The fan vault

click photo to enlarge

The builders of our medieval cathedrals and churches were men of great ingenuity. The structural problems that they had to overcome - spanning ever greater spaces, erecting ever taller buildings, bringing light into the centre of wide buildings - were challenges familiar to architects today. The difference is that now we use computers, man-made materials, electricity and high technology in designing and building: in the middle ages it was muscle power, wood, stone and chisels that did the work.

Go into any major church and look up. The chances are that somewhere in the building you'll see vaulting. Springing from the forest of columns will be arches of stone that spread across naves, chancels, aisles and transepts. Often they will form star-like patterns across the ceiling, and if you look carefully you'll see the spaces between these ribs filled with carefully crafted pieces of stone. From the humble barrels and groins of the eleventh and twelfth century, through the quadripartite, sexpartite, tiercerons, liernes and stellar vaults of subsequent centuries, the progress of English Gothic vaulting is a story of increasing complexity and beauty, the final flowering of which is the stunning fan vault of the late fifteenth century.

This type of vaulting is peculiar to English Gothic architecture, with no parallels on the continent of Europe. It seems to have developed in the cloisters of Gloucester Cathedral around 1350. The best examples of the fully developed form are to be found in King's College, Cambridge, in Christ Church, Oxford, in Bath Abbey and in the retrochoir of Peterborough Cathedral (seen in today's photograph). Fan vaults differ from earlier vaulting in not comprising ribs and infilling, but rather halved concave cones with blind tracery carved on their surfaces. The organic forms and complexity of the decorative patterns make the experience of walking into a space roofed in this way incomparable!

photograph & text (c) T. Boughen

Camera: Olympus E510
Mode: Aperture Priority
Focal Length: 11mm (22mm/35mm equiv.)
F No: f5.6
Shutter Speed: 1/125
ISO: 800
Exposure Compensation: -1.0 EV
Image Stabilisation: On

Killing time

click photo to enlarge

The other day I was in the village of Billingborough, Lincolnshire on business. I had some time to kill so I walked around the outside of the medieval church and gazed up at its spire with its slender flying buttresses. As I'd done on a couple of previous occasions I stood before a selection of slate gravestones dating from the eighteenth century and marvelled at how sharp and clear the carving remained after two hundred and fifty years or more. And how light, elaborate and elegant the lettering, flourishes and decoration was compared with that of the Victorian period. I took a few photographs of the gravestones, the church and a nearby house - variations on images I'd recorded before. Then, with the muse of photography absent, and with some time still left before my appointment, I decided to get a cup of coffee and sit by the village pond whilst I drank it.

As I sat there, watching a moorhen feeding chicks that dashed over the surface of the water like little motor boats, I noticed cherry blossom falling from a tree that was overhanging the pond. The petals settled on the water, and sat there there with curves of surface tension all around them. A light breeze was blowing, slowly gathering them into little flotillas of pink that, joining up with others, grew into veritable armadas that the wind started to bank up against the shore, making them look like a floral invasion fleet. It was then I thought, "There's a photograph somewhere here!" So I moved around the edge of the pond composing images of the pink shapes against the reflected trees and sky. When I'd finished, feeling confident that I'd captured an image that I liked, I reflected that one of the great pleasures of photography is that on those days when you can't find images, the answer can be to stop looking and let the images find you!!

photograph & text (c) T. Boughen

Camera: Olympus E510
Mode: Aperture Priority
Focal Length: 150mm (300mm/35mm equiv.)
F No: f8
Shutter Speed: 1/125
ISO: 100
Exposure Compensation: -0.3 EV
Image Stabilisation: On

Tiptoe through the ...

click photo to enlarge

Many years ago I accompanied about seventy five children on a day out in the countryside. They were nine years old and lived in a large city. At 9.30 a.m. our double-decker bus got underway and headed out through the suburbs. As it did so one of the teachers leaned across to me and said, "I wonder what time the first one will ask if they can eat their packed lunch?" I realised why she asked when a voice piped up with that request only thirty minutes later!

We were heading for an area near the mouth of a large estuary, and as we rumbled along I heard a cheer from the children upstairs on the bus. I assumed they were playing a game, but then I heard another, and soon after the children downstairs cheered too. I looked around to find out why, and it dawned on me that they were cheering at the sight of fields of oilseed rape. The children upstairs, being higher, spotted them first, and had cheered sooner. For most of them it was their first sight of these improbably bright yellow fields, and the joy of seeing them caused a cheer to ring through the bus as each one came into view for each deck of children. That trip was in June. This year the crop is flowering in early May: last year it was the middle of April. It's probably the development of early plant varieties that accounts for this, but maybe global warming is adding its touch too. There are those in Britain who dislike these yellow fields of spring, feeling that they add an alien character to our traditional green countryside. I don't mind them, probably because each time I see one the sheer yellowness of it impresses me the way it did those children, and it raises my spirits.

Who could resist walking the path across this field near Ropsley, Lincolnshire? It's like entering a fairytale land where everything is hyper-real. The farmer who owns it has, commendably, left the public right of way perfectly clear, helping not only the walkers who want to experience being surrounded by glowing yellow, but also himself, because they then keep to the path and don't trample a broad swath through his valuable crops.

photograph & text (c) T. Boughen

Camera: Olympus E510
Mode: Aperture Priority
Focal Length: 68mm macro (136mm/35mm equiv.)
F No: f8
Shutter Speed: 1/500
ISO: 100
Exposure Compensation: -0.7 EV
Image Stabilisation: On

Imperfect nature

click photo to enlarge

Yesterday The Guardian newspaper carried an article about some Spanish property developments. These gated communities, constructed around Jack Nicklaus designed golf courses, feature identikit white painted, tiled-roofed, balconied "villas" set among impossibly green manicured lawns, lollipop trees and blue lakes. The photographs that accompany the article look like computer-generated images, so "perfect" are these homes for British expats who fancy a life of sun and golf. Apparently there is some concern over whether they will all sell, due to a market slump. However, that aspect of the report didn't interest me. I was just morbidly fascinated by the pictures.

Why would anyone want to live in a such a soulless place, a haven for the rich set in an area of relative poverty, a community with no history that looks like Toy Town? But then I reflected, perfection, an unattainable goal, seems to be the aim of many people today. Advertisers and T.V. programmes urge us to aspire to the perfect house in the perfect location filled with perfect consumer durables, taking "dream" holidays in "idyllic" locations. Maybe these developments in Spain give you all that for one big dollop of cash, and you can rest content that you've attained your perfect dream. Or is it a nightmare?

