Old walls

click photo to enlarge
Old walls seem so much more appealing than new ones: I've photographed and posted a few recently. I don't think that's simply a natural proclivity: growing up in the Yorkshire Dales exposed me to many fine old walls early in life, and may be responsible for my predilection. When I think about what draws me to them it's surely the interesting textures and materials, the random elements, the greater variety of colours, and the sense that an aged wall has seen and been through a lot, that is at the heart of their attraction.

This part of the Marriott Warehouse on the east side of South Quay, King's Lynn, Norfolk, is a good example of such a wall. It shows the north end of the ground floor of the river-facing elevation of the old warehouse. The lower wall with the large pieces of ashlar dates from the early 1300s when it was first built, perhaps for the Hanseatic League, as a single storey structure. At that time its walls were probably wholly made of stone. It was extended upwards in brick in the 1400s and 1500s. In the 1700s the building was extensively re-modelled with new doors and segmental arched windows (like the one shown) inserted. Further modifications kept the building usable in the 1800s and 1900s. The iron tie-beam, an "S" shaped end of which can be seen in the photograph, probably dates from the Georgian or Victorian period, and the unpainted wood window must date from a restoration around the turn of the Millennium.

This piece of wall appealed to me for the attractive mix of elements, the diversity of the bricks from many ages, the poorly laid courses above the window, and the way it seemed to summarise the trials and tribulations of the building down the centuries. I placed the window on the left of the frame and was grateful for the visual weight of the tie-beam end on the right.

Incidentally, for those who are interested in such things, Marriott's Warehouse is one of the 18,000 Grade II* structures in England and Wales. More details about what that means here.

photograph & text (c) T. Boughen

Camera: Olympus E510
Mode: Aperture Priority
Focal Length: 53mm (106mm/35mm equiv.)
F No: f5.6
Shutter Speed: 1/200
ISO: 100
Exposure Compensation: 0 EV
Image Stabilisation: On

The beauty of imperfection

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Perfection can be seductive. It can also be very boring. I frequently confuse women actresses and pop singers because so many modify their appearance to conform to a "type" that many men seem to find "perfect". You know the sort - slender, blond, full lips, smooth skin, symmetrical "doll-like" features. And, frankly, I find this look uninteresting.

The same applies to male actors and singers. The androgynous look is widely cultivated and equally dull and confusing. Or how about car styling? The recently revealed 4-seater Porsche seems to have elements of virtually every sports cars designed since the 1960s. In their quest for perfection the stylists have removed all traces of individuality from the body-shape. Quirks, flaws, imperfections, individuality, make - for me - more appealing looks and designs. In an earlier blog post I questioned whether the exterior appearance of Norman Foster's Swiss Re tower (the "Gherkin") in London is too perfect, visually facile, lacking an element that breaks into the simple shape and colours, and whether we'll soon tire of its easy appeal. Architects still make the mistake of excessive simplicity in the search for perfection. Many realised, early in the twentieth century, that introducing the random imperfections of trees and bushes in architectural drawings, and in actuality, improved people's appreciation of their buildings' smooth surfaces, repeated right-angles and shimmering curtain walls.

Similar reasoning can be applied to photographs. It's quite easy to take pictures of flawless subjects, particularly when depicting the man-made world, but the result is often unsatisfying. Today's photograph is a case in point. It shows a wall covered in blemish-free, brushed stainless steel tiles. The orientation of each is such that the wall has a lustrous chequerboard pattern. However, when I came to photograph it I looked for a position that allowed me to incorporate elements (particularly the shadows and reflected ceiling lights) that broke up the perfect surface. The paradox is that including the imperfections gives increased emphasis to the perfect finish, as well as adding interest to the overall composition.

photograph & text (c) T. Boughen

Camera: Olympus E510
Mode: Aperture Priority
Focal Length: 22mm (44mm/35mm equiv.)
F No: f7.1
Shutter Speed: 1/30
ISO: 400
Exposure Compensation: -1.0 EV
Image Stabilisation: On

The quest for immortality

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Is the personal quest for immortality through artefacts anything more than simple vanity? I can't see that it is. The idea that you want or need people to remember you after your death seems absurd to me. That family, friends and admirers might wish to remember a person is an entirely different matter, but naming a building after yourself, building your own marble mausoleum, having your statue cast, or writing a book with that purpose in mind, seems to me a rather pathetic act of weakness and vanity. I remember being disappointed when I read that John Keats' poetry was motivated, in large part, by his desire for fame and immortality, and that the drive that leads many to write was only a small part of his motivation. His reason for writing seemed to demean both him and his work.

