New look & Comments are back

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After almost 3 years of the "Minima" template I decided I'd have a change, and have moved to "Tic Tac Blue". I think I like it! :-)

I've also turned Comments back on. Let's hope the spammers have gone elsewhere. If they return I'll give Moderated Comments a try even though it's fairly unsatisfactory for readers (the comment is delayed until I've authorised it), and me (I have to check and authorise).

I'll leave the email address up for a while. Thank you to everyone who has taken the time and trouble to comment on the pictures or text by this method - your feedback is appreciated. However, from now on Comments is the preferred method. So, if you've got any observations to make about your visit to the blog let's hear them!

Regards, Tony

Here's a shot from my recent travels. This row of houses on Castle Street, Saffron Walden, in Essex, appealed not only for the variety of colours and the individuality of each building in the terrace, but also for the way it shows examples from the sixteenth, seventeenth, and maybe eighteenth, centuries. A walk up this hill is a real visual and architectural pleasure.

photograph & text (c) T. Boughen

Camera: Olympus E510
Mode: Aperture Priority
Focal Length: 40mm (80mm/35mm equiv.)
F No: f7.1
Shutter Speed: 1/400
ISO: 100
Exposure Compensation: -0.3 EV
Image Stabilisation: On

The Millennium Bridge, London

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The Millennium Bridge opened in June 2000. It crosses the River Thames between St Paul's Cathedral and Tate Modern, and was the first new bridge to span the river in the city since the opening of Tower Bridge in 1894.

The structure is a footbridge 325 metres long and 4 metres wide, with two "Y" shaped supports in the water. The designers, Arup, Foster and Partners, gave the bridge a low profile to improve the view, and the suspension design was unusual in having the main cables below the pedestrian deck. It was made to carry a load of 5,000 people, and on the day of opening registered a maximum of about 2,000 at any one time and a total of about 90,000 in the 24 hour period. Immediately it was used by the public this elegant bridge was found to have lateral movement (known as resonant structural response) caused by the interaction of pedestrian movement and bridge oscillation. The public liked the slightly unnerving effect and soon gave it the nickname of "The Wobbly Bridge"! However, it was fixed by fitting fluid-viscous dampers and tuned mass dampers to control the horizontal and vertical movement, and passage over it is now much less of a white-knuckle ride!

The Millennium Bridge has proved to be a very popular crossing point between Bankside (Tate Modern and The Globe Theatre) and the City in the area of St Paul's Cathedral. It's also become a great attraction to photographers. I've photographed it a number of times over the years, but on my most recent visit to the capital I thought I'd have a go at dusk to test the effectiveness of my camera's image stabilisation system and high ISOs. The first shot was taken later than the second at ISO 1600, and though it had visible noise cleaned up quite well, though not as effectively as the other image at ISO 800. Both shots were hand-held at 1/5 second, and whilst at 100% viewing are not as sharp as if they'd been shot at a more reasonable speed, or with a tripod, both look like they'll produce an acceptable print up to 10X8 or maybe 12X8 inches, though the lower ISO image with more detail.

photographs & text (c) T. Boughen

Top Image
Camera: Olympus E510
Mode: Aperture Priority
Focal Length: 42mm (84mm/35mm equiv.)
F No: f5.6
Shutter Speed: 1/5
ISO: 1600
Exposure Compensation: -1.3 EV
Image Stabilisation: On

Bottom Image
Camera: Olympus E510
Mode: Aperture Priority
Focal Length: 22mm (44mm/35mm equiv.)
F No: f3.5
Shutter Speed: 1/5
ISO: 800
Exposure Compensation: -1.3 EV
Image Stabilisation: On

The Grey Heron

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The poor old grey heron (Ardea cinerea) has long been the object of man's desire and abuse. The lake dwellers of Gastonbury hunted them for food 2,000 years ago with slings. Medieval man did the same but with longbow, cross-bow, nets and traps, and no royal banquet was complete without several gracing the table. Such was the demand for the bird that in the time of Edward I (1239-1307) a heron, at 18 pence, cost more than any other wildfowl. John Swan in Speculum Mundi (1635) described "the heron or hernshaw" as great sport for the falconer though he did note that it could rise above the chasing bird and "with his dung he defileth the hawk, rotting and putrifying his feathers." In the nineteenth century the fashion for hats with feathers led to a desire for the long plumes that hang from its head, and many wildfowlers turned their punt guns on the bird. In the twentieth century the legal protection the heron received was often breached by irate fishermen who resented its competition for the content of their well-stocked fishing lakes. And, even today, when most people welcome the sight of this big, strikingly marked bird, there are those who see it principally as a thief that steals their carp from their garden ponds.

Today, however, the grey heron is doing well. Its population in the UK has probably doubled in the past 50 or 60 years. In 2003 the RSPB counted 10,320 nests in 782 heronries, so the actual population of birds must be well over double the number of nests (including non-breeding birds and missed sites). It is still mainly a bird of the countryside. However, significant numbers have always ventured into built-up areas to breed and feed. A notable heronry can be seen on an island in the lake at Stanley Park, Blackpool, surrounded by holiday-makers in rowing and motor boats, and the noise of a nearby road.

On a recent walk I came across this bird at Nelson Dock, a small piece of water adjoining the Thames and surrounded by a Hilton hotel and riverside flats, in Rotherhithe, London. The landscape architect had placed a stylized heron in the water to add interest to the scene, and it provided the perfect place for this passer-by, though a perch probably wasn't the use the sculptor had in mind. Incidentally, what is it about bird sculptures that lead birds to sit on them, and me to photograph them doing so? And why is the heron just about the only bird that I photograph? See here and here.

photograph & text (c) T. Boughen

Camera: Olympus E510
Mode: Aperture Priority
Focal Length: 150mm (300mm/35mm equiv.)
F No: f7.1
Shutter Speed: 1/250
ISO: 100
Exposure Compensation: -0.3 EV
Image Stabilisation: On

Last thoughts from Canary Wharf

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The British government is fond of saying that the present financial difficulties afflict all economies, that the problem is one of global dimensions and origins. However, the truth is that Britain's economic foundations were undermined in the 1980s by Margaret Thatcher's "Big Bang" policy that shattered the shackles that kept the City in check. Privatisations, demutualisations, complex financial instruments, ballooning salaries, the bonus culture, increased risk taking and the rest all flowed from the Conservative government's policies that were dreamed up by their friends in the City, often the very people who bank-rolled the party. So, whilst there is certainly an international element to our current problems, Britain also has a collection of very particular causes arising from the policies of our politicians.

That being so, you might think a Labour government that's not too far away from a general election would be keen to point this out to voters. Unfortunately it's an argument it can't use because to the dismay of its core supporters Labour did very little about Big Bang, continuing with deregulation and privatisation, and in the recently-returned Peter Mandelson's words were "intensely relaxed about people getting filthy rich." Successive Labour governments, like the Conservatives before them, now appear to have been relaxed to the point of being asleep, and didn't notice that the people who were getting "filthy rich" were doing so at the expense of the country's financial stability. Many people will lose their jobs, savings, houses and sanity as a result of all this. Will anyone be held to account?