Today I picked this Cornflower (Centaurea montana) from my garden. It was one of many blooms on the plant, all of them radiating their distinctive petals. There is a pleasing flawed perfection about these flower heads. They could have perfect symmetry, but the tips of the petals refuse to co-operate and twist in all directions. It's a quality I like about the plant. However, picking up my theme for the day I decided to present this flawed flower against a background that strived for perfection! I laboured long and hard with the shadows, the shading and the colours. I'm unsure whether or not I like the finished image - it's a bit Mothers' Day cardish. But, since it's quite different from my usual flower shots I'm posting it anyway!

photograph & text (c) T. Boughen

Camera: Olympus E510
Mode: Aperture Priority
Focal Length: 35mm macro (70mm/35mm equiv.)
F No: f8
Shutter Speed: 1/80
ISO: 100
Exposure Compensation: 0 EV
Image Stabilisation: Off
Flash: FL36 bounced

Made to last

click photos to enlarge

One of the pleasures of looking at churches is that you can get an almost palpable sense of history and the continuity of life down the generations. The other day I visited a succession of churches including St Andrew at Pickworth in Lincolnshire. This is a beautiful, essentially fourteenth century building, but with two windows and a font from the twelfth century. Most people who are interested in ecclesiastical architecture know Pickworth for its wall paintings of the late 1300s. Above the chancel arch is a Doom that continues on to a nave wall. This was designed to show the congregation the fires of Hell, and it includes three figures being boiled alive in a cauldron. Other paintings illustrate St Christopher, the Ascension, The Quick and The Dead, and the Weighing of Souls. These were uncovered in the nineteenth century having been painted over in earlier centuries when such things were frowned upon.

Fascinating though the painting are, the thing that caught my eye was the door inside the south porch. It was made and placed in its doorway in the early 1300s, and has remained there ever since, opening and closing as successive generations of villagers have entered and left the church. It bears the marks of centuries of nails and tacks where priests and parish clerks have fixed notices to its thick oak planks. The "C" shaped hinges and the decorative iron lobes and tendrils are rusted, with parts missing, but they still hold it together as they did on the day it was first fixed in place. I find it remarkable, and quite humbling, to see an artefact such as this, the subject of care and sensitive restoration for the past 700 years, still in situ and still giving good service. As I studied this venerable object I became aware of carved graffiti on the inner walls of the porch on each side of the door. The oldest date I could find was evidently made by "WS" in 1614. There were many dates from the 1700s, and the latest appeared to be from the 1970s. Later, as I looked at the eighteenth century slate and stone gravestones in the churchyard I wondered if any of these departed, eulogised by those who erected their memorials, were those who had left evidence of their youthful indiscretions carved inside the porch!

photograph & text (c) T. Boughen

(Doorway)
Camera: Olympus E510
Mode: Aperture Priority
Focal Length: 12mm macro (24mm/35mm equiv.)
F No: f8
Shutter Speed: 1/60
ISO: 100
Exposure Compensation: -0.7 EV
Image Stabilisation: On

Curls and curves

click photo to enlarge

I was reading the other week about back pain. I'm a tall man, and like many tall people I experience back pain periodically. I used to think it was due to the increased leverage that is associated with height. However, the writer of the article blamed it on the western penchant for sitting on chairs. She maintained that people from cultures where sitting on the floor is the norm suffer less back pain. She also observed that most chairs seemed to have been conceived with little regard for the human anatomy! That reminded me of a quotation I used a while ago by the influential twentieth century German-American architect, Mies van der Rohe (1886-1969) : "A chair is a very difficult object. A skyscraper is almost easier. That is why Chippendale is famous."

Today I came upon a modern public bench in the centre of Heckington, Lincolnshire. Like many such benches in the UK it offered seating and a sculptural/artistic experience. And, in common with many other modern public benches, it was useless for sitting on! I imagine that it was commissioned by elected representatives or local government officers, and was designed by someone who saw the "public sculpture" part of the brief as more important than the "comfort for the public's backsides" section. So, it was interesting to look at, a good subject for a passing photographer, and a hopeless bench to rest on for all except those of a masochistic tendency. I've often wondered why, after centuries of refining the design and achieving the goal on many occasions, it's still possible to buy a teapot that doesn't pour properly. The same thought applies to benches. I've sat on many very comfortable designs, so why are we still creating examples that are uncomfortable? I suppose the answer is that where any artefact is designed to fulfil two purposes simultaneously, one becomes subservient to the other, and consequently the design often fails. Still, I mustn't complain - it offered me an interesting shot with curves and curls that the day's sun multiplied very nicely! The effect of the shadows reminded me of the ripples from multiple pebbles thrown into a pond.

photograph & text (c) T. Boughen

Camera: Olympus E510
Mode: Aperture Priority
Focal Length: 11mm macro (22mm/35mm equiv.)
F No: f8
Shutter Speed: 1/250
ISO: 100
Exposure Compensation: -0.7 EV
Image Stabilisation: Off

Leaves of spring

click photo to enlarge

In 1664, John Evelyn (1620-1706), the English gardener and writer, published "Silva, or A Discourse of Forest Trees". In this ground-breaking book, written to encourage the planting of trees to meet the ship-building needs of Britain's growing navy, he described the species found in the British Isles. He noted those that were native to the islands, and those that were introduced. One of the trees discussed by Evelyn is the sycamore, Acer pseudoplatanus. There were relatively few of these trees at that time, and he correctly described them as an introduced variety. No one can be sure who first brought the sycamore to Britain. Perhaps it was the Romans, or maybe it was later travellers bringing seeds or saplings from its native home in south and central Europe. Whoever it was, they are responsible for a tree that is now widespread, one of the commonest trees in many parts of the country.

Acers, confusingly also known as maples, are widely used as a source of wood for flooring, furniture and joinery. Its white, clean wood is almost odour-free making it useful for jobs associated with food. The sap from the Sugar Maple (Acer saccharum) is tapped and made into a highly prized syrup. In Britain, though foresters see the sycamore as useful, it is also invasive and subject to control in some areas. However, gardeners love the acer and many varieties are cultivated for their distinctive and attractive leaf colours seen in spring and autumn. In my garden two acers are currently spreading their leaves: one a copper colour, the other a bright lime green, though today's photograph shows an orange variety that I came upon early one evening in a nearby cemetery! The blue sky proved to be the ideal complementary colour for the attractive foliage, and the shadows cast by higher leaves on those lower down added a further layer of interest.

photograph & text (c) T. Boughen

Camera: Olympus E510
Mode: Aperture Priority
Focal Length: 38mm macro (76mm/35mm equiv.)
F No: f8
Shutter Speed: 1/400
ISO: 100
Exposure Compensation: -0.7 EV
Image Stabilisation: Off

English, not Latin!

click photo to enlarge

You say Digtalis, I say Foxglove, let's call the whole thing off! To paraphrase the song just a little! I don't know about you, but I much prefer English names to Latin names for plants. How much more evocative and interesting is the English name, Snapdragon, compared with the Latin Antirrhinum? Or Bluebell rather than Hyacinthoides non-scripta? Surely a Rosa canina by its English name, Dog Rose, smells as sweet?

I won't deny that there's a botanical case to be made for adopting Latin names under the Linnaean system to be specific, to prevent confusion, and to give each plant a name recognisable in all countries. However, there seems to be no good reason for the layman to be encouraged to use the scientific name rather than a country-specific common name as some writers and organisations propose. To do so is to deny the colour and history associated with the plant, and impoverishes our lives in a small way.