This thought sometimes comes into my head as I look at the monuments and memorials in churches. Many are erected with gratitude by people who knew the deceased. But others are works commissioned by the person commemorated, and are clearly designed to portray him or her in a flattering light. Those depicting eighteenth century aristocrats in antique Roman costume, exuding classical nobility and learning, accompanied by a tablet of unctuous prose, are the ones I find particularly repugnant.

I don't know whether this fifteenth century knight of the Order of St John in the church of St Botolph, Boston, Lincolnshire, commissioned his own effigy, or whether it was made after his death. It is an interesting alabaster piece, and without sculpture such as this we would know much less about the armour of people of that time. However, as a commemorative piece it has failed, because, unlike many in this type of memorial, we no longer know precisely who is shown. We do know that the Order was active in Boston in the thirteenth century, that it maintained two hospitals and St John's church in the town, and that it was dissolved in 1540, but beyond that we know little. It may be connected with the family of Sir William Weston. Today we can enjoy it as a piece of sculpture, as social history, and as a tangible link to the place's past. But not as this person's stab at immortality.

photograph & text (c) T. Boughen

Camera: Olympus E510
Mode: Aperture Priority
Focal Length: 17mm (34mm/35mm equiv.)
F No: f5.6
Shutter Speed: 1/15
ISO: 400
Exposure Compensation: -1.0 EV
Image Stabilisation: On

The wind in the reeds

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Here's another image in my recently begun quest to capture movement in nature using motion blur. Regular visitors may remember shots of the wind stirring some unripe barley and the waves on a shallow, stony-bottomed river. Today's photograph shows wind passing across a reed bed.

During a recent walk on a bright but quite windy day at Surfleet Seas End in Lincolnshire, I came upon this stand of reeds near the outfall of the River Glen. The low afternoon sun was offering some good contre jour shots of the feathery heads of the common reeds (Phragmites australis). However, the wind had other ideas. Each shot I made of selected heads using a long focal length lens was slightly blurred. So, rather than fight it I thought I may as well co-operate with the inevitable and do some deliberately blurred images. Looking at the wind passing over the reed bed I could see rippled lines being formed in the vegetation so I made these the focus of my efforts. It took about 6 shots to get this, the best of the bunch, with the lens stopped down to its maximum to produce the shutter speed of 1/10 second. I was pleased to get the blurred "waves" and at the same time some leaves and stems that were fairly sharp.

photograph & text (c) T. Boughen

Camera: Olympus E510
Mode: Aperture Priority
Focal Length: 102mm (204mm/35mm equiv.)
F No: f22
Shutter Speed: 1/10
ISO: 100
Exposure Compensation: -0.7 EV
Image Stabilisation: On

500th PhotoReflect Post

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I'd like to have marked this, the 500th PhotoReflect post, with a stunning image of an interesting subject portrayed in high-impact colour, with an innovative composition - a shot that makes people go, "Wow!" But I've run out of those, so here's a photograph of some cows instead!

I've always felt that if cows liked music then Friesians would be into strong commercial pop - Blondie, the Petshop Boys and the like; that Jerseys and Guernseys would prefer ballads by Shirley Bassey or Dean Martin; and Highland cattle (like those in today's offering) would be fans of early heavy metal. I can just picture the shaggy beasts, heads down, locks swaying, a trance-like look in their fringe-covered eyes, as they get into the groove of Deep Purple's "Smoke on the Water" or Led Zeppelin's "Whole Lotta Love".

Is it coincidence that cattle bred in the Highlands and Islands of western Scotland should have handle-bar horns, long ginger hair and prefer the thundering drums and wailing guitars of rock to the fiddles and accordions of Scottish folk music? Probably not. It's said that dogs and their masters grow to look alike, so why shouldn't a land settled by the Vikings and with more than a hint of ginger in the hair of its population produce red-headed cattle with big horns? It seems perfectly natural to me! What isn't so natural, however, is that I should find these cattle that were bred for the rugged land and cold, wet climate of Scotland on the flat Lincolnshire Fens. But there they were, late in the afternoon, by the River Welland near Surfleet Seas End, and very willing to strike a pose for me. Perhaps beneath my photographer persona they detected a kindred spirit with a partiality for loud electric music!

photograph & text (c) T. Boughen

Camera: Olympus E510
Mode: Aperture Priority
Focal Length: 128mm (256mm/35mm equiv.)
F No: f7.1
Shutter Speed: 1/320
ISO: 100
Exposure Compensation: -1.0 EV
Image Stabilisation: On

I still don't photograph birds

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Let me re-phrase the heading of this blog entry - "Birds are not a subject that I go looking for". But, if one passes my way I might snap it! A while ago I titled successive blog posts, "I don't photograph birds" and "I DO photograph birds!" The subject of each image was a heron. Over a couple of days they seemed to be lining up to have their photograph taken. However, the second wasn't a typical birdwatcher's bird photograph - more a generalist photographer's image.

