Author: Ian J Myers

I'm a half English, half Irish guy who has been in France for the last 30 years. I have a devouring passion for photography, be it digital or analogue. Photography is my escape, and what helps me feel whole. INFP

Clisson — A Guilty Pleasure

Posted on Posted in Camera reviews, photography philosophy, Reportage, Street Photography, Travel photographyTagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , Leave a comment

Gear: Canon EOS 6D Mark II | 16–35mm | 24–70mm | 70–300mm | CPL filter

A warm Wednesday in May. Clisson. Back in April I was here with the EOS 500 and wrote that I was missing the Canon 6D Mark II. Well.

I’ve been here before, of course. You don’t live in this part of France and not find yourself back in Clisson every so often. The medieval castle, the weirs, the old bridge with its stone cross, the Italian terraces creeping up the hillside. It has a slightly unreal quality, like someone has taken a corner of Tuscany and dropped it quietly into the Loire-Atlantique. The Sèvre Nantaise was running high and brown today — all that recent rain — which made the weirs more dramatic than usual, churning white water over the stone steps.

I came down through the town from the castle side. The bunting was up across the streets near the main square, yellow and red triangles strung between the buildings, flapping gently. A woman on a bicycle was navigating the cobblestones with considerable confidence. Two men were eating lunch outside on a terrace — “Bon appétit, messieurs” — and they looked up and smiled. These small things matter. The panama hat was on. I was in no hurry.

The juice bar near the bridge foot, Juste un Jus, had the castle tower rising directly behind it like a film set. I stood there for a moment with the 24–70mm and took the shot. Sometimes Clisson just hands you a composition.

Crossing the Pont Saint-Antoine, I stopped at the stone cross near the midpoint. It’s a modest thing really, weathered and lichen-covered, but the view it frames looking back toward the château is extraordinary. The cobblestones, the parapet, the ruined towers against the sky. I took several frames here and kept coming back to it. One of those spots where you don’t quite want to leave.

Below the bridge on the town side, a woman was standing at the water’s edge looking up at the arches. She wasn’t posing. She was just there, in her own thoughts, which made the photograph. Further along the bank, white calla lilies were growing wild in a tangle of green at the river’s edge, the old stone arch just visible beyond them. The 70–300mm earns its weight on a day like this.

The path along the Sèvre heading away from town is lush in May. The linden trees were in blossom, hanging overhead in the dappled shade. Yellow wildflowers were growing right down to the waterline, their stems reflected in the brown moving water. I don’t know the name of every plant I photograph. Sometimes it doesn’t matter.

On the way back through the streets I noticed a small yellow letterbox set into the wall. “POSTES — CLISSON.” It seemed like a reasonable way to end the afternoon.

On était bien là.

Article notes

On the Canon 6D Mark II in 2026: Yes, it was released in 2017. Yes, Canon has long since moved on to the EOS R series. No, I don’t particularly care.

I came to Clisson knowing this outing would feel different. I wanted to test that honestly: same town, same kind of light, a familiar subject, but a different tool. And it does get the job done. It gets the job done very well. But did I feel like I was cheating? In some respects, yes.

The 6D Mark II is in many ways point and shoot. The autofocus makes decisions quickly and accurately. The image stabilisation in the lenses gives you frames you would simply never achieve on film — handheld shots at slower shutter speeds that come out clean, details in low-contrast shade that hold together. You don’t have to count frames or worry about whether a scene is worth the cost of the shot. You can try things freely. And yet I was shooting mindfully, the same way I would with film. Pausing. Looking. Deciding before pressing the shutter rather than after. The camera was doing more of the mechanical work, but the intention was the same.

Which is where the imposter syndrome creeps in.

Do I deserve the results? The images are good because the light was good and the composition was considered and the 6D Mark II’s full-frame sensor handled everything it was asked to handle. But some small part of me wonders how much of that I can genuinely claim. With the EOS 500 you earn each frame by committing to it. You have thirty-six shots. No preview. No second chance. The discipline is built in. With digital, the discipline has to come from you, and it is easier to let it slip without noticing.

The 16–35mm was a deliberate experiment. I knew it would show me Clisson differently. Getting low near the castle, letting the wide end exaggerate the height of the towers, using the diagonal of the outer wall as a lead-in. That is something the EOS 500 and a fixed 24mm simply cannot do. I shot on aperture priority for most of the day, which kept me thinking about depth of field rather than handing everything over to the camera. It felt like the right balance: let the 6D Mark II handle the exposure arithmetic, but keep the creative decisions in hand. For the 70–300mm I switched to shutter priority. At that focal length you need to know the shutter speed is fast enough to keep things sharp, particularly with the river moving, people on the bridge, wildflowers shifting in any breeze. The compression and selective focus that lens gives you — the yellow wildflowers sharp against the blurred water behind them — only works if the shutter is doing its job. These are results I would never get on film. The workhorse earns its place.