Today's photograph is of a Geranium (English name Cranesbill) or is it a Pelargonium? There has been some debate over the Latin name for this plant, with the latter winning out in most parts of the world and in recent years. However, for older folk Geranium clings on. This particular plant, described as Geranium "Vancouver Centennial" on its label, came into my house recently. I recognised it as a zonal Geranium, and was impressed by its strongly figured leaves. So I nipped a few to put together this jagged image. Unfortunately it reminds me of a bit of street graffiti!

photograph & text (c) T. Boughen

Camera: Olympus E510
Mode: Aperture Priority
Focal Length: 35mm macro (70mm/35mm equiv.)
F No: f16
Shutter Speed: 0.3
ISO: 100
Exposure Compensation: -0.3 EV
Image Stabilisation: Off

Myths, mirrors and ponds

click photo to enlarge

When, as a child, I first heard the Greek myth about Narcissus and Echo, I found it interesting but highly improbable! Was I really expected to believe that this thirsty young man was so vain that he wouldn't drink from the pond he knelt over for fear of spoiling his own reflection, and so died for want of water? Yeah right! As we might say today.

The other thought that it prompted was, "Who invented the first mirror?" If dark pools of water were the place where man first saw a reflected image of himself, who took this concept a step further and made a portable, solid mirror? Today, by the wonder that is Wikipedia we can read that polished obsidian (a naturally occurring volcanic glass) was used for this purpose in Anatolia (modern Turkey) in 6000 BC. Further, that the Mesopotamians had polished copper mirrors in 4000 BC. And that metal-coated glass mirrors are thought to have been invented in Sidon (modern Lebanon) in the first century AD. Thereafter developments in coating glass improved over the centuries until today's mirrors with coatings of aluminium or silver came into general use.

But, the ready availability of cheap, high quality mirrors hasn't banished the fascination we have with reflections in water. I think many people have garden ponds, not only for the animals, plants and the different surface they add to a plot, but for the reflections and quality of light that they bring. Ponds change character with the weather, season and time of day, just like the rest of the garden, and their reflections change too.

Today's photograph is of the pond in my garden. It shows the water lily leaves that have started to grow strongly and break through the surface of the water. It also shows the wind-disturbed reflection of a dark and broken sky shortly before a heavy shower disturbed the surface of the water. I thought it had a nice semi-abstract quality, and it was with the shapes, colours and tones in mind that I took the shot, not as a representation of lilies. I've taken shots of reflections here before, usually featuring a willow tree, but today the sky and the lilies seemed to offer something better.

photograph & text (c) T. Boughen

Camera: Olympus E510
Mode: Aperture Priority
Focal Length: 35mm macro (70mm/35mm equiv.)
F No: f16
Shutter Speed: 1/80
ISO: 100
Exposure Compensation: -0.7 EV
Image Stabilisation: On

Life's riches

click photo to enlarge

The other day I saw a pair of lapwings displaying above a field. I suppose they were nesting there, and as they performed their characteristic aerial acrobatics, all the while making their distinctive call, they looked like they were celebrating simply being alive. When I lived in Lancashire lapwings nested in the field behind my house, and across the nearby pastures and uplands. Such are the particular nesting requirements of lapwings, that where I live now, in Lincolnshire, I have to travel to the coastal salt-marsh and uncultivated land to see them. Or so I thought until, when cycling near home, I spotted this solitary pair over a ploughed area. I hope they are successful in their endeavours.

I've been interested in birds since I was ten or eleven years of age. It was my teachers at primary school who sparked my deep love of natural history. Each Friday we would walk into the countryside and be shown the trees, flowers, birds and any other wildlife that was at hand. We learned the names and something of the biology of these living things. That teaching stayed with me, and like the best teaching, spurred me to find out more for myself. It is no exaggeration to say that it enriched my life enormously. When I first became involved in education I was surprised at how little children knew of the wildlife around them, and I was thankful for the knowledge that my teachers had given to me all those years before. On one occasion I asked a group of ten year old children to write down for me all the flowers they knew by name. The only three wild flowers most could name were (perhaps unsurprisingly) the dandelion, daisy and buttercup. They knew more cultivated flowers, naming the daffodil first, followed by the poppy, the rose, and the tulip. Various other well known flowers made an appearance. I thought then, and I think now, that people who can't name, and don't know anything about the plants and animals around them miss so much. The simple act of going for a walk is much less interesting than it could be!

Today's photograph shows one of those more widely known flowers - the tulip. This one, that I photographed on a rainy afternoon, was past its best, its colours darkening prior to the petals falling off.

photograph & text (c) T. Boughen

Camera: Olympus E510
Mode: Aperture Priority
Focal Length: 35mm macro (70mm/35mm equiv.)
F No: f7.1
Shutter Speed: 1/100
ISO: 400
Exposure Compensation: -0.3 EV
Image Stabilisation: On

The broach spire

click photo to enlarge

When one considers the tools and technology available to the builders of medieval churches one can only be astonished at the wonderful structures that they managed to erect. Human muscle, wooden scaffolding, hemp ropes, steel tools and the secrets of the masonic crafts are responsible for buildings that amazed our forbears as they arose in the churchyard, and have the power to impress us still.

Gothic architecture developed over the centuries as masons and builders developed new ways of spanning ever larger spaces with ever smaller amounts of stone and wood. Windows increased in size and became filled with stone tracery as the dark churches of the twelfth century gradually evolved into the light, airy spaces of the fifteenth century. Ever larger buttresses were placed between windows allowing walls to be thinner, and the lateral forces of roofs to be supported, enabling naves to be wider to accommodate growing congregations. The ingenuity of those involved with such developments was remarkable, and as one builder introduced a new idea, so others took it up and introduced it into the building they were constructing.

This church at Frampton, Lincolnshire, is one of the first to use the thirteenth century technical innovation known as the broach spire. The broaches are the triangular shapes clasping the spire above the top corners of the tower. Their purpose is to enable the tapered octagon of the spire to fit onto the square top of the tower. It's a wonderfully elegant solution to the problem, produces very attractive spires, and enjoyed popularity for a hundred or so years. Here at Frampton (and also at Sleaford and North Rauceby, also in Lincolnshire) can be seen some of the first examples.

photograph & text (c) T. Boughen

Camera: Olympus E510
Mode: Aperture Priority
Focal Length: 11mm (22mm/35mm equiv.)
F No: f7.1
Shutter Speed: 1/640
ISO: 100
Exposure Compensation: -1.0 EV
Image Stabilisation: Off

Both sides of the hill

click photos to enlarge

I was driving through the rolling hills around Folkingham in Lincolnshire when the manicured, intensively farmed fields prompted me to look for some landscape images. There were rich colours and strong lines, and I wondered if I could make something of them. After a bit of searching I came upon a yellow oilseed rape field on a hillside. Some parts were yellow with flowers, but elsewhere the green leaves still predominated, and on the steeper slope, where the rape didn't grow as well, lines of brown soil showed through. These colours attracted me, especially against the blue and white of the sky. But what made me take the shot was a row of trees along the horizon that hadn't yet come into leaf. So I clicked away, then meandered on, not heading anywhere in particular, and turning up any road that took my fancy.

Soon I came to a flat area of pale stubble with a hedge, and beyond a field of green wheat with lines where a tractor had been spraying. With the sky above this presented three bands of colour. But once again it was a row of trees on the skyline that made me consider the shot. When I framed it a hare came bounding into the viewfinder. I pressed the shutter, and as I did so I felt a touch of sympathy tinged with admiration for this gentle animal. Here it was, an insignificant creature in a big landscape that is heavily controlled by man, finding food where it can, subject to regular disturbance by people and machinery, hunted with guns and dogs in winter, and yet still managing to eke out a life as its forebears had done for millennia.

