return once the walk was finished, I determined that I would take the time to stand and stare, as well as use my camera, and drink in something of what makes this time of year special.

In the Lincolnshire village of Swineshead is a duckpond. As we walked by and the ducks, presumably well fed, shunned our presence, I admired the reflection of the sky and the surrounding trees on the slightly rippled cloudy water. The leaves floating on the surface gave a second plane to the image and added some depth. I've always liked the reflection of trees, anything in fact, in gently stirred water, and especially the painterly feel and semi-abstract quality that it can lend to a photograph. Here the wide range of colours and textures gave further interest.

photograph and text © Tony Boughen

Photo Title: Autumn Duck Pond Reflections
Camera: Sony RX100
Mode: Aperture Priority
Focal Length: 15.6mm (42mm - 35mm equiv.)
F No: f4
Shutter Speed: 1/50
ISO: 200
Exposure Compensation:  -1.0 EV
Image Stabilisation: On

Getting to know the willow

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It wasn't until I had willow trees growing in and adjoining my garden that I really got to know them. One of the first expansions of my knowledge of Salix alba came about when I looked out of my bedroom window one morning and saw that overnight winds had brought down a huge branch. It was flattening a section of ten feet high conifer hedge, had bent a bay tree down to the ground, crushed a shrub border and gouged the lawn. It took four of us most of the day to cut it up with a chainsaw and remove it. Prior to that event I had heard this tree called "crack" willow: now I understood why it had been given the name. The countless small leaves had acted like a sail in the wind that had forced the limb from the tree where it forked. Evidence of the rending crack could be seen on its trunk.

But, the fact is, the willow tree has many endearing habits and I like it. In winter its slender new branches glow reddish-orange in the yellow-tinged light. In March it is one of the earliest trees to come into leaf, a real sign that spring is on the way. The sight of the branches of a willow swaying in the summer breeze, like tresses of long hair, is an arboreal phenomenon that is hard to beat. Birds, large and small love willow trees for the nest sites it offers and the insects that abound in it. As a garden screen the willow tree has few deciduous equals because it carries its leaves for such a long period of time. However, that advantage brings with it some of the tree's disadvantages. It loses leaf through most months of the year so if a tidy garden is your idea of a good garden then it isn't the tree for you. Moreover, the leaf loss is accompanied by long, slender, whippy twigs so composting the gathered leaves becomes more difficult. And then there is that late leaf drop in autumn (or rather early winter). A couple of weeks after you've cleared up most of the deciduous leaves from lawns and flower beds in late November the willow decides its time to shed its leaves too. This is usually in early December. In fact, after completing this blog post collecting up the carpet of willow leaves brought down by yesterday's high winds is my next job!

photograph and text © Tony Boughen

Camera: Sony RX100
Mode: Aperture Priority
Focal Length: 17.8mm (48mm - 35mm equiv.)
F No: f5
Shutter Speed: 1/100 sec
ISO:125
Exposure Compensation: 0 EV
Image Stabilisation: On

Shadows, light and a font

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As fonts go the example at Swineshead church in Lincolnshire is very plain. So plain that it is impossible to date it from any stylistic details. It has an octagonal bowl on an octagonal stem with a base the same shape, like the great majority of fonts. It is mounted on an octagonal plinth with a raised step for the vicar, again, like many others. Where it differs from most other fonts with steps is in having two rather than three. The church has always seen great significance in the number three and the three steps of a font are thought to be in recognition of the Trinity. Given that the font offers little of interest or beauty, you must be wondering why I've bothered photographing it, and if you have visited this blog for a while, why I've photographed for a second time (the first attempt is here).