The CPL filter helped throughout. It deepened that May sky, cut the glare off the weir, brought the riverbank green back from what the flat midday sun was trying to do to it. One of those practical things you stop noticing until you see what the images look like without one.

The colours are perhaps the starkest difference from film — and I should say, the most obvious one, given that the AGFA APX 100 I use in the EOS 500 is a black and white negative film. There is no colour to compare. The 6D Mark II gives you the full scene: the terracotta of the buildings, the vivid green of the May riverbank, the blue the CPL filter pulls out of the sky above the castle towers. AGFA APX 100 gives you grain, tone, contrast, texture. A different kind of truth about the same place. Neither is more correct. That is exactly why it is worth doing both.

Then there is the edit. The 16 images I kept were processed with minimal adjustment and a single Portra preset — a film emulation based on Kodak Portra colour negative film. Warm lifted shadows, a slight vignette, teal-shifted blues. The result is that these digital files, shot on a nine-year-old DSLR to see what digital could do that film cannot, have been processed to look as much like film as possible. I did not plan that irony. But there it is.

One concrete number from the day: 123 frames, 16 strong images. A 13% hit rate. On a roll of 36 with the EOS 500 I would expect to come back with 4 or 5 solid keepers — roughly the same proportion. The digital camera gave me more attempts, more flexibility, no cost per frame. The ratio stayed almost identical. That is either reassuring or unsettling depending on your mood. It suggests the extra frames didn’t make me careless. It also suggests that 36 frames of discipline might have found those 16 anyway.

But yes. Guilty pleasure. I know it is just a tool, and a good one. I know the results come from the eye as much as the camera. I know all the rational arguments. And I will keep making them to myself, probably for longer than I should, every time I reach for it instead of the film bag.

Previous Clisson outings: 7th April 2026 with the EOS 500 and 25th January 2026 with the Nikon FE.

Château de Clisson towers seen from below against deep blue May sky, Canon 6D Mark II 16-35mm CPL filter
Château de Clisson keep from the rocky base
Pont Saint-Antoine bridge and weir on the Sèvre Nantaise, Clisson town buildings beyond, Canon 6D Mark II 16-35mm
Pont Saint-Antoine Clisson from the stone riverbank, weir foreground and church tower beyond, Canon 6D Mark II 16-35mm Caption: Clisson from the bank
Two people sitting on stone bridge parapet in Clisson, backs to camera, green May trees beyond, Canon 6D Mark II 70-300mm
View along the Sèvre Nantaise from Pont Saint-Antoine, Clisson church tower and riverside houses in lush May green, Canon 6D Mark II
Stone cross on Pont Saint-Antoine with Château de Clisson in background, cobblestone bridge leading to medieval towers, Canon 6D Mark II 16-35mm
Juste un Jus juice bar in Clisson with medieval castle tower rising behind it, Canon 6D Mark II 24-70mm
Clisson street with yellow and red bunting, cyclist on cobblestones, terracotta building and mural, Canon 6D Mark II 16-35mm
Yellow POSTES letterbox set into dark green wall stamped CLISSON, Canon 6D Mark II 24-70mm Loire-Atlantique
White calla lilies growing wild at edge of Sèvre Nantaise, ivy-covered stone arch beyond, Clisson, Canon 6D Mark II 16-35mm
Linden tree blossom hanging over riverside path along the Sèvre Nantaise in May, Canon 6D Mark II 16-35mm Clisson
Yellow wildflowers sharp against blurred brown Sèvre Nantaise river, Canon 6D Mark II 70-300mm shutter priority, Clisson
Handwritten French rainbow quote on linen curtain in Clisson shop window, green shutters, Canon 6D Mark II 16-35mm
Old stone bridge arch covered in ivy and moss in soft May light, Sèvre Nantaise Clisson, Canon 6D Mark II 70-300mm
Stone bridge arch reflected in high brown Sèvre Nantaise water, lush green summer trees, Clisson, Canon 6D Mark II 70-300mm
Close-up of fern frond covered in orange spore clusters along Sèvre Nantaise riverside path, Clisson, Canon 6D Mark II 24-70mm Macro mode

La Rabatelière: Month of Our Lady

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Canon AE1 Program | Fomapan 100

If you’ve read the Lourdes articles, you’ll know that I have a particular devotion to Our Lady and to the sites of her apparitions. So when May 1st came around — the first day of the Month of Our Lady — it seemed only right to do something about it.

Out with the Canon AE1 Program, loaded with a roll of Fomapan 100. Destination: La Rabatelière, about twenty minutes from the house, and the Sanctuaire de la Salette.

I said my Rosary in the car on the way over. Stopped off at the Parish Church of Saint-Charles and said an extra decade. Well, it’s the Month of Mary. Start as you mean to go on.

The French say: En avril, ne te découvre pas d’un fil. Don’t shed a thread of clothing in April. It was May now and 26°c. The Panama hat was already feeling like too much. Shirt sleeves it was.

I’ve been to La Rabatelière before, about twenty years ago, but I hadn’t really taken it in properly. This time I wanted to do it right.