When I got home and was processing the shots it dawned on me that the trees on the horizon were the same in each image: I'd captured them from opposite directions. I had been so engrossed in looking for photographs that I hadn't noticed I'd driven round to the other side of the hill! So, here they are, two shots of Eastern England's arable farmland, wonderfully productive of food, but not so good at growing wildlife.

photograph & text (c) T. Boughen

Camera: Olympus E510
Mode: Aperture Priority
Focal Length: 1st image: 84mm (168mm/35mm equiv.), 2nd image: 150mm (300mm/35mm equiv.)
F No: f7.1
Shutter Speed: 1st image: 1/1250, 2nd image: 1/320
ISO: 100
Exposure Compensation: 1st image: -0.3 EV, 2nd image: 0EV
Image Stabilisation: On

The House of Correction

click photo to enlarge

The village of Folkingham in Lincolnshire is known for its wide street flanked with broad grass verges and a wonderful collection of Georgian and later houses; for The Greyhound coaching inn (currently being converted into flats); for a church with one of the best towers in this part of the world; also a shop that sells chocolates of its own manufacture, and for the "House of Correction"!

That name conjures up all sorts of dark and fanciful images. One can imagine it being the title of a novel by Edgar Allen Poe, or some writer of more salacious tomes. Or perhaps a 1960s Hammer horror film starring Peter Cushing. But in fact it's just a rather grand early nineteenth century name for a local jail! The site where it can be found began life as an eleventh century Norman motte and bailey castle constructed of earth and timber. In 1312, Henry, Baron de Beaumont converted it into a moated stone structure with crenellations. However, by 1611 much of this had gone, and a jail had been built there. In 1808 this was replaced by a new building, and in 1825 a grand and forbidding entrance in the classical style was added. It housed the turnkey and the governor's horses and carriage. It also proclaimed its purpose to the world by having the words "House of Correction A.D. 1825" carved in bold Roman letters across its facade. During the years up to its closure in 1878 a treadmill, a whipping post, stocks and a hand crank were some of the instruments used on the inmates. When the gates closed for the last time the inner buildings were converted into ten dwellings which survived until demolition in 1955. Only the entrance of 1825 remained, and this is now owned by The Landmark Trust, an organisation that preserves redundant but significant buildings by converting them and renting them for short periods. The House of Correction now provides holiday accommodation for up to four people - something of a departure from its intended use!

I took liberties with the processing of my photograph of the building, and tried, by applying a sepia and blue split-toning effect, to turn it into an image of the place of pain and menace that it must once have been. Dante's gates of Hell had the words "Abandon hope all ye who enter here" inscribed upon them. That was the effect I was after!

photograph & text (c) T. Boughen

Camera: Olympus E510
Mode: Aperture Priority
Focal Length: 18mm (36mm/35mm equiv.)
F No: f7.1
Shutter Speed: 1/320
ISO: 100
Exposure Compensation: 0 EV
Image Stabilisation: Off

Cley next the Sea

click photo to enlarge

I read the other day that wheat accounts for a mere 13% of the price of a loaf of bread in the UK. Since the average loaf is currently £1.10, and bakers are agitating for super- markets to add a further 10p, perhaps increasing numbers of households will see the wisdom in baking their own "staff of life". The rise in the price of food across the world has already seen packets of vegetable seeds flying off the shelves in volumes not seen for many years as more British families turn to their garden rather than the store as the source of their greens. And, though one has to be concerned about the affordability of basic foodstuffs, the benefits to health, wealth, well-being and the environment that flow from making and growing more of our own food are to be welcomed.

Fifty years ago much more food was produced in the family kitchen and from the family garden or allotment. Back then it happened principally for reasons of economy, but taste, nutrient value, relaxation and exercise were also factors. Many families, including my own, have always baked bread and grown vegetables, but until recently, despite the proselytising of TV chefs and gardeners, it was a slowly dying practice. So, if it makes a comeback - for whatever reason - I say "Hooray!"

The image of this much photographed windmill at Cley next the Sea, Norfolk, prompted these thoughts. Its turning sails and grinding stones produced flour from the time of its construction in 1819 until its closure as a mill in 1921. I imagine most of its produce was sold in the immediate locality, and turned into bread and other delicacies in fireside ovens, ranges and cookers. Since the time the sails were stilled it has been a home and a bed and breakfast. Old photographs show the building reflected in the harbour with boats alongside. However, like the village of Cley (pronounced "Cly") the mill is no longer "next the Sea", due to land drainage and the silting up of the harbour. Today a walk of almost a mile is necessary to find the beach!

I took this shot of the marsh, mill and nearby cottages as the sun illuminated them against a dark and threatening sky.

photograph & text (c) T. Boughen

Camera: Olympus E510
Mode: Aperture Priority
Focal Length: 55mm (110mm/35mm equiv.)
F No: f7.1
Shutter Speed: 1/400
ISO: 100
Exposure Compensation: 0 EV
Image Stabilisation: On

Sunshine of Your Love

click photo to enlarge

When it comes to Eric Clapton I'm one of those who feel that he peaked in the four albums he made with Jack Bruce and Ginger Baker in the band, Cream. In my view very little of his earlier work with John Mayall or the Yardbirds, or his subsequent solo and guest work, approaches the sublime qualities found in songs like "White Room", "Strange Brew", "Sitting on Top of the World", or "Badge". Maybe I'm influenced by the total sound of that band, that comprised the very individual driving bass of Bruce, the virtuoso drumming of Baker, and Pete Brown's lyrics, as well as that stinging guitar of Eric Clapton. There are those who feel that there still isn't a better rock and blues guitarist, and I certainly admire the man's technical virtuosity. But for me, there is no longer the excitement, sound, and sheer "rightness" in his playing. Maybe it needs songs of the calibre of "Sunshine of Your Love" to make that happen again, and they don't come along very often.

That particular song came into my mind yesterday as I was out in the garden. Last year, I moved to a new house. I'd only been here a few weeks when I started to notice a male blackbird that sang a phrase identical to the first five notes of "Sunshine of Your Love". Really! I know it sounds unlikely but it's true! It was in the wrong key, but there was no mistaking it. When I pointed it out to my wife she recognised it immediately. Now I don't know if this bird was a Cream fan, or whether it had been listening at the window as someone played "Disraeli Gears", but it continued with the same riff for several weeks as we sat in the sun, pruned the shrubs or picked the fruit. Then I heard it no more. Maybe, I thought, a cat that's a fan of Jimmy Page's Led Zeppelin period got it. But probably the breeding season ended and the need or desire to sing passed. Well, the other day, as I was taking photographs of tulips in the garden I thought I heard it again. In fact I'm sure I did. Now, every time I go out into the garden I listen, hoping that the avian version of "It's getting near dawn..." will spiral down to me from the top of the cherry tree!