When I came to review the photographs that I have taken of birds I found I've done more than I remembered, and not only herons! It seems I've captured the robin, a solo swan, a swan with cygnets and a sleeping swan, a black headed gull, a lesser-black-backed gull, a surrealistic herring gull, a distant carrion crow, a great tit at a nest box, silhouetted mallards, a moorhen on its nest, a pelican feeding its young (though it is in stained glass!), some metal sculptures of cormorants, and the feather of a guinea fowl. So, looking at today's photograph of a great tit at the nut feeder in my garden you might be thinking, "Hang on a minute Tony, you do photograph birds!" But I still feel I don't. It's only done casually, in passing, and often in a decidedly "arty" way. And then only if they are within range of my non-bird photographer's lenses, and if I happen to see them. Not one of them would pass muster in the eyes of a dedicated avian snapper. So, whilst I'm happy to say that I do photograph churches, buildings, landscapes, flora, semi-abstracts and quite a few other subjects, I really don't photograph birds. Honestly!

photograph & text (c) T. Boughen

Camera: Olympus E510
Mode: Aperture Priority
Focal Length: 150mm (300mm/35mm equiv.)
F No: f5.6
Shutter Speed: 1/250
ISO: 200
Exposure Compensation: -1.7 EV
Image Stabilisation: On

The world in a puddle

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"...imagine a puddle waking up one morning and thinking, 'This is an interesting world I find myself in, an interesting hole I find myself in, fits me rather neatly, doesn't it? In fact it fits me staggeringly well, must have been made to have me in it!' This is such a powerful idea that as the sun rises in the sky and the air heats up and as, gradually, the puddle gets smaller and smaller, it's still frantically hanging on to the notion that everything's going to be alright, because this world was meant to have him in it, was built to have him in it; so the moment he disappears catches him rather by surprise. I think this may be something we need to be on the watch out for."
Douglas Adams (1952-2001), English author and satirist

If mankind is to disappear from this world perhaps it won't be, as some imagine, a gradual decline with pockets of people hanging on until finally the last Adam and the last Eve expire. Maybe, as Douglas Adams' quote that uses the water in a puddle as a metaphor for mankind suggests, it will be sudden, a surprise, something we don't see coming. However, I don't foresee the earth being destroyed by part of a Vogon constructor fleet making room for a hyperspace bypass, as in Adams' book, The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy: rapidly accelerating climate change, a pandemic or a meteor impact seem the current favourites!

I came across the above quotation a while ago, quite incidentally, when looking for something else. But it stayed with me, like many of the best quotations, because it offered a different perspective on a familiar idea. The way Adams plays with and extends the metaphor is clever, humorous and thought provoking. It also shows, in a small way, how good prose and fiction can make powerful, perhaps even more telling, contributions to a debate that most think of as the province of science and politics.

But enough of all that doom and gloom, and on to the gloom in which I took this photograph! The blueness comes from the fast-fading light of evening. As I passed the puddle the yellow of the leaves seemed to glow against it, and I grabbed the image. A wide open lens and a touch of negative EV gave me just enough speed to maintain a sharp shot and keep the camera at 100 ISO.

photograph & text (c) T. Boughen

Camera: Olympus E510
Mode: Aperture Priority
Focal Length: 22mm (44mm/35mm equiv.)
F No: f3.5
Shutter Speed: 1/20
ISO: 100
Exposure Compensation: -0.3 EV
Image Stabilisation: On

Contre jour teasels

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The mongrel nature of the English language is shown by the number of words that derive from other languages. French, German, Dutch, Latin, Hindi, Arabic, Spanish - it seems that there isn't a people anywhere in the world that haven't contributed to English.

Some words are absorbed and the meaning is modified, as with the French verb "promenade" meaning to walk or take a walk. Though English speakers still use it in that way, today, in British English, it is more often a noun meaning the main path (and road) next to the sea where people prefer to walk for leisure. Other words have been adopted and the pronunciation Anglicised. The Hindi for a single storey house with a verandah, "bangla", was appropriated by European colonists and turned into "bungalow". Some words are absorbed with no changes to meaning, spelling and pronunciation. The French phrase "contre jour", meaning "against the day" is an example. Though English speakers do describe a photograph such as that above, as "against the light", "contre jour" is also widely used.