The photograph above is the third from my recent walk on the south bank of the Thames across from the gleaming towers of Canary Wharf.

photograph & text (c) T. Boughen

Camera: Olympus E510
Mode: Aperture Priority
Focal Length: 13mm (26mm/35mm equiv.)
F No: f7.1
Shutter Speed: 1/1000
ISO: 100
Exposure Compensation: -2.3 EV
Image Stabilisation: On

More thoughts from Canary Wharf

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It's a platitude that the current financial meltdown flows from greed and short-termism. But, the poor oversight of those who run our banks and other financial institutions is a significant factor too. Directors, auditors, regulatory bodies and governments are all culpable. However, it seems to me that an unshakable belief in the free-market, and an ideological trust in its ability to correct itself are also to blame. It's been said by wiser people than me that the free market will always self-correct but the price of those corrections is too high, and it falls disproportionately on the little people. Recent events have proved this to be very true.

So, when (if?) we get out of this period of instability can we hope to see governments re-assuming some of the responsibilities that they abdicated in recent years? That the financial "masters of the universe" asked for, and got, "light touch regulation" and "self-regulation" was always, to those of my way of thinking, scandalous. To see politicians of the right agreeing to this was fairly unremarkable. But that supposed left-leaning governments should go along with it, and accede to further "freedoms", was unforgivable. Now, however, the very organisations that saw the state as an interference, nationalised bodies as inefficient, and politicians as irrelevant to their pursuit of lucre, have the begging bowls extended for government hand-outs, and politicians have re-discovered the virtues of national control and even (whisper it quietly for they don't want to acknowledge it) nationalisation.

It's a matter of regret that the Labour government of the UK has been forced into state intervention by circumstances rather than political conviction. Is it too much to hope that, having got a taste for it, and seeing at first hand the benefits that can ensue, it might look at other disfunctional areas of the economy, such as the supply of energy, water, public transport and telecommunications, and conclude that it can do a better job than the private sector?

Today's photograph was taken on the same walk as yesterday's shot. The street lights along the Thames-side path offered some interesting shapes to silhouette against the distant, fog-shrouded towers of Canary Wharf.

photograph & text (c) T. Boughen

Camera: Olympus E510
Mode: Aperture Priority
Focal Length: 53mm (106mm/35mm equiv.)
F No: f7.1
Shutter Speed: 1/2500
ISO: 100
Exposure Compensation: -1.0 EV
Image Stabilisation: On

Canary Wharf thoughts

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The fog that enveloped London early yesterday morning was the precursor to a beautiful, uplifting, sunny day with an unseasonal maximum temperature of 23° Celsius. But, as I walked along the south bank of the river at Rotherhithe, and the towers of Canary Wharf loomed up out of the mist, my mind was filled with darker thoughts. Along with the City of London, these buildings are the country's financial powerhouse - Citicorp, HSBC, Barclays, Lehman Brothers and others have their headquarters at Canary Wharf. Looking at them I couldn't help but see the fog that surrounded the towers, a fog that had swept in and enveloped them, but also was of their own making from their heating plants, as a metaphor for the financial turmoil that surrounds and penetrates most of these institutions.

However, my mind only allowed these thoughts to last for a moment, because the way the sunlight was falling on the buildings, turning them into amorphous masses, casting deep shadows that contrasted with the illuminated particles of water that filled the air, caused the name Hugh Ferris to surface in my consciousness. Among American architectural draughtsmen of the twentieth century Hugh Ferris (1889-1962) stands supreme. His charcoal, pencil and crayon perspectives of imagined and actual skyscrapers created romantic, almost Piranesian views, featuring towering mass, deep shadows, converging verticals, and the multiple step-backs of the early buildings. Ferris clearly saw drama, poetry and a vision of the future in the skyscrapers that were springing up in New York and Chicago.

Had the morning been clear and sunny I'd have looked at Canary Wharf and seen the buildings of organizations that once revelled in their omnipotence and omniscience but now crave state hand-outs. But the fog and the light allowed me to forget the troubles of the world for a while, and see it through the eyes of a visionary draughtsman. For that I was grateful.

photograph & text (c) T. Boughen

Camera: Olympus E510
Mode: Aperture Priority
Focal Length: 24mm (48mm/35mm equiv.)
F No: f7.1
Shutter Speed: 1/2500
ISO: 100
Exposure Compensation: -1.7 EV
Image Stabilisation: On

Harvest festival flowers

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The Harvest Festival is a tradition that continues in most English primary (age 5-11) schools. It is essentially a church service redrawn for the school setting. In a typical Harvest Festival children present songs, poems, drama, readings and prayers on the theme of giving thanks for the harvest, and also on the associated season of autumn. Many schools ask parents to donate packaged and fresh food that is arranged as a display during the service. This food is then either collected by charities for distribution to those in need, given to elderly people living in the vicinity of the school, or distributed in some other way. It is a moment in the year when pupils, staff and parents pause to give thanks for all that they have, and share some of it with others.

In some ways this is quite anachronistic because the harvest, except for those in rural schools, is now quite a remote experience for most children. Churches carry on the tradition, and every year at this time decorate the nave, chancel, aisles, font and pulpit with flowers, wheat, berries, and collections of food for distribution. It is seen as an essential part of the church's annual cycle of worship and thanksgiving. In these days of failing banks and faltering economies brought on by "I want more" and "I want it now" attitudes, the theme of gratitude for what we have that pervades the Harvest Festival is a refreshing corrective to this modern mindset.

I noticed this vase of flowers and scattered rose hips on a stone bench in the porch of St Peter & St Paul, Osbournby, Lincolnshire, as I entered the church. The October sun was piercing the interior through the doorway and side windows, the shafts of light illuminating a dark corner, that the golden sunflowers and blue vase made even brighter. Someone had created this colourful arrangement as their contribution to the harvest decoration of the church, and it made a fine opening statement for the display that was inside.

photograph & text (c) T. Boughen

Camera: Olympus E510
Mode: Aperture Priority
Focal Length: 21mm (42mm/35mm equiv.)
F No: f7.1
Shutter Speed: 1/40
ISO: 100
Exposure Compensation: -1.3 EV
Image Stabilisation: On

Sunset transformations

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Here's a question for your consideration. How repugnant does a scene have to be before a sunset is unable to transform it into something beautiful? Leaving aside scenes of human suffering, what would be so awful that the descending orb and its associated colours, shades and silhouettes couldn't elevate it to something worth contemplating, something that lifted the spirits? The municipal tip? The local sewage plant? A petro-chemical works? How about a shopping mall with its acres of parked cars?

