Beer, beer, and a dubious decision
A Little Context, Dear Reader
Hello Dear Reader. The last articles you read were a chronicle of the 14th of July celebrations and various disasters with the seafood god — more about family life than pure photography, not that I’m a participant in any risqué photography, as I assume you already know.
Now, this might surprise you — given my reputation as a total abstainer — but even I enjoy a little “drinkie pooh” now and again. That lovely boy of mine asked if I could help him move out of his flat and come home. How could I ignore his pleas for assistance? I couldn’t. So I drove to the boy’s flat and helped him get the last of his “stuff” into the car. We tied his bed to the roof, and he suggested we go for a beer to celebrate his homecoming. What a gentleman, and an all-round good egg!
A Good Egg of a Son
That wonderful son of mine even paid for round one: two pints and one saucisson, which hit the spot. Round two was my turn, and we had the same. The outing was turning into a good night. Round three was even better. We stopped at round four — had to get the car home and all that.
When Good Sense Abandoned Us
It was round four when good sense abandoned us, and the silly ideas began. We were talking about the trip to Lourdes back in June. Wasn’t it lovely, and wouldn’t it be nice to do it again sometime?
“Yes, of course it would,” I said.
Big mistake.
He pulled out his phone.
Tapped.
Smiled.
“Sorted. I’ve booked an Airbnb for Friday night.”
That’s when I realised: we’d fucked up.
His enthusiasm is infectious. But this isn’t the kind of trip you plan at the end of a little outing. Still, he was tickled pink.
I had to explain it to his mother…
Delicate Ground, Ian… Delicate Ground
It was with a contrite heart and much pleading on my part that we managed to get permission from she who must be obeyed. Yes, I was a fool and an utter eejit, and why did I let him be so bloody stupid? Delicate ground, Ian, delicate ground… A father–son trip is fun, but it’s an easier sell when you volunteer to take child number two as well. Killian was fine with this, and it was agreed: I would take the children — Killian and Kate — to Lourdes, without wrecking the car (or even scratching it), and return with all of us in one piece.
The Photographer’s Twist
I wanted this summer to be about film photography — so the ME Super and the Nikon FE were coming with me. No instant feedback. No safety net. Just light, time, and a few rolls of HP5.
IJM Photography 
Well, when shooting film, one has to be patient and count on skill with some luck. More in the moment then with family, since you can’t check to see if mistakes were made. Film made people more confident and skilled shooters because you didn’t get immediate feedback. I occasionally chimp when shooting but in most cases to check the first shot or two if done in difficult lighting and to make certain focus is there. Then just concentrate on shooting.
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Yes, I completely agree about the delayed satisfaction—and honestly, as older photographers who cut our teeth on film, we didn’t experience that wait as frustration at all. For us, it wasn’t a burden; it was just part of the rhythm of the craft. Younger photographers today, raised on instant review and high success rates, might find the wait maddening, but for us, it was simply how it was. There was a kind of reverence in it.
Each press of the shutter felt more intentional—almost like a prayer. You had to trust your instincts, your camera’s metering (or learn when to override it), and your understanding of light. There was no instant feedback loop to lean on, so you developed a deeper relationship with your tools and your technique.
This past weekend, I spent time developing the films from my recent trip—just over a month after shooting them. I finished scanning the last roll yesterday, and going through the images was pure joy. The memories came flooding back, not just visually but emotionally. It was like reliving the moments all over again.
I was shooting HP5+ from Ilford, which was my go-to film for years. I knew how it would respond—the grain, the latitude, the way it handled shadows. Same with Kentmere 100: familiar, predictable in the best way. That knowledge—the muscle memory of exposure, development, and expectation—is something that only comes with time and practice.
And yes, there were mistakes. There always are. But mistakes were, and still are, part of the journey. We accepted them, learned from them, and moved on. A roll of film was never expected to be perfect—36 flawless shots was never the goal. It was about the journey toward the shot, the one that captured the feeling, the light, the moment.
Film teaches patience, humility, and presence. It’s not about volume or perfection. It’s about pursuit. And in that pursuit, you often find something far more meaningful than technical precision—you find truth.
In fact, I just shot my very last roll yesterday—it’s still fresh in the camera, waiting to be developed. There’s something almost ceremonial about it, knowing those images exist in latent form, captured but not yet seen. I’ll be processing it soon, then scanning each frame, and I can already feel the excitement building. It’s like standing at the edge of a memory, knowing that in a few days, I’ll step right back into those moments.
There’s no rush, though. Part of the joy is in the pause—the space between shooting and seeing. It gives the images time to breathe, and gives me time to remember not just what I saw, but how I felt when I pressed the shutter.
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