Winter is a great time for contre jour shots. The low sun is often behind objects that it would be above at other times of year. In winter, light is at a premium, so it's nice to be able to frame shots that emphasise it in the composition and effects. These teasels (Dipsacus fullonum), interspersed with dead umbellifers, were growing in great profusion by a stretch of water. I came upon them in midday light when each dried head had its own annulus-like halo. I was pleased to be able to include a lot of out-of-focus examples behind the nearer heads that I made the main subject of the image.

See here for more information about teasels, and for another of my contre jour shots of these attractive seed heads.

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: -1.0 EV
Image Stabilisation: On

The expanding wine glass

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Maybe we didn't look hard enough. Or was it that they don't exist any more? Perhaps there's no demand for them. Whatever the reason, when we bought wine glasses recently we couldn't find any that I think of as "normal" sized, and ended up with some that I see as "large". Being curious I did a bit of research and discovered that the International Standards Organisation (ISO) has specifications for wine tasting glasses. These have capacities of 210, 300 and 410 ml. Looking again at the packaging I noticed that our glasses were described as 250ml. So, I measured them and found that they held 210ml with a space of 1cm at the top. Are these now the smallest size? And if so, what happened to the smaller glasses?

A quick surf around the Web found lots of 250ml glasses, some described as 200ml, many at 6.5 fl.oz., and some at 150ml. There were restaurants listing wines that they served in 175ml and 250ml measures. The impression I got was that the size of wine glasses has been re-standardized at the 250ml mark, and that the smaller glasses I've been familiar with for most of my life are on the way out. Which begs the question, is this due to consumer demand for bigger measures, or bars and restaurants wanting a higher return on each glass sold? Or a mixture of both? Combine this trend with the increased alcohol content of wines (11 or 12 percent has become 13 or 14 percent), and here's one more factor in the rise in alcohol consumption and its attendant problems.

But surely, it can be argued, you don't have to fill the bigger glasses. Well no, but a glass should be made to be filled so that you can know how much you're drinking. There's a small element of difficulty in pouring yourself the same known measure when you have a glass of wine if you're not filling the glass to the same point each time. And when glasses come in different sizes in different eateries the problem is compounded.

Well, after all that, today's photograph shows those "large" glasses after they've been washed. Some are the right way up, some upside down, and a few suds and water linger on their surfaces. I increased the tonal contrast a little to make the most of the reflections each glass has from each other and its surroundings.

photograph & text T. Boughen

Camera: Olympus E510
Mode: Aperture Priority
Focal Length: 35mm macro (70mm/35mm equiv.)
F No: f18
Shutter Speed: 1/80
ISO: 100
Exposure Compensation: -1 EV
Image Stabilisation: Off
Flash: FL36 TTL (bounced)

Ripples and similes

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"The foolish are like ripples on water, for whatever they do is quickly effaced; but the righteous are like carvings upon stone, for their smallest act is durable."
Horace (65BC - 8BC), Roman poet

Similes involving ripples in water are amongst the most overworked of their kind. The classic version involves an action from which ripples spread, that affects other things or people. How many times, in recent months, have I read of the ripples that have spread throughout the world banking system from over-enthusiastic sub-prime lending? Too many!

And yet, when the idea of ripples spreading is used a little more creatively, as in the example from Horace, quoted above, it can be illuminating, and serve its purpose of increasing our understanding and deepening our enjoyment of the prose. Scientists have physical laws and mathematical formulae that describe the effect of the spread of ripples in water, and what happens when they meet a fixed or moving object, or other ripples. Yet, as I stood under a bridge and watched drips of water from above falling into the river, creating this complex intersection of concentric ripples, it was very difficult to see how each changed the others. Was the ripple simile built on sand (to murder a metaphor)? But perhaps the effect was so marginal as not to be visible. And that made me wonder how the simile gained such a firm foothold. However, I didn't wonder too long because it made my head hurt! Instead I enjoyed the play of light on water and the patterns that appeared and slowly disappeared as the energy from each originating drip was dissipated.