I really don't think that I can come up with anything that a sunset cannot improve to the point where we say, "that looks wonderful." Over the years I've taken my share of sunset photographs. Some have featured in this blog including a bicycle, roof tops and gulls, the River Thames in London, a Fleetwood lighthouse, a pier, a view under a pier, another view under a pier (!), people on the remains of a pier (!!). In fact, I've had something of a moratorium on sunset photographs in recent months because the last thing most people with an interest in photography need to see is another wretched sunset picture!

But, today the moratorium has been lifted. Today's post shows (I hope) the transformation that a sunset can work on that abomination, the electricity pylon. Now I know that some people like these structures. You don't believe me? Well have a look at The Pylon Appreciation Society's website! For me, however, these structures are far worse than wind farms for the effect that they have on the landscape, and though I have, on one occasion, produced an image in which they were the main subject, and another where they shared that billing, usually they are unwelcome interlopers into my photographs. Nevertheless, I put aside my feelings the other evening when I saw this line of them above the trees with the sun going down. The silhouettes that they made against the orange and gold sky, and the compositional balance they gave to the sun's disc made me see them, literally and figuratively, in a better light, so I framed them and pressed the shutter.

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: -2.0 EV
Image Stabilisation: On

Spectacular cirrus

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As my wife and I cycled past a wind farm the other morning we saw that the turbines were stationary. Well, almost, because we've discovered that the blades never quite stop rotating, though sometimes it's so slowly that it's hard to notice. We were out to find any dead and dried wayside plants that would be suitable for arranging in a vase. A virtually wind-free morning seemed a good time for the outing. I took a few shots of the turbines, some teasels, and other things that took my fancy. Then, our work done, we set off back home.

On the return journey I noticed that the wind speed had increased a little, and looking up I saw it had been stirring the high level clouds. In fact it had made an awe-inspiring arrangement of varied patterns. The best looking clouds were quite high in the sky, so I decided to photograph them along with the top of a single turbine. They are great examples of some of the forms that cirrus (Latin for curl, fringe or tuft) clouds can take. When I viewed the image on my computer I could see that some might think they are "Photoshopped" clouds, the result of my imaginings, or perhaps artful deformations of less spectacular formations. I can assure you they're not - in fact WYSIWIS (what you see is what I saw)! However, I did feel that traditional black and white with a digital equivalent of the old high contrast "red filter" would show them off to best effect, and to that small extent I have "enhanced" them. So here they are - one of nature's spectacles that quite made my morning!

photograph & text (c) T. Boughen

Camera: Olympus E510
Mode: Aperture Priority
Focal Length: 14mm (28mm/35mm equiv.)
F No: f7.1
Shutter Speed: 1/640
ISO: 100
Exposure Compensation: 0 EV
Image Stabilisation: On

Reflecting on Pinchbeck church

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The proposal for a 200 storey, 1,000 metres high tower in Dubai is just the latest manifestation of mankind's urge to construct tall towers. Building a single storey structure then extending laterally is obvious and easy, and was the way that early builders erected their dwellings. Vertical building, with storey on top of storey, is harder and more perilous. Only when building skills had reached a certain level could it be considered.

In the British Isles the 2,000 year old Iron Age brochs of Scotland are probably the oldest tall buildings. These circular towers with their ten feet thick, double-skin walls could reach a height of fifty feet and contain three floors. There is some debate over whether brochs were defensive, offensive or simply the elaborate homes of people of greater means and higher status. Whatever the reason for their construction they must have fulfilled one of the main purposes of most tall buildings - to impress those who gaze upon them.

The builders of medieval church towers were certainly aiming to impress the people who lived nearby and worshipped at the church. They were tangible reminders, often visible for many miles, of the power, presence and importance of the church, ever present fingers of stone pointing to the ultimate destination of those who embraced its teachings. There is also documentary evidence to show that these towers were sometimes deliberately designed to surpass the height, richness and beauty of towers in neighbouring parishes. How ironic that the sin of pride motivated the construction of some of our most beautiful church towers, and how like today's skyscraper race that has seen first the U.S.A. then Singapore, next China and now Dubai triumph in the contest to be tallest! However, the church tower did have a functional purpose - to raise the bell (or bells) high above the surrounding buildings and trees so that their call to worship could be heard over a wide area.

Of the six medieval churches that are strung along the A156 and B1356 from Donington to Spalding, the tower of St Mary at Pinchbeck (above) breaks the procession of attractive spires with its tall, crenellated tower that was built in the 1300s and 1400s. As Pevsner notes, it "suits the character of the building", which is large and ornate. My photograph was taken on a sunny, early October afternoon. It shows the tower from the west, framed by trees, some of which are shedding their leaves earlier than the others, a view I chose for the way it reduces a big, complex building to something simpler. Another of my shots of this church can be seen here.

photograph & text (c) T. Boughen

Camera: Olympus E510
Mode: Aperture Priority
Focal Length: 11mm (22mm/35mm equiv.)
F No: f7.1
Shutter Speed: 1/160
ISO: 100
Exposure Compensation: -0.3 EV
Image Stabilisation: On

Know your enemy

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I seem to have been afflicted by midges all my life. Wherever I've lived they have found me and bitten me! But, when I saw a late cloud of the little nuisances the other day, I realised I didn't know a great deal about them. So, in the spirit of "know your enemy" here, in no particular order, are some things I've found out!

• Midge is a generic term for a wide variety of small, two-winged flies
• "The Midge Forecast" provides daily and weekly forecasts of biting midges throughout Scotland
• In one midge study over 5 million were collected from an area of only two square metres
• It is only the female midge that bites
• Midges prefer dark colours over light colours
• Midges prefer a moving target
• Midges are attracted by carbon dioxide and the smells that it contains of the animal that produced it
• They can detect a suitable target from 200m distance
• Taking two dessert spoonfuls of vinegar, or eating raw garlic, taints perspiration and is said to deter midges
• If light levels fall below 260 Watts/sq.metre then midges start to bite
• Midges are estimated to cost the Scottish economy £280 million per year in lost tourist revenue

Now that the weather is getting colder midges are disappearing. However, a burst of sunshine on a recent warm evening brought the little blighters out for a farewell aerial dance at the field edge as we walked by. I paused only long enough to grab this picture!

photograph & text (c) T. Boughen

Camera: Olympus E510
Mode: Aperture Priority
Focal Length: 100mm (200mm/35mm equiv.)
F No: f5.6
Shutter Speed: 1/60
ISO: 100
Exposure Compensation: -0.3 EV
Image Stabilisation: On

Picturesque Derwent Water

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No one in the seventeenth century would have felt that a hot sunny day was best enjoyed outdoors. Nor would they have surveyed Derwent Water and its surrounding hills and mountains of the Lake District and described the scene as beautiful. In those times the heat of the sun was to be avoided. Charles II, who was raised in France (and so knew the heat of a continental summer) said that "he liked...that country best, which might be enjoyed the most hours of the day, and the most days of the year, which he was sure was to be done in England more than in any country whatsoever." Rugged landscape in the seventeenth century was "the blasted heath", "the waste", a place to be avoided, and not to be compared with the beauty of the cultivated lowlands.