The answer is - the placing of the font and the light, especially the light. Many church fonts are found by the south porch door: next to the main entry door into the church was deemed suitable for the instrument that delivered a person into the Church through baptism. Often that means the font is squeezed up against pews, or is in a corner surrounded by tables, stacks of hymn books or even fire extinguishers. At Swineshead, however, the south porch door is no longer used, entry is by a small door embedded in the west door, and consequently the font has lots of space around it. The Victorian restoration provided a wonderful tiled floor with a pattern centred on the font. Combine all that with the position of the windows, and it makes a good photographic opportunity.

In my first attempt, referenced above, I went in quite close, excluded the windows, but used the strong light and shadows from the window and its tracery as part of the composition and interest. With this shot I thought I'd include the reticulated window, give greater emphasis to the space and darkness, and make the softly illuminated font and striking tile floor the visual focus.

photograph and text (c) T. Boughen

Camera: Canon
Mode: Aperture Priority
Focal Length: 21mm
F No: f8
Shutter Speed: 1/20
ISO: 125
Exposure Compensation:  -1.0 EV
Image Stabilisation: On

Old church doors

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Today's photograph is another of my recently scanned slides from 1986. It shows the remarkable south door of the church of St Helen at Stillingfleet, East Yorkshire. The semi-circular headed doorway in which it sits dates from c.1160. It has the characteristic ornament of chevron, beakhead, scallop etc. that is frequently found in Late Norman architecture. The door itself is thought to be contemporary with this period. Even though it has suffered the ravages of time - see the inserted pieces at the bottom replacing rotted wood - and, despite some of the ironwork missing, what is left surely cannot be from a later period.

The first thing that catches the eye is the very Nordic looking boat with its great steering oar/rudder. At the top left are two figures, and a further one can be seen at top right. The big hinges have large "C" shaped embellishments with dragon-like heads that bring to mind the sort of head one sees in stone on Norman doorways and in illustrations on illuminated manuscripts. The single foliate boss was probably one of two, three or more. Then there is the band of interlaced metal that helps to tie the boards of the door together. It looks like the hinges may have had a lattice-work of metal inside the "C" shapes. Who knows what else there was? When I took my photograph in 1986 the old door was still hanging in its original position and fulfilling its purpose as the main door connecting the outside and inside of the church. The last time I visited Stillingfleet, several years ago a new door was in its place and the ancient door had been moved inside to preserve it. It is a remarkable survivor.

The smaller photograph shows the north door of the church at Swineshead, Lincolnshire, taken on my recent visit. This is also the only door ever to have hung in its doorway. The reticulated tracery at the top of the door shows that it is contemporary with the architecture around it. Like many larger church doors it has a smaller door embedded within it. The large door would have been opened on ceremonial occasions with the smaller door serving everyday use and helping to minimise the effects of the cold north wind.

Somewhere in my collection of slides I have photographs of other old church doors including the fine example at Skipwith, also in East Yorkshire. Other Lincolnshire examples I've posted in this blog include the door at St Andrew, Sempringham (here and here) and the door at Pickworth.

photographs and text (c) T. Boughen

Photo 1
Camera: Olympus OM1n
Mode: Aperture Priority
Focal Length: 50mm
F No: N/A
Shutter Speed: N/A
ISO: 100
Exposure Compensation:  N/A
Image Stabilisation: N/A

Crude but effective

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In my very first paid job I worked with a man who often described makeshift engineering work as "crude but effective". It's his phrase that always comes to mind when I gaze upon the nave roof timbers of the church of St Mary at Swineshead, Lincolnshire. The roofs of English medieval churches are well known for their structural timbers. Often these are ingenious, functional, elaborate, inventive and ornate. The angel roofs of St Wendreda at March, Cambridgeshire, and All Hallows, Dean in Bedfordshire, both exemplify the latter quality in particular. Victorian timber roofs are often well made too, and the work that the restorers of the nineteenth century did on older roofs is frequently very sensitive, retaining the essentials of the medieval carpenter's craft whilst replacing wood that has succumbed to death watch beetle and rot, and adding metal bracing as required.