Today's photograph is one of the shots I took when I heard that "blast from the past". I placed my camera low down and took a shot upwards, towards the sun. I knew I'd get the tulips and the trees, and I wanted the sun as well, but it was a shot in hope rather than expectation. However, the composition, colour and sunburst came out better than I expected, so I post the result here today.

photograph & text (c) T. Boughen

Camera: Olympus E510
Mode: Aperture Priority
Focal Length: 18mm (36mm/35mm equiv.)
F No: f16
Shutter Speed: 1/640
ISO: 100
Exposure Compensation: 0 EV
Image Stabilisation: Off

Architecture and nature

click photo to enlarge

I have a particular fondness for architectural drawings, and my shelves hold a number of books showing wonderful examples. The original purpose of these drawings (and I'm not talking about technical plans and blueprints here) was to help the architect to visualise his building, and to show it to the client before it was built. All this can be done through computers today, but the art that they produce rarely has the qualities of pen, pencil, crayon or paint on paper.

When you look at architectural drawings from across the centuries you realise that the architectural skills of architects like Wren, Boulee, Adam, Street, Mackintosh, Voysey were complemented by stunning draughtsmanship. In the twentieth century the range of architectural drawings widened. The visionary Italian architect, Antonio Sant'Elia (1888-1916) drew his modernistic fantasies in stabbing black ink and pencil, showing acute angles and strong symmetry. Tony Garnier (1869-1948) represented his blocky suburban houses in pen and soft pencil set among stylized trees and relaxed people. Soft pencil was also used by Eliel Saarinen (1873-1950) for the wonderfully detailed aerial perspective of a school he designed in Michigan. And Rudolph Schindler's (1887-1953) Californian beach house, drawn in coloured crayon, sets its blocky shapes among outlined trees and planting. In fact, as you move through the twentieth century, looking at architects like Venturi, Lloyd-Wright and many others, you find the sharp shapes of modernism softened and broken in their drawings by the irregular outlines of trees and shrubs. It's as though they recognised that people don't want to live in an angular, urban environment without the softness of plants also being present. Either that, or they knew they couldn't sell their architectural visions if they were presented in the raw! Or perhaps they simply liked the art that comes from presenting hard geometric lines against soft, wilful nature.

I was reflecting on this as I prepared the photograph above. The irregular stems and flowers of these dried plants look like the pen-drawn trees of some architects' drawings. They have a slightly Art Nouveau-cum-Japanese quality that the conversion to high contrast black and white only serves to strengthen. There's maybe a bit Charles Rennie Mackintosh about them. Whatever it is, I liked their linear quaility, and placed them in front of paper against a window to achieve this effect.

photograph & text (c) T. Boughen

Camera: Olympus E510
Mode: Aperture Priority
Focal Length: 35mm (70mm/35mm equiv.)
F No: f16
Shutter Speed: 1/8
ISO: 100
Exposure Compensation: 0 EV
Image Stabilisation: Off

Minsters and monstrous packaging

click photo to enlarge

As I sat at my desk and processed this photograph of Southwell Minster, Nottingham- shire, I was surrounded by a pile of debris that made me despair. It was there because the other day I ordered a 4GB compact flash card online, and expected to receive just that. How naive I am!

The card came in the small, useful, protective, plastic case that will be familiar to anyone who uses these devices. That's what I expected. However, I also received:
- a small padded, zipped, nylon case with a keyring, packaged in a cellophane bag;
- a mini-CD with data recovery software (inside its own sleeve);
- a 24-page User Guide, in multiple languages with warranty details;
- three further pieces of card and paper that advertised the manufacturer's range of memory cards, urged me to buy Capture One Pro image processing software, and told me how to responsibly dispose of the card;
- a strong, sealed, moulded clear plastic package holding most of the above;
- a colourful box (with hidden security tag) holding everything.

Why the manufacturer thinks I need two containers for one card I really don't know. The sole effect of the recovery software was to make me wonder about the reliability of the product and the value of its lifetime guarantee! As for the card enclosures, whilst the warranty information is doubtless a legal requirement, the rest of it was of no use whatsoever: and a User Guide for a memory card is laughably pointless. The plastic package was of the sort penetrable only by a small nuclear device (or a very strong pair of scissors), and yes, once again I got scratched by the sharp edges as I fought my way into it. As I looked at the glossy box that contained all of the above I idly wondered how many memory cards it would hold. So I measured it. The answer is about 95! If they were in the small, useful cases it would still hold 32! Am I alone in thinking that the packaging a product has should have a teeny bit of correlation to the size of the object it holds? I imagine the producer of this device has an environmental policy that it proudly trumpets to shareholders and any member of the public that asks about such a thing. But it's not worth the paper it's written on if it sells its products in such an environmentally unsustainable way.

I gave another glance at the pile of rubbish on my desk as I processed my photograph and noticed on the box, under the name and logo, the company's slogan - "Store your world in ours". I reflected that therein lies the problem. There aren't multiple worlds, there's only one, and it's a world that we all share. The danger in being driven solely by your own view of the world, whether as a company or as an individual, is that you follow your own selfish interest, lose any sense of the absurd, forget the duty we owe to each other and the planet, and neglect the steps that are necessary to sustain us. Oh, and supply compact flash cards in a ludicrous amount of packaging!

photograph & text (c) T. Boughen

Camera: Olympus E510
Mode: Aperture Priority
Focal Length: 14mm (28mm/35mm equiv.)
F No: f7.1
Shutter Speed: 1/1000
ISO: 100
Exposure Compensation: -1.7 EV
Image Stabilisation: Off

Blurred reality

click photo to enlarge

The critic John Berger writes that the invention of the camera "showed that the notion of time passing was inseparable from the experience of the visual". In his view the invention and use of perspective in painting "proposed to the spectator that he was the unique centre of the world", but the camera demonstrated that there was no centre, and that "what you saw was relative to your position in time and space". He goes on to note that the invention of the camera changed the way men saw, and " the visible no longer presented itself to man in order to be seen", rather it being "in continual flux, became fugitive." Much late nineteenth century and twentieth century art is built on this idea.

I was reflecting on this during the processing of the photograph above. The outing on which it was taken included a visit to a gallery where I saw paintings of such depressing banality that you wondered whether the artist was familiar with any of the notable practitioners of the past two centuries. If he had been he surely couldn't have displayed his own work. My image shows the reflection of a railway bridge that crosses the River Witham near the Grand Sluice in Boston, Lincolnshire. The bold shapes and the clouded sky attracted my eye, and I decided to shoot it with a slow shutter speed to blur the water. The resulting image reminded me a little of the Abstract Expressionist paintings of Franz Kline that feature strong, dynamic and spontaneous shapes against lighter backgrounds. Whatever the association it's a strong contrast to the style (and inspiration) of my preceding two blog images!

photograph & text (c) T. Boughen

Camera: Olympus E510
Mode: Aperture Priority
Focal Length: 31mm (62mm/35mm equiv.)
F No: f9.0
Shutter Speed: 1/10
ISO: 100
Exposure Compensation: 0 EV
Image Stabilisation: Off

Tulipomania

click photo to enlarge

"Nobles, citizens, farmers, mechanics, seamen, footmen, maid servants, even chimney sweeps and old clothes women dabbled in tulips."
from "Memoirs of Extraordinary Popular Delusions and the Madness of Crowds" by Charles Mackay (1814-1889), Scottish poet, journalist and song-writer

The present turmoil in the financial markets demonstrates that mass delusion is a recurring feature of mankind. Today's fantasy infects not just financiers, bankers and politicians, but the general public, and hinges on the belief that we can lend and spend money that we don't possess without any adverse consequences ensuing. In his book of 1841, noted above, Charles Mackay wrote about a number of delusions of his day and earlier, including The Mississippi Scheme, The South Sea Bubble and Tulipomania. Looking at today's money markets and reading through Mackay's work one is reminded of the cynical saying about the value of history: "the one thing we learn from history is that we don't learn from history"!