The eighteenth century continued to hold the same views about hot sunshine, but, slowly the attitude towards mountainous and wild landscape changed. Anthony Ashley Cooper, John Dennis and Joseph Addison wrote about the agreeable, fearful pleasures that arose in crossing the Alps. Edmund Burke's philosophy took up this theme. The rise of the Picturesque was part of Romanticism's reaction against the quickening pace of science's uncovering of the mysteries of the natural world, and it gave a more formal structure to this way of looking at the world. It viewed the emotions stirred by untamed nature as instinctive, sublime, worthy, and as something to be actively sought. Writers, musicians and the visual arts fed on these new sensibilities. Highly influential was Thomas Gilpin's, "Observations of the River Wye, and Several Parts of South Wales, etc. Relative Chiefly to Picturesque Beauty; made in the Summer of the Year 1770", published in 1782. It urged people to stop dismissing the rugged landscape of the British Isles, and admire it according to the ideals he proposed. The ripples from Gilpin and the Picturesque spread through English painting, landscape gardening, poetry, and out into Europe and the United States.

Had he been born a hundred years earlier William Wordsworth would never have sat by the waterfall above Derwent Water and listened to the "roar that stuns the tremulous cliffs of high Lodor", or thought of moving to live at Grasmere, still less sought his inspiration in Lakeland's crags and peaks, or spent his last years at Rydal Mount. It was writers like Wordsworth and his friend, Coleridge, and painters like Richard Wilson, Cozens (father and son) and Francis Towne who also deserve our thanks for opening our eyes to the beauties of scenes like that shown in today's photograph.

photograph & text (c) T. Boughen

Camera: Olympus E510
Mode: Aperture Priority
Focal Length: 14mm (28mm/35mm equiv.)
F No: f6.3
Shutter Speed: 1/400
ISO: 100
Exposure Compensation: -0.3 EV
Image Stabilisation: On

Times of transition

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The seasons of spring and autumn are times of transition. In the case of spring, it's from the seeming death of winter to the bursting bounty of summer, whilst autumn takes us from leafy fullness back to the cold, bony hardness of winter. Birdwatchers prefer these seasons because migration is at its peak, and a greater variety of species can be seen. And, if you ask a photographer which is their favourite season the chances are that they too will vote for either spring or autumn. Why is that?

Well, photographer's aren't blind to the fresh, newness of spring, with its changing landscapes. But it's more than that which attracts them. The days' cold edge often makes the light sparklingly clear, the clouds are frequently at their most interesting, and the surface of the earth has a vivid greenness that just invites looking. Autumn, on the other hand, presents us with days that are misty and indistinct, making big shapes out of clusters of detail, throwing unlikely colours before us, and then surprising us with deep blue skies and dark shadows. The high sun of summer and the dull, flat light of winter can't compete with our seasons of transition.

I was thinking about this as I walked round my garden, looking at the fading plants. Round the pond the hostas were dying back, the tips of their limp leaves ragged and brown, the centres yellow, and the part near the stalk still fresh-looking green. The low afternoon sun was shining through some contorted leaves that had their edges faced skyward, so I got down on my stomach to take shots of these glowing surfaces with their emphasised veins.

photograph & text (c) T. Boughen

Camera: Olympus E510
Mode: Aperture Priority
Focal Length: 35mm macro (70mm/35mm equiv.)
F No: f8
Shutter Speed: 1/320
ISO: 200
Exposure Compensation: -1.0 EV
Image Stabilisation: On

South Kyme Tower

click photo to enlarge

As you drive across the flat, Fenland landscape near South Kyme, Lincolnshire, and see the white stone of Kyme Tower in the distance it looks much higher than its seventy seven feet. But then, as you get nearer to the building, it seems to shrink, and looks smaller and somewhat forlorn, standing alone among the grass and trees.

The tower was built between 1338 and 1381 by Sir Gilbert de Umfraville, and was part of a more extensive structure, most of which was apparently removed in the eighteenth century. It was never quite a castle, more a moated, fortified house. There is a suggestion that one or more other towers might have formed part of the building, but the truth is that no one really knows. What remains has four storeys, prominent string courses, battlements, and a projecting, slightly taller, square stair-turret. Pointed windows with single mullions and simple tracery heads are placed regularly around the tower. The ground floor is vaulted but no floors or ceilings survive above this level. However, records show that the second storey had a patterned floor and was called the Chequer Chamber. Lincolnshire is not particularly rich in medieval fortifications, having relatively few standing castles, and amongst them Kyme Tower is a bit of an oddity because fortified houses are more typically found in Northern England, particularly the Border counties, where the threat of the marauding Scots was very real. What was the particular menace that caused such a structure to be built on the Fens I wonder?

An eighteenth century farmhouse looks across at the tower, and a few hundred yards away, out of the village in the fields, is the remaining fragment of a priory of Augustinian canons. This was founded before 1169. As with many monastic buildings it was pulled down during the Dissolution (1536-1541). The west end of the south aisle, part of the nave and the south porch were allowed to remain and serve as the parish church. Major restoration work in 1888 gave the building a neater form and it continues in use today as the church of St Mary and All Saints.

photograph & text (c) T. Boughen

Camera: Olympus E510
Mode: Aperture Priority
Focal Length: 14mm (28mm/35mm equiv.)
F No: f7.1
Shutter Speed: 1/250
ISO: 100
Exposure Compensation: -1.7 EV
Image Stabilisation: On

Conventional wisdom

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You may have read a couple of weeks ago, the claim by the University of York's Peter Thompson that, contrary to popular belief, horizontally striped clothes are better at disguising excess weight than those with vertical stripes. To reach his conclusion he took 200 pairs of photographs of women in vertically striped and horizontally banded clothes, and asked viewers to decide which looked slimmer. By a margin of 6%, those wearing horizontal stripes were judged to appear more slender. To underpin his findings Thompson pointed out that the more beneficial effect of horizontal lines in clothing was first noted by the German physiologist, Hermann von Hemholtz, nearly a century and a half ago in his "Handbook of Physiological Optics", published in 1867.