However, sometimes I gaze upon a medieval timber roof that is severely functional and think that it has many of the qualities that might be seen in a great barn of the same age. Ornate has been eschewed in favour of utility giving a rustic feel to the whole enterprise. The roof of Swineshead church has some of those qualities. It perhaps comes from the use of timbers that retain something of the shape of the original tree trunk or limb. These irregularly shaped pieces catch the eye and suggest that either thrift or a "good enough" spirit underpinned the making of the roof. The roof was restored by Wilfred Bond in 1925.

At Swineshead the roof retains its original, steeply pitched, form (see photograph in yesterday's post). So many English church roofs were lowered to a very shallow pitch in the fifteenth century, to be hidden behind parapets, often invisible from ground level. This was done to stop the downward creep of the lead covering that became the favoured roof finish; unsurprising really in the country that was Europe's premier producer of lead. All of which makes me wonder just what is the age of the main timbers in the nave roof? Pevsner notes that the north aisle has a fifteenth century roof: are parts of the main roof earlier still?

photographs and text (c) T. Boughen

Photo 1
Camera: Canon
Mode: Aperture Priority
Focal Length: 17mm
F No: f8
Shutter Speed: 1/20
ISO: 1600
Exposure Compensation:  -1.0 EV
Image Stabilisation: On

Bluebells, native and introduced

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It is estimated that between a quarter and a half of all bluebells (Hyacinthoides non-scripta) are found in the British Isles. In England they are a much loved flower, and a visit to a "bluebell wood" in April or May is a pleasure that many seek out in spring. The carpet of blue flowers taking advantage of the filtered light through the emerging tree canopy is one of nature's finest sights. However, the native bluebell is under threat from loss of habitat, illegal picking (they are protected by law) and hybridisation. Moreover, I am one of those who is contributing to the decline of this beautiful flower.

How so? When I moved to my present house I enjoyed the appearance of bluebells in the garden each spring. Clumps grow under the willow tree, fruit trees, flowering cherries, maple and in the deep borders shaded by silver birches and shrubs. They grow on our rockery too. But, I discovered, these are not the native bluebell, they are mostly the Spanish bluebell (Hyacinthoides hispanica) that is commonly found in gardens and sold in garden centres. A few are hybrids produced by the natural crossing of the native species with the Spanish variety. Such has been the impact of this introduction and hybridisation that the introduced bluebells are increasingly common in the countryside and few urban or garden bluebells are the native species. How can you tell the difference between H. non-scripta and H. hispanica? The native flower is scented, the anther that bears the pollen is cream coloured and the flowers are carried only on one side of the stem. In the non-native species there is no scent, the anther is mid-blue and flowers are carried on all sides of the stem. The hybrid, Hyacinthoides x massartiana is more like the Spanish variety but has creamy-blue anthers.

There is no easy answer to the problem of how to ensure the survival of the native bluebell throughout the country. It may be that the best we can hope for is its survival in more remote woods. It would seem that the spread of the Spanish variety and the hybrids is well past the point where eradication is a feasible solution. Lincolnshire has bluebell woods, but in the Fenland region the flowers are found in smaller stands of trees, gardens. These bluebells in Swineshead churchyard (churchyards are another common location for the flower) hint at the beauty they bring in spring, but are, you've guessed it, further examples of the non-native flowers.

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:80
Exposure Compensation: -0.33 EV
Image Stabilisation: On

Tips for better sunset photographs

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Like most photographers I'm easily seduced by a good sunset. However, over the years I've come to realise that, whilst achieving a mediocre or satisfactory photograph of a sunset is fairly easy, making a good one is actually quite difficult.