My photograph has had the contrast and colour adjusted slightly to emphasise the patterns.

photograph & text (c) T. Boughen

Camera: Olympus E510
Mode: Aperture Priority
Focal Length: 22mm (44mm/35mm equiv.)
F No: f6.3
Shutter Speed: 1/160
ISO: 400
Exposure Compensation: -0.3 EV
Image Stabilisation: On

Reflected branches

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It's both a blessing and a curse that the human memory is so fallible. The multitude of events that we want and need to remember - about our early life, episodes when our children were growing up, or what we had for dinner yesterday - somehow get lost amongst the inconsequential things that are stored in our brains. Yet, our memory of an embarrassing incident that happened years ago can be as sharp as when it first happened and still retain the power to make us cringe. I remember someone saying that if the human body had a clear memory of pain women would never have more than one child. So yes, there are advantages and disadvantages in the way that we remember.

I don't know about you, but every year I forget how late it is before all the trees have lost their leaves. Not until the last days of November have most gone, and even then some are hanging on, defying the gales. The ash trees that I look at from my kitchen window are loath to lose their foliage, and bunches of "keys" are still visible in the new year. Willow trees, even though they are one of the first to show leaves in spring, seem particularly reluctant to part with them, and don't lose the last until December, by which time I find I can usually put the leaf rake away.

Today's photograph shows some trees, entirely bereft of leaves, overhanging water. The skeletal branches and spidery reflections that look like a delicate ink drawing, remind me that trees in winter have a different, more austere, but no less beautiful presence than when they are laden with leaves in summer.

photograph & text (c) T. Boughen

Camera: Olympus E510
Mode: Aperture Priority
Focal Length: 14mm (28mm/35mm equiv.)
F No: f6.3
Shutter Speed: 1/30
ISO: 200
Exposure Compensation: -0.3 EV
Image Stabilisation: On

Thinking about colours

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Photography, particularly the digital variety makes you much more sensitive to colour. The other day I was walking with my wife when I stopped and pointed out how improbably blue the sky looked directly above us. It was the sort of deep, strong blue that, if you saw it in a photograph, you would think had been enhanced in Photoshop. Indicating the sky nearer the horizon my wife remarked on its strong turquoise colour. That too would have looked quite unnatural in a photograph.

Why is it that, sometimes, we can't quite believe our eyes? It's perhaps because, since the second half of the twentieth century, we've been subjected to "colour photography overload". Moreover, most of the still and moving images we see have been processed and moderated by people who make the colour of images gravitate towards the sterotypical. So, a blue sky is summer blue, a tropical sea is blue-green, northern hemisphere grass is towards the yellow end of green, and snow is "snow-white". We've become used to advertisers turning up the colour saturation to give a hyper-real effect, and that's something we still notice. But when a "natural" scene is presented to us we don't see the more insidious tilt of colour towards a notional "norm". Consequently, we're sometimes surprised, as I was the other day, by the real colours of the world.

The photograph above presents colours pretty close to how I saw them as I descended the hills above Slaidburn, Lancashire, at the end of the day. I pointed a long focal length lens fairly close to the point where the sun was disappearing, and captured the graduated colours of the receding lines of hills, framing them between the blackness of the near wall and field below, and the dark, brooding clouds above. It all looks a bit improbable doesn't it!

photograph & text (c) T. Boughen

Camera: Olympus E510
Mode: Aperture Priority
Focal Length: 150mm (300mm/35mm equiv.)
F No: f5.6
Shutter Speed: 1/320
ISO: 100
Exposure Compensation: -0.3 EV
Image Stabilisation: On

Sunset copse

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Driving through the upper Ribble Valley in North Yorkshire one evening, just as the sun was going down, I came upon this copse on top of a low, rounded hill. The symmetrical silhouette of the trees against the sky and the sun-tinged clouds caused me to stop and take my photograph. This area of Yorkshire is underlaid by limestone, and the area in question has drumlins, so I'm guessing from the outlines and the aforementioned facts that these are beech trees on one of these low hills that were formed during the last glaciation. The regular, parallel undulations emphasised by the low sun suggest that the land was once cultivated by medieval ridge and furrow methods.

Beech is planted in the Pennines as shelter belts for farms and fields, and always seems to do best on limestone. Sometimes, as here, groups are planted as landmark clumps, helping people to orientate themselves, adding beauty to the landscape, and providing a regular supply of firewood from the overcrowded branches that the wind brings down. Looking at this copse one can almost imagine the trees have made a pact with each other. "Let's all grow big branches on the outside", they might have said, "but smaller ones inside. And you lot in the middle don't bother with too many side branches, just grow up taller than the rest of us." Of course the overcrowding of trunks, and the availability of light are responsible for the shape of each tree and for the overall symmetry of the group. However, its nice to think that these stately trees are co-operating on their hill-top site to extend the life of each other, and in so doing prolonging the pleasure that they provide for passing motorists with cameras!