This snippet of recent news came to mind as I was processing my image of the reflection of a footbridge in the stretch of water known as the Sleaford Navigation. I had deliberately composed the shot with the strong band of the footbridge going diagonally across the frame. The conventional wisdom about composition is that horizontal lines are stable, calm, and give a sense of space, and diagonals are dynamic, and give a greater feeling of energy. However, looking at my shot I didn't think that the diagonal had that effect at all. Maybe it's a consequence of the strong vertical counteracting the diagonal. It could be the almost moire pattern of the wire mesh reflections. Or perhaps it's the effect of the ripples breaking up and softening the straight edges that negates those lively qualities. On the other hand, it could be that, as with verticals and horizontals in clothing, the accepted view is wrong and diagonals really don't impart the qualities claimed for them. What do you think?

photograph & text (c) T. Boughen

Camera: Olympus E510
Mode: Aperture Priority
Focal Length: 98mm (196mm/35mm equiv.)
F No: f7.1
Shutter Speed: 1/50
ISO: 100
Exposure Compensation: 0 EV
Image Stabilisation: On

Eye See

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One of the pleasures of gardening is that you get to grips with nature. Growing plants for food and beauty is a marvellous pastime - but it's not for everybody. Only if you can come to terms with gardening's mixture of permanence and impermanence will it become a deeper obsession.

What do I mean by that? Well, in theory everything about a garden can be changed - the topography, trees, walls, ground cover - everything. But in practice there are are some things that you can't and don't change, or you change incrementally over a long period. The lie of your land is one such permanence, as are large trees, extensive walls, and big water features. But shrubs, flowers, vegetables and grass come and go with the seasons and according to the gardener's wishes. So too, by and large, does garden sculpture. In the average garden it tends to be small enough to move. But in larger gardens larger pieces are called for, and they become fairly permanent objects. That being so, you have to choose your sculptures carefully because if you decide you don't like them their removal requires a lot of work! Consequently, much large sculpture is fairly "safe", following traditional designs - classical figures, large urns, equestrian statues and the like. Large, challenging, or "odd" modern sculptures are much less common.

However, public or semi-public gardens like the 25 acres at Springfields Festival Gardens, Spalding, in Lincolnshire, can be bolder because they are enjoyed by streams of visitors rather than just an owner. Today's photograph shows part of The Sculpture Matrix designed by Chris Beardshaw. This uncompromisingly modernistic collection of big concrete rectangles, triangles and enclosures, painted purple and light blue, and pierced by horizontal and vertical slits, could only work in such a large area: it would overpower a smaller space. For me it's a sculpture that works in parts, but doesn't offer enough for its size. The detail I like best has this framed eye, inside an enclosure with shrubs, that can be glimpsed through the surrounding slits.

photograph & text (c) T. Boughen

Camera: Olympus E510
Mode: Aperture Priority
Focal Length: 22mm (44mm/35mm equiv.)
F No: f7.1
Shutter Speed: 1/17
ISO: 100
Exposure Compensation: -0.3 EV
Image Stabilisation: On

Chimneys and the picturesque

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This derelict Lincolnshire cottage has four chimney stacks, some of them leaning quite alarmingly. Four! That probably equates to an open fire in every room. It looks like a nineteenth century structure, so for much of its life coal and wood would have burned merrily in its fireplaces, offering the inhabitants visual cheer and limited warmth.

The earliest houses had a hole in the ceiling for smoke to exit, but as building skills developed a chimney to confine the smoke and make it leave the building in a controlled way became firstly desirable, then mandatory. Houses made of wood frequently had a chimney made of bricks or stone for safety reasons, and these can still be seen on such houses built during the fifteenth, sixteenth and seventeenth centuries. Fireplace and chimney breasts were often a focus for decoration - arches, pilasters, brackets and mythical figures are common, as are mantelpieces for the display of family artefacts. The chimney stack above the roofline was also often embellished too: a clay pot on a stepped brick cornice for the humble dwelling; spirals, castellation, and more for the well-to-do residence.

Today, ever fewer buildings have chimneys. Indeed the day is coming when new buildings will not require, or be permitted, a source of heat that requires combustion. Consequently chimneys will probably, in time, disappear and with them the focal point of the fireplace and the finial-like finish to the top of houses. Am I alone in thinking that the photograph above would be much less interesting, less picturesque, without the chimneys? Perhaps it's an age thing - maybe younger folk don't see things that way? However, I certainly wouldn't have photographed this scene had there been no chimneys on this building, regardless of the allure of the sun breaking through the cold, foggy, autumn morning.

photograph & text (c) T. Boughen

Camera: Olympus E510
Mode: Aperture Priority
Focal Length: 13mm (26mm/35mm equiv.)
F No: f7.1
Shutter Speed: 1/1000
ISO: 100
Exposure Compensation: -2.0 EV
Image Stabilisation: On

Ducks and terms of endearment

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Say "ducks" and the image that will pop into the head of most people is either the white "farmyard" variety or the mallard.

I don't think the white duck comes to mind because of its ubiquity: they're certainly not uncommon, but they're by no means the most widely seen duck. No, I have a feeling that the prevalence of this "type" in children's picture books is responsible for the association. We've all seen the illustrations of them waddling along, quite upright, snow white with orange legs and beaks, often wearing a bonnet or carrying a hand-bag!

The mallard (Anas platyrhynchos), the commonest wild duck, is the variety that we see the most. Despite being the quarry of wildfowlers, the species is happy to live both a wild life and in close proximity to man, being found in most built-up areas, on streams, rivers, ponds and lakes. It was probably always thus, because this species is, in fact, the ancestor of the domestic farmyard duck, of which the white variety is but one type. Furthermore, the wild mallard frequently inter-breeds with domestic ducks to produce birds that show characteristics of both parents. You can usually tell if a mallard forms part of the parentage because the colour of the wing speculum - it is dark blue, with white borders - often remains in the hybrid. If that characteristic has disappeared through successive inter-breedings, then the upcurled central tail feathers are the other indicator (on the male). So, that being the case, you'll know the breed and sex of the nearest bird in today's photograph despite the fact that it is a silhouette having been shot against the light, under a tree, by the edge of a stream!

But, I can't leave this subject without noting that in my county of recent residence, Lincolnshire, "ducks" (invariably the plural) is a widely used term of endearment, applied by women to strangers as well as friends. Go into a shop to buy a newspaper, and the assistant is very likely to say "thank you ducks" as you hand over the money. Where other counties might use "love", "chuck", "darling" or somesuch, Lincolnshire prefers "ducks"! Why is this? In the past (and still today to a more limited extent) the south of the county had industries based on the plentiful ducks of the extensive wetlands - pillow-making, eiderdowns, etc. Perhaps that accounts for it!

photograph & text (c) T. Boughen

Camera: Olympus E510
Mode: Aperture Priority
Focal Length: 150mm (300mm/35mm equiv.)
F No: f7.1
Shutter Speed: 1/160
ISO: 100
Exposure Compensation: 0 EV
Image Stabilisation: On

Pity the poor posterior

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Public seating is becoming a recurring theme in my images. I've captured a curved (seemingly never-ending) bench, a seat that rotates to keep the occupants out of the wind, and an example made of curls and swirls. All these structures have two features in common - they are interesting to look at (and therefore to photograph), and they're pretty awful to sit on. Today's photograph shows a further example that shares these qualities.