Photographing a sunset, in some ways, presents similar difficulties to photographing a fast-flowing river that tumbles over projecting rocks: the things that captivate our eyes don't necessarily translate well into a static, two dimensional image. In the case of the river we take our shot after being entranced by the sparkle of light on splashes, and the ever-moving swirls and rushes of light and dark on the surface, and then are disappointed by the lack of life in our resulting image. With sunsets the luminous quality of the light, the depth of colour, the subtle gradations of single colours, and the faster movement of nearer clouds across the face of more distant ones all encourage us to raise our cameras. But, as with running water, we can be frustrated by the flatness of the photograph.

I've come to realise that one or more of three things are required for a good sunset photograph. The first is a reflection of the sunset in water - in the sea, a river or a lake. I lived for twenty years near a west facing coast and was repeatedly impressed by the way in which such a reflection can multiply and transform the power of even a quite modest sunset. The second is that the sunset must have good qualities in terms of the depth of colour, the contrast across the sky, and the shape and consistency of the clouds. Every good sunset you look at repeats the magic of the first one that you ever saw, so a weak one with a sliver of colour against the horizon should usually be ignored, photographically speaking. The third thing that can make all the difference is an interesting (often silhouetted) shape on the land below. I've used piers  and breakwaters with the sea, but pools on the sand and mud are equally good. On land anything will do that acts as a hard foil to the soft sky.

Today's photographs show a sunset that I captured when driving home from a shopping expedition. The clouds above had a lovely, colourful, soft quality, those below a brooding darkness, and sandwiched between was some blue/cyan sky with vapour trails. Both images use the tower and short spire of Swineshead church as the ground interest. The portrait format shot was taken first from a greater distance, but I was happier with the nearer landscape format image that made more of the church's silhouette.

Two further points. Some modern cameras have a mode that allows you to enhance the colour of a sunset. Treat this with the contempt that it deserves and ignore it. A photograph of a sunset should be a celebration of the natural beauty of our world, not a technologically boosted image that ends up looking like an imagined Jurassic landscape minus the dinosaurs or an apocalyptic painting from the fevered mind of John Martin. And the second point? I've posted quite a few black and white photographs over the past several days, and I thought it was time for a splash of colour!

photographs and text (c) T. Boughen

First photo
Camera: Canon
Mode: Aperture Priority
Focal Length: 119mm
F No: f8
Shutter Speed: 1/160
ISO: 100
Exposure Compensation: 0 EV
Image Stabilisation: On

The sound of England

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If there is a single sound that characterises England it has to be that of church bells sounding out across the roofs, trees and gardens of our villages and towns. The methods of ringing church bells that developed in these islands is different from elsewhere. Rather than try to express the intricacies of the two variations in my own imprecise prose, here are much better descriptions from Wikipedia. The first of today's photographs, taken this morning when I ascended the tower of St Mary at Swineshead, shows the bells in their cradles in the bell chamber, and will illustrate some of the points made below.

Change Ringing
In England the bells in church towers are generally hung for full circle ringing: every bell swings through a complete circle (actually a little more than 360 degrees) each time it sounds. Between strokes, it sits poised 'upside-down', with the mouth pointed upwards; pulling on a rope connected to the bell swings it down and its own momentum swings it back up again on the other side.

These rings of bells have relatively few bells, compared with a carillon; six or eight-bell towers are common, with the largest rings in numbering up to sixteen bells. The bells are usually tuned to fall in a diatonic scale without chromatic notes; they are traditionally numbered from the top downwards so that the highest bell (called the treble) is numbered 1 and the lowest bell (the tenor) has the highest number; it is usually the tonic note of the bells' scale.

To swing the heavy bells requires a ringer for each bell. Furthermore, the great inertias involved mean that the ringers have only a limited ability to retard or accelerate their bells' cycle. Along with the relatively limited palette of notes available, the upshot is that such rings of bells do not easily lend themselves to ringing melodies.

Instead, a system of change ringing evolved, probably early in the seventeenth century, which centres on mathematical permutations. The ringers begin with rounds, which is simply ringing down the scale in order. (On six bells this would be 123456.) The ringing then proceeds in a series of rows or changes, each of which is some permutation of rounds (for example 214356) where no bell changes by more than one position from the preceding row.