photograph & text (c) T. Boughen

Camera: Olympus E510
Mode: Aperture Priority
Focal Length: 104mm (208mm/35mm equiv.)
F No: f6.3
Shutter Speed: 1/200
ISO: 100
Exposure Compensation: -1.0 EV
Image Stabilisation: On

Just mud and water

click photo to enlarge
"There is nothing ugly; I never saw an ugly thing in my life: for let the form of an object be what it may - light, shade, and perspective will always make it beautiful."
John Constable (1776-1837), English landscape painter

People, in general, have little hesitation in pronouncing things "beautiful" - a person, some flowers, a sunset, an upland landscape - all will readily be awarded the title. Nor too, do people shrink from bestowing the word "ugly" - a graffiti-covered facade, overflowing bins, a weed-strewn urban wasteland, or a dead fox by the side of the road would all invariably be thought so. But John Constable said he'd never seen anything that is ugly. How do we account for this?

It certainly isn't anything to do with today's world compared with Constable's. What we would call ugly certainly existed in his time, possibly more so. No, it's more to do with what we see when we look at the world. The eye of the painter (and the photographer) looks at the world in the same way as everyone else, but often sees it in a different way. One of the principal aims of these people is to see the extraordinary in the ordinary, the marvellous in the mundane, and the beautiful in the "ugly". Sometimes it's difficult to explain why a photograph (or a painting) looks the way it does: to say why, in the eyes of some it is "boring", "simple", "empty" or "nothing". I can see those words being levelled at this photograph. After all, it shows just mud and water. Yet from the moment I saw this particular piece of estuary, revealed by the receding tide, I liked it. I'd hesitate to call my photograph beautiful, but I do think it has a certain attraction. I suppose what I like is the contrast between the "substance" of the flat, glistening mud and the dark, angular shadows of its broken edge, with the smooth, only slightly rippled sheen of the water. I like, too, the ragged line going up the centre of the image, and the way it curves away into almost nothing in the fog. I'm pleased by how the foreground mud and inlet give the composition a base, and I appreciate the tonality across the photograph.

Now, all that sounds a touch pretentious! But then trying to explain in detail what you like about a painting or a photograph sometimes tends to veer in that direction. Yet, it's worth enduring the risible remarks it can provoke because giving voice in this way adds more to our understanding than just applying the over-worked, over-rated, and frequently wrong epithets, "beautiful" and "ugly"!

photograph & text (c) T. Boughen

Camera: Olympus E510
Mode: Aperture Priority
Focal Length: 45mm (90mm/35mm equiv.)
F No: f5.6
Shutter Speed: 1/200
ISO: 200
Exposure Compensation: -0.3 EV
Image Stabilisation: On

Tower vaults

click photo to enlarge
Anyone who has done the full tour of this blog will know that I have a fondness for tower vaulting (see here and here). I suppose it's because there's something fascinating about the way that medieval builders chose to ornament this inaccessible location - often the highest point inside a church. Was it because it was the place in the building nearest to heaven? Did they expend so much care and craft here, knowing that in its remoteness their work would remain pristine, safe from the knocks and bumps of clumsy priests and careless parishioners? Whatever the reason, tower vaults are often elaborate where other vaulting in chancels, naves and aisles is plainer.

The underside of a tower is usually square, though there are a few octagonal examples to be found. In churches (though not always cathedrals), there is frequently a trapdoor to allow the passage of bells to and from the ringing chamber, and this is usually placed in the centre. Consequently, the rib pattern of tower vaulting tends to be symmetrical. However, each decorative boss that often cover the joins of the ribs are usually carved with different designs - shields, foliage, faces and animals are common. Comparing the vaulting designs to be found in different churches, I am frequently delighted by the fertility of the masons' minds. I have never found two exactly the same, and one senses a conscious desire on the builder's part to come up with something different.

Today's photograph shows the tower vault of St John the Baptist, Morton, Lincolnshire, quite a large village church with a tall crossing tower that dates from the 1300s at the bottom and the 1400s above. The vaulting comprises a central circle (with trapdoor), connected directly and indirectly to three ribs that spring from the corners of the tower. These ribs are moulded into four sets of four cusped daggers, one in each corner. Interestingly there are no bosses masking the points where the ribs meet. The great temptation in photographing tower vaults is to point the camera vertically from directly below the centre, then crop the image to make a symmetrical shot that mirrors the four lines of symmetry on display. I usually do this by laying on my back with the camera clamped to my face! Here I decided to place the centre of the vault towards the top of the frame, giving a single line of symmetry that extends down through the nave roof and tall tower arch.