The seating, known as "The Sampler", is outside "The Hub", Britain's National Centre for Craft and Design, at Sleaford, Lincolnshire. The red and yellow seats are painted metal discs on short poles - no backrest, cold to the touch, and not made with the human anatomy in mind. The large black structure has a big, central, parasol-like, metal disc on a pole, with a couple arms that extend from it (some are out of shot), with circular black seats and tables(?) that are mounted on wheels. A big open square shape that can be fitted with a screen(!) is also part of the ensemble. The structure was originally designed to rotate so that anyone who is foolish (or desperate) enough to sit on it could experience a different view should they so wish. However, it has now been fixed in place after boisterous local youths found it an exciting attraction. Perhaps they had read the views of a local spokesman who said “the piece is designed to be exciting and dynamic, and we hope it will become a focus for social as well as creative activity.”

There are many problems with this structure: the Arts Council funded price of £18,000 for a start; its design that manages to make something flimsy out of unyielding metal; the likelihood that it will never to be used with a screen and projected images; but most of all the fact that the designer created a structure that is best experienced not as you sit in comfort upon it, but as you gaze down at it from the balcony at the top of The Hub! The multiple black circles with the red and yellow highlights and the buff curve make a Miro-esque composition that must have looked great on his or her drawing board. However, one can only wish that as much thought had gone into its purpose as a place of repose as went into its function as a piece of eye-catching, multi-purpose street sculpture. It is clearly a form of public seating that follows the modern trend of trying to combine sculpture with a place to sit, and like other examples of the genre, sculpture has taken precedence over the provision of seating, with uncomfortable consequences for the public's posteriors!

photograph & text (c) T. Boughen

Camera: Olympus E510
Mode: Aperture Priority
Focal Length: 40mm (80mm/35mm equiv.)
F No: f7.1
Shutter Speed: 1/160
ISO: 100
Exposure Compensation: -0.3 EV
Image Stabilisation: On

The Lincolnshire Wolds

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England's "wolds" are to be found in Yorkshire (the Yorkshire Wolds), Lincolnshire (the Lincolnshire Wolds) and the Cotswolds (mainly Gloucestershire and Oxfordshire, but including parts of other adjacent counties). It seems that the word "wold" derives from "weald" - meaning woody country (as is the present Weald encompassing parts of of Hampshire, Surrey, Kent and Sussex), but came to mean, in areas farther north, an area of open hilly country on mainly chalk and limestone, with some sandstone.

The Lincolnshire Wolds and the Yorkshire Wolds are a line of low hills that are bisected by the River Humber. In Lincolnshire the highest point is only 551 feet (168 metres) above sea-level, near Normanby-le-Wold. Glaciation produced rounded hills and smooth-sided, though sometimes quite steep, valleys. A few of these have rivers and streams, but many are dry. The settlement pattern is one of fairly regularly spaced market towns that serve small villages and farms where the principal activity is agriculture. Cereals and root crops are grown extensively, with valley sides and fields near to farms often supporting cattle and sheep. These sometimes include the local breeds - the Lincoln Longwool sheep and the Lincoln Red cattle.

The area has a long history. Round and long barrows can be found on the hills, and deserted medieval villages are not unusual. Most villages have a church that is of medieval foundation, though some were "improved" in the Victorian period. It's a good area for both walking and cycling, which is just what I've been doing for the past few days! Oh, and being a designated Area of Outstanding Natural Beauty (AONB) it presents good opportunities for the photographer, so here's a landscape, showing the greens and browns of early autumn, on the low hills near the village of Tetford.

photograph & text (c) T. Boughen

Camera: Olympus E510
Mode: Aperture Priority
Focal Length: 50mm (100mm/35mm equiv.)
F No: f7.1
Shutter Speed: 1/1000
ISO: 100
Exposure Compensation: -0.7 EV
Image Stabilisation: On

Plane tree bark

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I remember reading a while ago that the reason antelopes have light coloured hair on the lower sides and underneath of their bodies is to better camouflage them by counteracting the effect of the shadow thrown by light coming from above. Thus, to a lion the antelope's body is less three-dimensional and therefore less visible. The writer noted that this kind of colouration is common across many mammal species, birds and fish. Whether evolution has caused these animals to develop like this to protect them from predators, or whether another reason is responsible for the phenomenon, I don't know, but the theory certainly sounds plausible.

And yet, if it were effective, wouldn't we see the principle being used in the camouflage paint schemes that are applied to tanks and other military vehicles? Military aircraft are often darker above and lighter below, but I imagine that is more to do with making them harder to see from above and below rather than from the side.

In fact, camouflage is an interesting science that has evolved over time. Take the battledress of infantry soldiers. It wasn't until the mid-nineteenth century that bright colours, designed to distinguish armies from each other stopped being used, and were replaced by "earth" colours intended to make the individuals less conspicuous. And not until the mid-twentieth century were khaki, lovat, green, field grey, white (in snow), etc. replaced by multicoloured patterns that sought to break up the outline of the wearer even more effectively. Today the early two-tone green and brown have given way to mottled effects of three or more "earth" colours whose shades and pattern are changed with the latitude and landscape in which an army is deployed.

I was reflecting on this as I photographed the bark of this plane tree (Platanus hispanica). The colours and shapes reminded me very much of modern battle-dress camouflage, and I wondered if the designers had been inspired by this tree that is found in many of our urban and suburban areas. The attractiveness of the bark is obvious, but military camouflage is quite seductive too otherwise it wouldn't have found its way into high street fashions! Incidentally, this is the second shot of plane tree bark that I have taken this year, though the previous tree was in another town altogether, and quite different.

photograph & text (c) T. Boughen

Camera: Olympus E510
Mode: Aperture Priority
Focal Length: 35mm macro (70mm/35mm equiv.)
F No: f7.1
Shutter Speed: 1/40
ISO: 100
Exposure Compensation: -0.7 EV
Image Stabilisation: On

Drystone walls

click photos to enlarge

Earlier this year I installed a gate that necessitated taking down a short section of stone wall in order to position one of the gateposts. The wall was completely covered in ivy and had probably been erected in the 1950s. Quite why part of the perimeter of my property comprises a stone wall is a bit of a puzzle since there is no naturally outcropping stone within 15 miles or so, and stone walls are rarely found in this part of Lincolnshire. Perhaps it is down to the whim or fancy of a previous owner who happened upon a quantity of stone.

However, the prospect of re-building the wall held no fears for me. I grew up the area of today's photographs, the Craven district of Yorkshire. I regularly walked its limestone hills, and, in my teens, learned something of how to build and repair a drystone wall of the type that characteristically form the field boundaries in this area. For a new section of wall, pegs and lines are placed to mark out the width and length, then the turf and soil are removed. Next, large base stones are laid to take the weight of the wall. Then each side is built, tapering inwards as it rises, with "fillings" of smaller stones placed in the centre space. One, or more often two, bands of "throughs" are laid one third and two thirds of the way up the wall. These are large stones that pass through the complete width of the wall and can project slightly at each side, holding it together and providing decorative bands. The course next to the topmost are the "coverhands", large flat stones that further tie the wall and prevent water ingress, with the final layer being the "topstones" that lay upright, at a slight angle, finishing the wall.