In call change ringing, one of the ringers (known as the conductor) calls out to tell the other ringers how to vary their order from row to row. Some ringers practice call changes exclusively; but for others, the essence of change ringing is method ringing.

Method Ringing
In method or scientific ringing each ringer has memorized a pattern describing his or her bell's course from row to row; taken together, these patterns (along with only occasional calls made by a conductor) form an algorithm which cycles through the various available permutations.

Serious ringing always starts and ends with rounds; and it must always be true — each row must be unique, never repeated. A performance of a few hundred rows or so is called a touch; approximately five thousand rows make a peal (which takes about three hours to ring). A performance of all the possible permutations possible on a set of bells is called an extent; with nn! possible permutations. Since 7!=5040, an extent on seven bells is a peal; 8!=40,320 and an extent on eight bells has only been accomplished once, taking nearly nineteen hours.

Ringing in English belltowers become a popular hobby in the late 17th century, in the Restoration era; the scientific approach which led to modern method ringing can be traced to two books of that era, Tintinnalogia or the Art of Ringing (published in 1668 by Richard Duckworth and Fabian Stedman) and Campanalogia (also by Stedman; first released 1677). Today change ringing remains most popular in England but is practiced worldwide; over four thousand peals are rung each year.

St Mary's has eight bells in the key of F. They were cast by Thomas Osborn of Downham Market in 1794. I stopped off for this photograph as we accompanied our guide up to the corona that tops the tower and rings the base of the spire (where the second photograph was taken). For more views of Swineshead church see this collection of earlier blog posts (scroll down page when it appears).

photographs & text (c) T. Boughen

Photo 1 (Photo2)
Camera: Olympus E510
Mode: Aperture Priority
Focal Length: 11mm (22mm/35mm equiv.) (ditto)
F No: f3.2 (4.5)
Shutter Speed: 1/20 (1/1600)
ISO: 400 (100)
Exposure Compensation: 0 (-0.3) EV
Image Stabilisation: On (ditto)

Churchyard trees

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Churchyard trees are the bane of my photographic life - but I wouldn't be without them! Most English churches are surrounded by a few, or many, trees. Those that aren't are often in the uplands, on moorland fells, by the sea, far out in wind-swept marshes, or in the concrete jungles that are our great cities. But in villages and towns trees surround the church, often the biggest, oldest and most interesting specimens in the settlement.

In almost every churchyard that has trees the dark green, evergreen yew (Taxus baccata) will be found, often many specimens, sometimes in an avenue flanking the main path to the south porch or west door. This long-lived tree is a symbol of everlasting life, a deterrent to the farmers of long ago who let their cattle roam free (its berries are poisonous), and the source of the English archers' longbow. Holly (Ilex aquifolium) is nearly as ubiquitous, its red berries and prickly leaves, a reminder of Christ's crown of thorns. Quite a few churchyards have laurel bushes and trees. These were planted by the Victorians who valued it for its association with victory, particularly the victory over death that Christianity offered believers. The rest of the trees to be found will reflect the locality and its soil, the taste of the church council, and the fashions of the past few hundred years - in the second half of the twentieth century many flowering cherries were planted. To walk through an old churchyard full of trees, such as the one above at Swineshead in Lincolnshire, is a real pleasure, and offers variety and interest whatever the season. Today the snowdrops and aconites were in full flower, and the first crocuses were starting to appear.

So, since these are clearly places of great beauty, why do I describe the trees as "the bane of my photographic life?" Well, if you're interested in photographing church architecture, and want an image of the whole building, you find that they are invariably planted just where you wish they weren't - often obscuring the "best" viewpoint from the south-east. Winter is the only time that a reasonable view of the south elevation of the medieval church at Swineshead can be secured. And, even then (as you can see), I had to move farther to the west than I would have liked, and shoot through a tangle of branches. However, I was thankful for the appearance of a shaft of afternoon sun from behind quite thick cloud, that illuminated the building and separated it from its surroundings, thereby helping me in my task.