Tulipomania centred around the growing of tulips in the United Provinces (now the Netherlands). This began following the introduction of the bulbs into the country from Turkey in 1593. Such was the interest in the bulbs that they became a coveted luxury item and status symbol. Exotic colours were bred and named after famous Dutch admirals. The price of bulbs rocketed. In 1635 40 bulbs sold for 100,000 florins: this at a time when a ton of butter cost only 100 florins. Individuals could make so much money through tulips that speculation began, with people selling contracts for bulbs not planted. Eventually the bubble burst and many were ruined. Tulipomania is widely thought to have precipitated the economic depression that affected the Low Countries in subsequent years. All this sounds very familiar in the light of the 1990s "dotcom" crash and the current falling house prices precipitated by reckless lending and borrowing.

Today's image is of some rather humble tulips that cost very little to buy and nurture. I intercepted them as they journeyed between my garden and the living room, and set the Wedgwood Queen's Ware vase up in front of a black background for a still life photograph. The trick in making tulips stand up (rather than flop as they are inclined to do) is to push a pin through each flower stalk. But I wanted them to arch a little, so these are pre-pin-prick tulips!

photograph & text (c) T. Boughen

Camera: Olympus E510
Mode: Aperture Priority
Focal Length: 35mm (70mm/35mm equiv.)
F No: f16.0
Shutter Speed: 1.6
ISO: 100
Exposure Compensation: -2.3 EV
Image Stabilisation: Off

A man-made view

click photo to enlarge

The distinction between "natural" and "man-made" is interesting because it implies that which is made by man is not natural. And yet many of the problems that mankind creates, it can be argued, come about because people see themselves as different from, and better than, nature. If mankind saw itself as part of the natural world, beholden to what it gives us, and responsible to it as well, then perhaps we might fit into our world a little better, rather than moulding it and destroying it to fit around us. Mankind's depredations often result in diminished biodiversity, though animals and plants are surprisingly good at adapting to the new landscapes that we create.

In fact, it's surprising how many who live in Europe have forgotten (or maybe never knew) just how little of our landscape is now "natural" in the sense of being unchanged by man. Take, for example, the English Lake District, a National Park revered by poets and everyman for its natural beauty. It's a fact that with the exception of a few of the highest summits and screes it looks very different from how it would look without the effects of sheep grazing, forestry, shooting, and tourism. The romantic, bare fells would soon disappear under scrub without farming and land management to keep them clear. Take too, the area of wetlands known as the Norfolk Broads. These lowland peat bogs, reed beds, lakes and rivers, now the playground of boat owners and bird watchers, and home to a remarkable variety of plant and animal life, look like a natural feature of East Anglia. And so they were thought to be until the 1960s. Then the botanist, Joyce Lambert, showed that they result from peat excavation, an activity that began with the Romans and continued and grew through the medieval period, until at one point Norwich Cathedral was extracting 320,000 tons a year!

The photograph above is a spring evening view of part of the northernmost area of water in the Broads, Horsey Mere. The water levels used to be controlled by the five-storey windpump built in 1912 (shown), but today electrical pumps do the job. This is another photograph where I seem to have been influenced by my interest in painting. The processing I've given the shot gives something of a seventeenth century Dutch painting look to the image, making it a man-made view in another sense too!

photograph & text (c) T. Boughen

Camera: Olympus E510
Mode: Aperture Priority
Focal Length: 22mm (44mm/35mm equiv.)
F No: f5.0
Shutter Speed: 1/125
ISO: 400
Exposure Compensation: -0.7 EV
Image Stabilisation: On

Through the lychgate

click photo to enlarge

The entrance to many English churchyards is through a roofed gateway, sometimes containing seats, called a lychgate. The word "lych" comes from the Anglo-Saxon, and is similar to the German "leiche" meaning "corpse". These charming structures are often of great antiquity - the oldest in England dates from the 1300s. It was at this covered gate that the priest would meet the party carrying the corpse at the start of a funeral. The body (and in later times the coffin) would be rested here as the service began, and then was placed on a wheeled bier for transport into the church.

Lychgates vary in construction: some are simple wooden structures with thatched or wood shingle roofs, others combine wood, slate (or tiles) and timber, and in upland areas examples can be found made entirely of the local stone. Today the funeral service usually begins at the church building, and the lychgate now serves simply as an entrance to the churchyard. However, enterprising parishes often fit a light on the structure to illuminate the way to the church porch in the evening and darker months, and a notice board is often fitted under cover advertising the events of church and village. In some villages the lychgate serves as the war memorial, and elsewhere they can be found with a donor's name inscribed.

The example in the photograph provides the entry to the churchyard of the medieval All Saints, Thornham, in Norfolk. Like many lychgates it provides an excellent frame for a photograph of the church itself. Here I've used high contrast black and white to emphasise the arches in the woodwork.

photograph & text (c) T. Boughen

Camera: Olympus E510
Mode: Aperture Priority
Focal Length: 11mm (22mm/35mm equiv.)
F No: f9.0
Shutter Speed: 1/250
ISO: 100
Exposure Compensation: -2.0 EV
Image Stabilisation: Off

Potatoes and salt

click photo to enlarge

The coastline of The Wash on England's east coast has moved over the centuries. And, as the sea level rose and fell, so the salt-makers who worked the salt-marshes around this great bay moved to ply their trade.

The earliest remains suggest that Iron Age man gathered sea salt from this region, and that subsequent Roman invaders carried on the extraction of this valuable commodity. Remains in the areas around Ingoldmells, Helpringham and Billingborough show that clay troughs and fire were used to extract the salt. The later Saxon and medieval "salterns" followed the retreating sea, and are closer to the present-day coast. Bicker Haven was lined with these sites. Here the salt was extracted from the mud of the salt-marsh since it had a higher saline content than the sea water. This involved moving and washing great quantities of mud which were then piled up in "spoil heaps" before the resulting brine was boiled. By the 1600s this activity and the exports it generated had stopped, superseded by sun-evaporated salt. As the sea retreated further, the salt-marshes of Bicker Haven and the surrounding Fens were drained and turned into productive farmland. However, the mounds left by the salt-makers remain today, shallow bumps in this dead flat landscape, clearly visible by their contour lines on today's 1:25,000 Ordnance Survey map.

Today's photograph isn't part of a Japanese karesansui garden, but shows a field of newly-planted potatoes near Bicker, the mounds of each row undulating over the ancient man-made hills of the medieval salt-industry. I was attracted by the intersecting patterns that the mechanical planter had made.

photograph & text (c) T. Boughen

Camera: Olympus E510
Mode: Aperture Priority
Focal Length: 150mm (300mm/35mm equiv.)
F No: f8.0
Shutter Speed: 1/250
ISO: 100
Exposure Compensation: -0.3 EV
Image Stabilisation: On

Not so common sense

click photo to enlarge

"Common sense is the collection of predjudices acquired by the age eighteen".
Albert Einstein (1879-1955), German-born theoretical physicist

Many would think Albert Einstein's view of what constitutes common sense somewhat jaundiced, but it clearly contains an element of truth. Perhaps the dictionary definition of "sound judgement not based on specialised knowledge" would receive more support. Common sense is a great quality, but it can often lead us astray, and is frequently enlisted by those wanting to cut through what they see as the obfuscation of deeper analysis.