So, I imagine you are now picturing a perfect piece of drystone walling, with, as is traditional, no mortar used, looking the very picture of the waller's skill. Well, it's not quite like that! The stones were all quite small, and I had to break some of those to make them fit. I managed the base course using the biggest pieces, but didn't have enough of these for throughs or topstones, so the wall ended up a bit of a dog's dinner. I had to use some mortar at various points, and I encased all of it in wire mesh for the two-fold purpose of keeping it together, and encouraging the ivy to grow over it again to match the rest of the structure. It was good enough to get a few complimentary remarks from passers-by. However, if my aged drystone wall tutor of all those years ago could see it he'd be rolling his eyes and saying, "Ee, Tony lad, tha's niver goin' ter leave yon wall like that is ter? Tha'll ha ter tek the lot down and start agin! Come on, I'll gi thee a hand."

photograph & text (c) T. Boughen

Picture 1
Camera: Olympus E510
Mode: Aperture Priority
Focal Length: 79mm (158mm/35mm equiv.)
F No: f7.1
Shutter Speed: 1/500
ISO: 100
Exposure Compensation: -0.3 EV
Image Stabilisation: On

Picture 2
Camera: Olympus E510
Mode: Aperture Priority
Focal Length: 11mm (22mm/35mm equiv.)
F No: f10
Shutter Speed: 1/125
ISO: 100
Exposure Compensation: -0.7 EV
Image Stabilisation: On

If it ain't broken...

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This blog has a Site Meter hit counter. It tells me how many visitors I have, what they look at, where they come from, any search term they used in arriving here, and much more, though nothing, I hasten to add, that can be tracked to an individual. Over the past two days Site Meter "updated" this counter, incorporated flash, and made a useful tool virtually useless! Features that I used regularly became unavailable, or only accessible by multiple clicks, new features were not what I needed, and the whole process became painfully slow. I looked on the internet to see if others felt the same as I did, and the "noise" around this change showed that they clearly did. So, hearing this, Site Meter immediately posted a notice saying they would roll back to the original offering, and followed up by saying any further changes would be fully beta tested and incremental. In fact, having fouled up, their behaviour was then exemplary: to their credit Site Meter listened to their customers and within 12 hours we had the hit counter back to its old, useful, self.

I wish the BBC TV weather forecasters would learn from Site Meter. A few years ago they introduced a new "chart" that the camera swoops over whilst the presenter prattles on, telling us what we can already see from the animated weather on the screen. The overview of the weather should be presented with stationary graphics, and doesn't need any talk at all. But now a simple summary takes a couple of minutes as we lurch from region to region. People are mainly interested in what's going to happen in their area or the place they are to visit, and don't want to know about the rest of the country. But, the software has other ideas, and the forecasters are dictated to by its features, rather than using it to illustrate what they want to say. Because of this we don't routinely get a forecast for 12 and 24 hours ahead - there isn't time! Moreover, the animations have a spurious accuracy, suggesting that patches of rain and cloud will affect very specific areas across the country for carefully measured amounts of time: they rarely do! Nonetheless, the precision of the display beguiles people into that belief. Then, later in the day anger and frustration set in when the weather proves to be different from that which was predicted. Consequently the forecasts are less useful than those which preceded them, and the new, all singing and dancing graphics are no improvement at all! However, contrition of the type shown by Site Meter is conspicuously absent at the BBC and they press on with their wretched "forecasts."

All of which has very little to do with my photograph of a traction engine driver at the Bicker Steam Threshing weekend. Except that he knows what Site Meter and the BBC seemingly don't - namely, if something is working well, leave it alone. Or, as it is often phrased, "if it ain't broken, don't fix it!" Despite the smoke from the engine's funnel blowing all around him it was powering the threshing machine beautifully, leaving him the time to survey the people and activities around him from his high, warm vantage point.

photograph & text (c) T. Boughen

Camera: Olympus E510
Mode: Aperture Priority
Focal Length: 137mm (274mm/35mm equiv.)
F No: f7.1
Shutter Speed: 1/400
ISO: 100
Exposure Compensation: -0.7 EV
Image Stabilisation: On

Turbulent river

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I've said elsewhere in this blog that some subjects are best captured with video. Water is a case in point. The attraction of moving water lies in the eddies, swirls, undulations and waves, and in the way the light plays on the surface. Still cameras simply can't record the beauty of moving water. But that doesn't stop us still photographers from trying!

What we can do is use a fast shutter speed to freeze the movement of the water when, for example, it breaks over rocks, or when the crest of a wave is blown away by a strong wind, or as it slips like a glossy sheet over the lip of a waterfall. We can also select a slow shutter speed and record the scene with motion blur. Some photographers use a neutral density filter to get a speed sufficiently slow to make the water look like ice or fog. But a dark day, a small aperture and a low ISO will also do the trick, though with less blur. When we do this we allow the viewer to see that which the eye normally cannot, and in this respect, we produce images akin to those we make with a macro lens, which also reveals things we normally don't see.

My photograph shows the River Ribble in spate at Langcliffe, North Yorkshire, though it could have been taken on any fast moving, shallow, rocky river. Looking down from a bridge I selected a diagonal composition with undulating water and waves produced by barely covered stones, and used the "dark day" technique noted above. The highlights on the surface of the river have produced trails that give a sense of turbulent flow that a higher shutter speed wouldn't have done. I quite like the effect! You might like to compare it with a faster shutter speed used on a much slower moving river here.

photograph & text (c) T. Boughen

Camera: Olympus E510
Mode: Aperture Priority
Focal Length: 83mm (166mm/35mm equiv.)
F No: f10
Shutter Speed: 1/8
ISO: 100
Exposure Compensation: 0 EV
Image Stabilisation: On

Bigger toys

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"Little boys never grow up, they just get bigger toys!" Old saying, probably twentieth century

To pick up a theme from the previous post - what is it about men and forms of transport? Look at the attention that young men lavish on their cars - taking out perfectly good rear light clusters and replacing them with custom-made versions, fitting exhausts the width of land-drains, bolting on snowplough-like body kits, or installing "sound systems" that, if they're lucky, they'll live to regret as their ears degenerate due to the volume and insidious bass thumping. Or how about the the older blokes with their "Sunday cars" - the Mark 2 Cortina or 2.4 Jaguar that they couldn't afford when younger, but is now their "treat"? Others indulge themselves with shiny motorcycles, model railway layouts of various sizes or even full-size, canal barges, aircraft and the rest. And then there are the traction engine enthusiasts, people who spend their spare time lovingly restoring, operating, and showing a form of mobile power and transport that existed for a relatively short period of time in the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries!