photograph & text (c) T. Boughen

Camera: Olympus E510
Mode: Aperture Priority
Focal Length: 11mm (22mm/35mm equiv.)
F No: f2.8
Shutter Speed: 1/20
ISO: 800
Exposure Compensation: -1.3 EV
Image Stabilisation: On

King's Lynn Tide Clock

click photo to enlarge

On each of the two, tall towers of the west front of the medieval church of St Margaret's, in the Norfolk port of King's Lynn, is a clock. One has a conventional face with Roman numerals: the other has 12 letters that appear to be randomly placed. Until, that is, you read them clockwise from the "L", when they spell out the words "Lynn High Tide"!

This clock is a faithful twentieth century reconstruction of the original design of Thomas Tue's 1681 clock made to show the ships in the port the time of the local high tides. The dragon pointer of the clock completes a full rotation every 29.5 days. Letters mark the even hours, and the intervening triangles and red dots the odd hours, of the 24 hours of the day. Thus "L" is noon, and "G" is midnight. If the pointer indicated a high tide at "H" (2 a.m.), then the opposite mark ("Y") would be almost the time (within 25 minutes) of the next high tide. A mechanism also controls the moon that revolves eccentrically behind a hole and indicates, by its position, the lunar phases. The blue inner disc is fixed to the dragon pointer.

Tue's original clock was damaged when the church's spire collapsed in 1741, and was poorly maintained thereafter, eventually falling into disuse. This reconstruction was made under the direction of the architect, Colin Shewring, and is a fascinating reminder of the early technology that sailors used.

photograph & text (c) T. Boughen

Camera: Olympus E510
Mode: Aperture Priority
Focal Length: 150mm (300mm/35mm equiv.)
F No: f6.3
Shutter Speed: 1/200
ISO: 100
Exposure Compensation: -0.7 EV
Image Stabilisation: On

Contrails and cattle

click photo to enlarge

The more we study global warming the more we come to appreciate the multiplicity of contributors to the phenomenon.

According to the UN the CO2 equivalent (methane) produced by cattle rearing exceeds the CO2 produced by transportation. Add in all the other sheep, goats, pigs, etc, that produce methane and the contribution made by livestock farming to global warming is massive. And, since methane is, by most measures, a significantly more harmful greenhouse gas than CO2, the case for reducing the scale of animal agriculture is compelling.

Consider too the vapour trails (contrails) that criss-cross our skies. Not only are they a pain for the photographer, they also increase the amount of high level cirrus in the atmosphere. This kind of cloud reflects less heat than it traps, and so raises the temperature of the earth by a measurable amount. Studies in the U.S. suggest that aircraft-generated clouds contribute an increase of somewhere between 0.36 and 0.54 degrees Fahrenheit per decade. That being the case, those calling for a reduction in flying seem to have a point.

This photograph of cows walking along the sea bank at Frampton Marsh, Lincolnshire, caused the disparate subjects of methane and air travel to come to mind. The silhouettes of the group of cows and the lone straggler, along with the vapour trails that had been "distressed" by high level winds, seemed a promising combination of the distinct and the diaphanous. In this flat landscape this ratio of land to sky suggested itself.

photograph & text (c) T. Boughen

Camera: Olympus E510
Mode: Aperture Priority
Focal Length: 76mm (152mm/35mm equiv.)
F No: f7.1
Shutter Speed: 1/500
ISO: 100
Exposure Compensation: 0 EV
Image Stabilisation: On

Bassingthorpe Manor House

click photo to enlarge
Legislation dating back to 1947 gives protection to historic buildings in England and Wales. Buildings deemed suitable are added to one of three graded lists, thereby becoming "listed". Grade I applies to buildings of outstanding architectural or historic interest. Grade II* is for particularly significant buildings of more than local interest. Grade II applies to buildings of special architectural or historic interest.

Though it is mainly buildings that are listed, monuments, bridges, piers, milestones and other structures can also receive this designation. England and Wales currently have about 442,000 listed buildings and structures of which 418,000 are Grade II, 18,000 are Grade II* (starred), and 6,000 are Grade I. Examples of the latter, the highest category of listing, are the Palace of Westminster, Buckingham Palace, York Minster, Windsor Castle, Manchester Town Hall, the Natural History Museum, and the building shown in today's photograph, Bassingthorpe Manor House, Lincolnshire.