For more images of this church and its churchyard see here, here, here, and here, and for a bigger, black and white version of the image above click here.

photograph & text (c) T. Boughen

Camera: Olympus E510
Mode: Aperture Priority
Focal Length: 11mm (22mm/35mm equiv.)
F No: f7.1
Shutter Speed: 1/500 seconds
ISO: 100
Exposure Compensation: -1.0 EV
Image Stabilisation: On

Navigation by tower and spire

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As I cycle across the Lincolnshire Fen landscape I feel like a mariner sailing through a familiar archipelago. The flatness of the land gives views of several miles in all directions, and standing up tall like lighthouses or rocky islands, are medieval churches, markers that allow travellers to plot and mark their course through the web of narrow lanes.

A large, distant clump of trees usually means a village. But, in this region of large churches a spire or a tower usually rises above the tallest beech or lime, and the traveller who can tell one from the other can have no doubt of their position. So, Heckington's high tower but short spire distinguishes it from nearby Helpringham's rocket-like pinnacles attached to a tall spire, and from Donington's which is set well within its tower-top perimeter. Gosberton's thin, attenuated, needle spire cannot be confused with Quadring's shorter spire and tapered tower, and Swineshead's short spire with its stone corona at the base is different again. Swaton's green roof and embattled tower is very different from nearby Bicker's lower tower that barely peeps over the nearby pines and beeches. Towards The Wash, Fosdyke's lead spire is whiter than Long Sutton's which has clasping leaded pinnacles, which is in turn completely unlike Holbeach's spire that rises from a tower.

So, a compass is an unneccesary luxury in the Fens unless, of course, a mist or fog descends. Then, especially at the end of the day, the towers and spires take on a ghostly quality, near buildings look more distant, and churches can be appreciated solely for the beauty and individuality of their outlines, as in the photograph above of Swineshead.

photograph & text (c) T. Boughen

Camera: Olympus E510
Mode: Aperture Priority
Focal Length: 150mm (300mm/35mm equiv.)
F No: f7.1
Shutter Speed: 1/400
ISO: 100
Exposure Compensation: -0.7 EV
Image Stabilisation: On

Winter photography

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A spell of winter weather that is colder and duller than usual has kept people indoors recently. A quick skip round the photography forums finds many in the UK wishing for brighter skies. Like most photographers I relish bright, contrasty light. A sky with 70% broken cloud of different hues (the kind seen after rain), blue showing through here and there, and pools of sunlight reaching the ground, is probably my ideal for landscape shots.

But, different weather presents different opportunities and we must seize them. Heavy rain is pretty useless as far as I'm concerned, with only a few opportunities for images. Light rain or drizzle offers more chance of capturing glistening photographs. A leaden sky with a blanket of stratus above is lamented by many, but can be fine as long as you keep the camera pointed down, and, if it's bright enough, is particularly good for saturated colours and therefore plants and flowers. Snow is great, not only for the novelty (at least in much of England), but also because of the way it converts scenes into drawings with dark shapes and lines across a white surface, and for how it changes the light and illuminates the shadows. Fog is good too, and I often venture out in such weather to try and capture the graduated tones and simplified silhouettes it offers. That was my thinking the other day when we went for an afternoon walk near Swineshead in Lincolnshire. A weak sun was shining through wispy cloud and visibility was poor. It looked like mist and fog would start to appear as the sun went down. And so it did.