In the debate over the environment, and in particular the production of greenhouse gases, common sense is used to support the growing of biofuels. It seems obvious that renewable sources must replace depleting oil, and will have less environmental impact. And yet, recent analysis by scientists from a range of disciplines suggest that the proposed cultivation of crops for fuel is often worse for the environment than fossil fuels. Similarly, the purchase by consumers of locally-sourced food is widely felt to be better for the environment, reducing the cost and pollution associated with transport. It just seems like common sense. Yet the production of green beans in Kenya, which are then flown to the UK, is found to be less environmentally damaging in all but the main months of the UK outdoor harvest. Apparently Kenyan beans are grown more organically, without the machinery and range of pesticides, herbicides and fertilizers that are used here. And, whereas the UK (and nearby mainland European growers) use heat to get early and late crops, in Kenya this isn't necessary. Research turns common-sense on its head.

I was thinking about these issues when I photographed this steam engine, 5224, a C.B. Collett design of 1924 on loan from the North Yorkshire Moors Railway, here at the preserved North Norfolk Railway line at Sheringham. I reflected on whether improvements to the coal-burning steam engine would ever make this type of propulsion compete economically and environmentally with diesel and electricity. Common sense tells me that it is unlikely, but then common sense sometimes proves to be nonsense!

photograph & text (c) T. Boughen

Camera: Olympus E510
Mode: Aperture Priority
Focal Length: 13mm (26mm/35mm equiv.)
F No: f8.0
Shutter Speed: 1/100
ISO: 100
Exposure Compensation: -1.0 EV
Image Stabilisation: On

The sailing barge

click photo to enlarge

"A sailing vessel is alive in a way that no ship with mechanical power ever be."
Aubrey de Selincourt (1894-1962), English writer, classical scholar and translator

The sight of a sailing ship, with its elegantly curved hull, tall masts and intricate rigging, never fails to stir the painter or the photographer. Its location on a lake or river, in a harbour or on the sea, only adds to the allure. The strong light, big sky, reflections, ripples and waves provide a setting that encourages display of the artist's skills. I've never quantified the imbalance between depictions of sailing ships and powered vessels, but surely it must be at least three to one in favour of the former?

And, thinking about it, the sailors who spend their spare time messing about in boats must favour wind over diesel as their motive power by that ratio or more. So it must be the appeal of sailing along driven by a breeze that prompted the construction of the sailing barge, "Juno", shown here moored at Blakeney, on the north Norfolk coast. At first glance it looks like a lovingly restored, orginal, shallow-draughted boat of the sort that used to ply the east coast, calling in at small havens and tidal creeks, during the nineteenth and early twentieth century. But no, this vessel with its steel hull and modern conveniences was built in 2000, and earns its keep through hire to tourists. However, none of that detracts from its elegant lines and the distinction that it brings to the channel of this coastal village, today a haunt of small-boat sailors and bird-watchers.

This is my attempt at composing a shot in the manner of a marine painter. I took advantage of the soft sky from which spots of rain were still falling, and in the processing I tried to emphasise the painterly qualities by bringing out the detail of the clouds, and muting the colours slightly.

photograph & text (c) T. Boughen

Camera: Olympus E510
Mode: Aperture Priority
Focal Length: 12mm (24mm/35mm equiv.)
F No: f7.1
Shutter Speed: 1/800
ISO: 100
Exposure Compensation: 0 EV
Image Stabilisation: Off

Pebbles paused

click photo to enlarge

"Listen! you hear the grating roar
Of pebbles which the waves draw back, and fling,
At their return, up the high strand,
Begin, and cease, and then again begin,
With tremulous cadence slow, and bring
The eternal note of sadness in."
from "Dover Beach", Matthew Arnold (1822-1888), English poet, writer and school inspector

Not Dover Beach, but Walcott beach, Norfolk. The shape of these pebbles shows that they have made many a "grating roar". However, their noise is now silenced, for the moment, jammed as they are in the gaps between the planks of a groyne. Yet, the next storm may well free them to continue their life of attrition, and their descent into sand.

When I was taking this photograph a couple of children were collecting pebbles in their small buckets. They scanned the beach carefully, selecting only those that appealed by colour, or banding, or distinctive shape. A man, presumably their father, was accompanying them, also intently selecting the pebbles that caught his eye. Perhaps they would be studied then returned to the beach. More likely they travelled home at the end of the afternoon and found a drier resting place decorating a garden, a backyard or a plant pot. Children are instinctively drawn to pebbles, finding the smooth shape and multi-colours attractive. Like flowers, sticks, insects and leaves a child sees them as abundant, attractive and hence, collectable. Interestingly, and almost uniquely, the childhood fascination with pebbles continues into adulthood, perhaps being driven by a primeval attraction based on a long-forgotten utility as well as their intrinsic beauty.

photograph & text (c) T. Boughen

Camera: Olympus E510
Mode: Aperture Priority
Focal Length: 45mm (90mm/35mm equiv.)
F No: f8.0
Shutter Speed: 1/250
ISO: 100
Exposure Compensation: -0.3 EV
Image Stabilisation: Off

To the ends of the earth

click photo to enlarge

Lincolnshire is the second largest English county (by area), encompassing that swathe of Eastern England between the Humber estuary and The Wash. The county has relatively little industry, no large cities, and only a short section of motorway. For many it is England's sparsely populated, sleepy backwater, and those who give it any thought at all think of it as flat and fecund. Both of these words have elements of truth: the Fens and the coastal areas are flat, but the Wolds and the hills of the Stone Belt are certainly not. And, whilst some of the most productive arable land in the country is to be found here, so too are marshes and pastures.

Consequently many are surprised to find that Lincolnshire produced more than its fair share of explorers who left the green fields and ancient churches of their home county to travel to the ends of the earth. Sir John Franklin (1786-1847), a Spilsby man, explored the Arctic and mapped two thirds of the northern coastline of North America. Matthew Flinders (1774-1814), who discovered and mapped much of Australia's coast was born in Donington. George Bass (1771-1803), who sailed with Flinders, mapped some of south Australia, and predicted the strait that separates that continent from Tasmania. Flinders named it the Bass Strait after his friend and companion who was christened in the church shown above.

This building of twelfth century foundation, is dedicated to St Denis, and is in the small, picturesque, "estate village" of Aswarby. George Bass was born on a nearby farm, and became a naval surgeon before undertaking his explorations. The church has a memorial and information about Bass, and an Australian flag hangs near the west end of the nave in memory of the village's famous son. I took this shot, one of several I have of this particularly lovely church and setting, on a late March morning when the light said spring, but the wind said winter's not quite gone!

photograph & text (c) T. Boughen

Camera: Olympus E510
Mode: Aperture Priority
Focal Length: 17mm (34mm/35mm equiv.)
F No: f6.3
Shutter Speed: 1/1000
ISO: 100
Exposure Compensation: -0.7 EV
Image Stabilisation: Off

Big hedge

click photo to enlarge

"Love thy neighbour, yet pull not down thy hedge", Old English Proverb

The saying above has a French version: "Hedges between keep friendships green", and both echo the oft-quoted, "Good fences make good neighbours". That being the case, what are we to make of the hedge shown in today's photograph? Its function doesn't appear to be to encourage a proper neighbourliness, so much as banish everyone and everything from sight. Looking at its height and undulations, "hedge" seems be a misnomer for this edifice constructed out of rows of yew trees grown closely together, and clipped as one structure when their foliage met.