The reason for this relatively small, provincial building receiving the highest grade is because of the advanced quality of its architectural design for which there are no known parallels. What we see today is a fragment, probably the parlour block, added to an older and larger house. The building carries the date 1568 at the top of its west gable, and positively bristles with architectural details that were to become more widespread only later in the Elizabethan period. It was built for Sir Thomas Cony, a notable wool merchant who, as well as adding this extension to the older property left to him by his father, funded repairs and alterations to the medieval church that stands next to the house.

I took my photograph from the churchyard, and placed a group of thin, slate gravestones in the right foreground as a visual counterweight to the house on the left. A black and white treatment seemed to suit the subject better than the original colour.

photograph & text (c) T. Boughen

Camera: Olympus E510
Mode: Aperture Priority
Focal Length: 13mm (26mm/35mm equiv.)
F No: f7.1
Shutter Speed: 1/400
ISO: 100
Exposure Compensation: -1.0 EV
Image Stabilisation: On

The rhododendron tunnel

click photo to enlarge
As a child I used to love the rhodies (as we called the rhododendrons) that grew wild in certain spots on Yorkshire's Craven uplands. Their purple blossom that filled the woods in May simply outshone all the other flowers. Not only was there more of it, but the individual blooms, to an impressionable boy, were just so large. At any time of year they provided dense thickets that were great for dens and hide and seek, and the glossy evergreen leaves even provided pretty good shelter from the rain when you were caught without a coat - as boys often are!

I knew that the bushes grew only on the millstone grit side of the Craven Fault, but at that time didn't appreciate that the soil's acidity there was best for the plants, unlike that on the limestone side. Nor did I know that they weren't native to Britain, but had been in introduced by Conrad Loddiges in the 1760s, and that many cuttings were acquired in the Himalayan foothills. And I certainly didn't know that the luxuriant undergrowth of Rhododendron ponticum that I enjoyed so much was viewed by foresters and naturalists as an invasive weed, and that attempts were being made to control its rapid spread.

When I lived in Lancashire I came across it on the acidic soils of the Forest of Bowland. On more than one occasion its impenetrable mass blocked my way as I walked through woods. On the November day of the photograph above we came across a lot of it, still full of green leaf (and the odd rogue flower bud) where other trees and bushes were bare or brown. This tunnel, near the village of Scorton is mainly composed of arching rhododendron. I asked my wife to walk ahead so I could frame her with the branches and also silhouette her against the light of the lane beyond.

photograph & text (c) T. Boughen

Camera: Olympus E510
Mode: Aperture Priority
Focal Length: 68mm (136mm/35mm equiv.)
F No: f5.6
Shutter Speed: 1/80
ISO: 200
Exposure Compensation: -0.3 EV
Image Stabilisation: On

Looking at chairs (again)

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Architects and designers can be obsessive. The great American architect, Frank Lloyd Wright (1867-1959), during the time of his "Prairie Houses", took to creating every feature of the building. Once he had laid down the overall form and the layout of the rooms he set to designing the doors, stained glass windows, furniture, rugs, lights - everything. His intention was that the whole experience of living in his house should be one of co-ordinated and complementary design, and to that end he even designed the dresses for the lady of the house!

The influential English architect, C.F.A. Voysey (1857-1941), was equally driven. His favourite "heart" motif was repeated throughout his houses in window shutters, door handles, and stencilled ornament, and his work extended into designs for furniture, wallpaper and other household items.

Today many architects specify the furniture for the houses they build from the catalogues of contemporary designers, rather than design it themselves. Often it is the comfortable modern classics by designers such as Breuer, Eames, Corbusier, Makepeace, Magistretti and Jacobsen that are chosen. Frequently, however, it is the eye-catching designs that are favoured: chairs, tables, lights etc, that look the part but don't necessarily offer the utility that is required for daily living. When I came across the chairs in today's photograph I was smitten by the beautiful, spare design, and the shadows thrown by the display lighting. However, though they would look the essence of modernity in the right setting - part sculpture, part chair - I did wonder how long I might be able to sit in one. They are the work of the Danish furniture designer, Mathias Bengtsson, are made of spun carbon fibre, and each weighs only 800g. In my photograph I tried to make a semi-abstract composition that showed the form of the chair without revealing a whole example (the bottom part of one is at the top and the top part of another at the bottom), whilst also showing the power of their pattern and the attendant shadows. The colour was added in post processing.

photograph & text (c) T. Boughen

Camera: Olympus E510
Mode: Aperture Priority
Focal Length: 39mm (78mm/35mm equiv.)
F No: f7.1
Shutter Speed: 1/25
ISO: 800
Exposure Compensation: -0.3 EV
Image Stabilisation: On