I took this photograph towards the end of the walk, balancing the faint outline of Swineshead church towering over the village houses, with the silhouettes of trees on the right, and used the curve of the road as a leading line into the shot.

photograph & text (c) T. Boughen

Camera: Olympus E510
Mode: Aperture Priority
Focal Length: 137mm (274mm/35mm equiv.)
F No: f7.1
Shutter Speed: 1/100
ISO: 100
Exposure Compensation: 0 EV
Image Stabilisation: On

Tiles and styles

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It's nothing short of criminal that tiles, a wall and floor covering that is made to last, should be subject to the capricious fancies of fashion, and that people should feel pressured to regularly change the perfectly sound surfaces of their kitchens, bathrooms and showers. Anyone who has lived through the last fifty years can very easily assign a tile to the decade in which it was manufactured. From the mottled beige of 1950s fireplace tiles, through the "cracked ice" tiles in sage, turquoise and pink of the 1970s, to the small fabric-backed mosaics of the turn of the millennium and the elongated "stone" of today, the pernicious march of fashion seems, ridiculously, to affect durable tiles just as much as more flimsy housewares, clothing and vehicles.

Was it always so? Not really. The Romans introduced tiles to Britain in the form of mosaic flooring, and many examples of their figurative and decorative designs can be seen in museums. But it was not until the monasteries of the middle ages wanted to floor their buildings with something better than trodden earth, rushes and stone, that floor tiles became common again. Their pattern-impressed and slip-decorated designs using symmetrical crosses, circles, part circles, birds, shields, etc remained, to the untutored eye, much the same for a few hundred years. And, the beauty of what they produced so appealed to the Gothic Revival architects of the nineteenth century that they faithfully copied many of these earlier designs.

Today's photograph shows the font and some of these Victorian tiles in the medieval church of St Mary, Swineshead, Lincolnshire. The fact that the designs of such tiles derive directly from medieval examples, or from catalogues of drawings of early tiles such as Parker's "Glossary of Architecture" (1840), and from original designs that often re-worked the motifs of the middle ages, makes identifying the manufacturer quite difficult to anyone but an enthusiast. As in many British churches those at Swineshead are probably made by Minton, but could well be by Campbell, Maw, Godwin or one of the smaller makers. Victorian tiles are commonly found in the chancel, the most sumptuously decorated part of a church. Here at Swineshead they were also deemed suitable for the area around the font, reflecting its importance as the place where a Christian is received into the the church through baptism. I was attracted to this shot by the sunlight streaming through a clear glass window, illuminating the font and its surrounds, throwing a lattice of shadows over everything, and leaving the background in relative gloom.

photograph & text (c) T. Boughen

Camera: Olympus E510
Mode: Aperture Priority
Focal Length: 16mm (32mm/35mm equiv.)
F No: f8
Shutter Speed: 1/160
ISO: 200
Exposure Compensation: -3.0 EV
Image Stabilisation: On

The gravedigger's door

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"As one door closes, another opens", we say, and this was metaphorically and literally true for the parishioners of Swineshead in Lincolnshire. For a period of a hundred, or maybe even two hundred years, as the door of life closed on a person, so the door of this churchyard shed opened, and the gravedigger brought out his tools to prepare a burial place for the deceased.

Today the building is more likely to contain a lawnmower and a few other tools for maintaining the grounds of the ancient church. But it may still hold the gravedigger's tools for those parishioners whose final journey doesn't include cremation. Whatever its present purpose, it still stands, castellated above, repaired and extended with different bricks, and sealed with its old pointed door in its old pointed arch - the builder's idea of what is appropriate for a churchyard.

I'd gone to Swineshead to photograph the lovely church tower and spire with its corona base, and came away with a number of images that I'm pleased with. This is one that I didn't look for - it just, serendipitously, presented itself. Of all the shots I took on that bright, windy afternoon, this is my favourite for the combination of colours, shadows and texture.

photograph & text (c) T. Boughen

Camera: Olympus E510
Mode: Aperture Priority
Focal Length: 16mm (32mm/35mm equiv.)
F No: f7.1
Shutter Speed: 1/125
ISO: 100
Exposure Compensation: -1.0 EV
Image Stabilisation: Off