It can be found in the grounds of Ayscoughee Hall, Spalding, Lincolnshire. This building, erected as a house in the early 1400s, and given to the town in the early 1900s, is now a museum with public gardens. However, the hedge must date from its time as a private residence. Research shows the yew trees date from successive plantings, the oldest probably being eighteenth century. It is cut in a way that is fairly common in the grounds of large English country houses (and churchyards), and fulfils the purpose of dividing up the gardens, screening one section from another, acting as a wind-break, and providing a mountainous backdrop against which plants can be displayed. Oh, and it offers gardeners a scary few weeks teetering thirty feet up on ladders as they give it the annual cut!

Impressed by the oddness of this living barrier I decided to show something of its scale by including two people sitting on one of the nearby benches.

photograph & text (c) T. Boughen

Camera: Olympus E510
Mode: Aperture Priority
Focal Length: 108mm (216mm/35mm equiv.)
F No: f8.0
Shutter Speed: 1/160
ISO: 100
Exposure Compensation: -0.3 EV
Image Stabilisation: On

Do it again

click photos to enlarge
The title of this blog post, inspired by one of the best Beach Boys songs, is about one of the pleasures of photography - revisiting the same subject and producing an image that is, in one or more ways, different from previous shots. There are many variations that the photographer can play on the same theme, but different time of day, season, weather, light, position, focal length and processing are the main variables. Manipulating these can provide stimulation for the mind and eye, and provide a useful and productive alternative to scouring the land for a different subject for each shot.

The mainly fourteenth and fifteenth century church of St Margaret at Quadring, Lincolnshire, has given me a number of images over the past several months, including the shot presented here that I took last October as the trees began to show the colours of autumn. With that photograph in mind, yesterday and today I braved the biting north wind and took more shots of the church, looking to capture the sharp spring light and the now bare trees. As I moved round the building framing shots from all points of the compass I came back to my favourite position for church photography - the view from the south east. What makes this aspect so satisfying is firstly the way the afternoon light models the structure, and secondly how it allows the inclusion of the principal elements of the building, which lead the eye to the usual (in England at least) west tower.

As I snapped away I decided to take a shot similar to that of last autumn, and tried to position myself - from memory - in the same location. I didn't do too badly, and again got the line of gravestones over to the right to give some balance to the shot. When I came to process the image I decided not to show the bluer light of spring that infused the view, but to convert it to a contrasty black and white. So, the variables here are season and processing, with a slightly different position and focal length. Which do you prefer? As for me, "God Only Knows"!

photographs & text (c) T. Boughen

Black & white image
Camera: Olympus E510
Mode: Aperture Priority
Focal Length: 11mm (22mm/35mm equiv.)
F No: f7.1
Shutter Speed: 1/800
ISO: 100
Exposure Compensation: -1.0 EV
Image Stabilisation: Off

Colour image
Camera: Olympus E510
Mode: Aperture Priority
Focal Length: 12mm (22mm/35mm equiv.)
F No: f6.3
Shutter Speed: 1/500
ISO: 100
Exposure Compensation: -0.3 EV
Image Stabilisation: Off

Looking up

click photo to enlarge

I've observed elsewhere in this blog that walking along looking up gives you a good picture of how a town or city centre looked in the past. The mania for modernising shop fronts usually means that the original architecture of a building remains only at the level of the first floor and above, the ground floor reflecting one of the fleeting fashions of the past twenty years or so applied with little respect for the rest of the facade.

Looking up can reveal exquisite terracotta ornament, brackets, consoles, cartouches, dated rain-water heads, Moderne windows, columns, capitals and more. It also lets you see the original compositional intention of the architect and the frequent emphasis on good proportion that underpins much eighteenth and some nineteenth century building.

That being the case, you may wonder why I've chosen this boring building with which to make my case, a nineteenth century structure on the High Street at Boston, Lincolnshire. The ground floor is a shop, and probably always was. However, I can't for one moment imagine that the flat fascia, spindly glazing bars, large sheets of glass, and clumsy white rendering were part of the original frontage. This insubstantial composition that looks ready to collapse at any moment under the weight of the bricks above, would have had heavier components, and would have been composed in a way that linked more strongly with the first and second floor windows. Those windows still use the eighteenth century (and Renaissance) idea of large fenestration at the piano nobile level, with smaller windows "closing" the facade above. And that is where the interest lies when looking up at this point on this street: you see a good compositional idea based on the importance of proportion, that was widespread a century earlier, still being used, albeit in a debased way, providing continuity between the building styles of two distinct periods.

I photographed this particular building not only for the reasons noted above, but because it is nicely separated from its neighbours, and for the small, ragged cloud drifting by, an interesting insubstantial counterpoint to the dead weight of brick on brick below.

photograph & text (c) T. Boughen

Camera: Olympus E510
Mode: Aperture Priority
Focal Length: 11mm (22mm/35mm equiv.)
F No: f7.1
Shutter Speed: 1/320
ISO: 100
Exposure Compensation: -0.7 EV
Image Stabilisation: On

A different kind of vandal?

click photo to enlarge

The other day I paid my £2.50 to climb just over half-way up the 272 feet high tower of the church of St Botolph in Boston, Lincolnshire. As I puffed and panted up the dark, narrow, spiral staircases I couldn't help but notice the graffiti that generations of visitors had left on the walls.

The most recent were of the "Marky woz ere 22-10-07" variety, or were protestations of undying love, written in text-speak with either a pen or scratched on the surface of the stone. There were also many examples from the twentieth century, and nineteenth century examples weren't difficult to find. But, when I ducked under an arch-cum-doorway that went through a corner buttress, I came upon this interesting group. At the bottom is the date 167?, the last digit being indecipherable due to erosion. Above is the name W. Lisons, another W (to make it symmetrical?) and the date 1753. Then there are further letters (I and S), with a star, that also look eighteenth century, and a mixture of other letters and marks of more recent origin.

As I gazed at them I reflected on why someone would write their name with a hammer and chisel on this ancient building, high above the town. Then it struck me that back then pens were neither as portable nor as permanent as today's, and aerosol cans weren't even a figment of someone's imagination. So I suppose that if you were looking for a bit of fame, notoriety, or even immortality (of sorts), then this might seem the way to achieve it at very little cost. It occurred to me that today's spray painters with their "tags", bubble writing and stencils, probably mark "their" territory from much the same motives. My final thought was that the graffiti that disfigures our present environment wouldn't be quite so ubiquitous if it had to be done with a hammer and chisel. Furthermore the noise as they chip-chipped the letters would make it so much easier to catch the miscreants, and Banksy's anonymity would be very short-lived!

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: 100
Exposure Compensation: -1.0 EV
Image Stabilisation: On