I recently attended Bicker Steam Threshing weekend, a Lincolnshire village's fund raising event for its medieval church. The centre piece is the threshing of wheat by an old threshing machine that is powered by a different traction engine each day. Other activities take place over the weekend, but it is the gathering of several traction engines, veteran and vintage cars, motorcycles, steam organs, stationary engines, old tractors and even the odd military vehicle that seems to attract the crowds. And the biggest clusters of people are always found around the traction engines. The men (and the one or two women) that own and operate these venerable machines have an affection for their charges that is palpable. I suppose it is their functional solidity, simplicity, the relative ease of repair and refurbishment, as well as their sheer size, noise and presence that makes them the boys' (and girls') toys par excellence! And, of course, as well as powering a threshing machine, a circular saw or a steam organ, it's a simple matter to hitch up a trailer and give rides around the village, as in the photograph above. Long may they continue!

photograph & text (c) T. Boughen

Camera: Olympus E510
Mode: Aperture Priority
Focal Length: 79mm (158mm/35mm equiv.)
F No: f7.1
Shutter Speed: 1/160
ISO: 400
Exposure Compensation: -1.0 EV
Image Stabilisation: On

Jaguar

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The fascination that many men and some women have for expensive sports cars is lost on me. Where they see luxury I see inconvenience - how do you fit in people and a week's shopping? Where they see a driving experience I see danger and destruction - why do I need to accelerate from 0-60 mph in 6 seconds, all the while spewing out far more carbon dioxide than is necessary? Where, maybe, they see a car that tells the world about their character, and place in society, I see a car that says different things to different people - not all of them complimentary!

Now some sports car lovers reading these words will immediately brand me as a tree-hugging, envious, kill-joy. However, I've never hugged a tree in my life, though I have planted a few, and chopped down several! And I'm not envious of people who have these cars: when I've been searching for a vehicle I've passed them by and always settled on an economical hatchback or an estate car. As for being a kill-joy - well, read a few blog entries and make your own judgement. My objection to sports cars is similar to my problem with 4X4s - they are much less efficient at their primary task of transporting people and their stuff, on roads, from A to B, than standard hatchbacks and saloons. Furthermore, they are more dangerous than other cars - both to those using them, and to other road users. Put all that together, and you'll see why I don't share the fascination with these kinds of vehicles.

So why, I hear you say, have you photographed the emblem of a 2.4 litre Jaguar, a luxury sports saloon car that epitomises something you claim to dislike? Well, I'm not averse to a bit of interesting styling, and Jaguar have certainly come up with that over the years. However, it wasn't only the styling that caused me to take this photograph of the car as it was parked on display with several other older vehicles. What grabbed my photographer's eye was the delicious juxtaposition of that small dot of the bright red badge against the chrome, green, grey and blue of the car and stormy sky.

photograph & text (c) T. Boughen

Camera: Olympus E510
Mode: Aperture Priority
Focal Length: 22mm (44mm/35mm equiv.)
F No: f7.1
Shutter Speed: 1/125
ISO: 100
Exposure Compensation: -0.7 EV
Image Stabilisation: On

Tiles and styles

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

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

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

photograph & text (c) T. Boughen

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

An eponymous flower

click photo to enlarge

The other day I came across Stigler's Law of Eponymy. This was proposed in 1980 by Stephen Stigler, a US statistics professor, and can be summarised thus: "No scientific discovery is named after its original discoverer." So, apparently Halley's Comet was not discovered by Edmund Halley, nor was the Fibonacci Sequence discovered by Leonardo of Pisa (known as Fibonacci), and the attribution of Gresham's Law to Sir Thomas Gresham is for reasons other than the important part he played in its discovery.

What Stigler found that made him propose his "law" was that names are often attributed long after discoveries are first made, and they frequently refer to someone well-known, but not seminal, in the field. Interestingly Stigler's Law is self-referencing since he credits the sociologist, Robert K. Merton with first proposing the idea!

I was reflecting on this interesting, but obscure law as I photographed this orange dahlia. I remembered that dahlia was an eponym, being named after the Swedish botanist, Anders Dahl (1751-1789), a pupil of Linnaeus. Did he, I wondered, discover them, name them, breed them, popularise them - or what? How did his name come to be associated with the plant? It seems that this Central American flower, probably known to the Aztecs, was first described by a European, Francisco Hernandez, in Mexico in the late 1500s. However, it was not called "dahlia" until Antonio Jose Cavarilles of the Royal Gardens of Madrid named the plant after Anders Dahl some time after 1789. The Swedish botanist, as far as I can see, was being honored by having his name attached to the plant, but played no part at all in its discovery. Stigler's Law strikes again!

photograph & text (c) T. Boughen

Camera: Olympus E510
Mode: Aperture Priority
Focal Length: 35mm macro (70mm/35mm equiv.)
F No: f11
Shutter Speed: 1/15
ISO: 100
Exposure Compensation: -0.7 EV
Image Stabilisation: Off

Primary and secondary colours

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A tradition of English schooling is that, from the age of 11 children are taught in ability groups, but are also placed in "Houses". Typically, on entry to their particular form of secondary education, they are assigned to one of (usually) four houses in which they remain until the end of compulsory education. The houses are not selective, the aim being to have an approximate balance of boys and girls and abilities. These cohorts come into their own during sports day and other competitive events, form periods, and occasions when there is a requirement to subdivide pupils into mixed groups. It's interesting that a tradition that arose in public (i.e. private) schools where pupils did (and do) live in actual houses, should have been so warmly embraced by state schools.

I was first placed in a "house" in the junior years (age 7-11, Years 3-6 in modern parlance) of my primary education. It was called Penyghent House, and accompanied the three other houses of Ingleborough, Whernside, and Pendle - the "Three Peaks" of Yorkshire, and the nearby Lancashire summit, all of which were visible from where my Yorkshire school was located. For better recognition each house was linked to a colour - red, green, yellow and, in the case of Penyghent, blue. When I moved to secondary school, as luck would have it, I remained a blue, but was assigned to West House. You can guess the other houses and colours! It may be my school experience of these four colours as a group that leads me to use them still in that combination. Or perhaps wider society uses them whe there is a requirement for four colours. Whatever the reason, it wasn't until I'd rotated and tinted this photograph of a couple of pine cones four times that I realised I'd chosen those four colours once again. Though I hadn't placed them in the sequence that I always recall them i.e. red, blue, green and yellow!

photograph & text (c) T. Boughen

Camera: Olympus E510
Mode: Aperture Priority
Focal Length: 35mm macro (70mm/35mm equiv.)
F No: f7.1
Shutter Speed: 1.6 sec
ISO: 100
Exposure Compensation: -0.7 EV
Image Stabilisation: Off