The Parish Church of Saint-Charles is where you begin. It was built in 1633, consecrated the following year on the feast of Saint Charles; that coincidence of date gave the church its name and its patron. A solid, unshowy building — what the heritage plaques call style bas-breton: a massive façade, plain and purposeful. Exactly the kind of church that says: we are here, and we intend to stay.

Except, of course, they tried to burn it down.

On 8 December 1793, during the War of the Vendée, Republican forces put the church to the torch. For those who don’t know the War of the Vendée: it was the uprising of the western provinces against the Revolution, and the Republic’s response was one of the darkest episodes in French history. The colonnes infernales — the Infernal Columns — swept through this region killing civilians, burning farms, destroying everything they found. Here in the Vendée, people carry a devoir de mémoire, a duty of remembrance. They do not forget.

The church was restored in 1802. A century later, Abbé Hillairet enlarged it; he added a transept to give it the shape of a Latin cross.

Then, in 1905, came the Law on the Separation of Church and State. All Church property was to be inventoried by the state. For a lot of French Catholics, this was not a bureaucratic inconvenience. It was another assault. The Revolution had burned the church down. Now the Republic wanted a list of everything inside it.

In February 1906, word went around La Rabatelière that the inspectors were coming. The parishioners didn’t wait. They dragged tree trunks in front of the doors. When the inspectors arrived, they found the church barricaded and the congregation inside with their priest, refusing to move.

It held. For a while.

On 23 November 1906, they came back with axes. The left side door — the one on the north side of the nave — was broken open. You can still see the marks. Deep ones. Not the kind of thing that weathers away or gets sanded smooth. They are still there because nobody has chosen to remove them. La porte des Inventaires. That is what the door has been called ever since. The Inventory Door. Not a nickname that flatters the Republic.

I stood in front of it and thought: a hundred and twenty years, and there are the marks. The Vendée does not forget. It does not perform forgetting either.

Before heading up the hill I walked through the cemetery, which the municipal council reorganised around 1970. Near the entrance sits a small millstone, on display. It was found in a tomb believed to belong to François Suire (1753-1794): a miller, killed by Republican soldiers during the War of the Vendée. Forty-one years old. Nobody famous. No monument beyond this stone. But there it is. Still there.

Near the central cross is the granite tomb of Abbé Elie Hillairet (1840-1908), the parish priest here from 1873 until his death. He is, as we’ll see, the man behind most of what you can still see in this village. It seems fitting that he is buried at the foot of his life’s work.

Then the climb.

The Sanctuaire de la Salette sits on a hillside above the Petite Maine river, and I can confirm: it is a bit hilly. There were signs for the handicapped route but I couldn’t make head nor tail of them. My legs were killing me by the time I reached the top.

For those who are less familiar with the apparitions of Our Lady: La Salette is one of the great Marian apparitions, confirmed by the Church in 1851. On 19 September 1846, on a mountainside near Corps in the French Alps, two young shepherds encountered a weeping woman seated on a stone. Her name: Mélanie Calvat, aged fourteen; and Maximin Giraud, aged eleven. The woman rose and spoke to them: about faith, about the breaking of Sunday rest, about blasphemy, about a people drifting from God. She gave each child a secret. Then she ascended into the light and was gone.

As apparitions go, La Salette has always struck me as a sorrowful one. Our Lady of Lourdes is serene; you see her in her grotto and feel peace. Our Lady of La Salette is weeping. She comes as a mother at the end of her patience, and her message is a warning. But it is still love. Only love would bother.

Hillairet understood this. He was curé here from 1873 to 1908, and he built this sanctuary as an act of deliberate faith during the most aggressively anticlerical period in French history. The Republic was dismantling the Church’s presence everywhere it could reach. Hillairet planted statues on a hillside.

Work began in 1887. Three groups of statues marking the three moments of the apparition were inaugurated the following summer. A Rosary monument came next. The path climbs to a tower: the Triumph of the Cross. At the summit, the Chapel of the Cross of Jerusalem, a square keep in local schist and brick, built in 1893. A Stations of the Cross path added along the hillside in 1902.

Standing up there, looking out over the valley, I thought about the miller buried down in the cemetery. And the axe marks in the church door. And Hillairet up here, building all of this in the teeth of a state that wanted nothing to do with it.

The Vendée has its wounds. It tends them carefully.

I am officially knackered. The Fomapan went through fine. The Panama hat stayed in the bag.

I drove home with the windows down, thinking that May 1st had been rather well spent.

All photographs shot on Fomapan 100, Canon AE1 Program. La Rabatelière, Vendée, May 2026.

Exterior façade of Saint-Charles church La Rabatelière Vendée, Canon AE1 Program Fomapan 100
Granite central cross with graves and tree line behind, La Rabatelière cemetery Vendée, Canon AE1 Program Fomapan 100
Axe-damaged Inventory Door with Merland coat of arms above arch, Saint-Charles church La Rabatelière, Fomapan 100
Chapel of Cross of Jerusalem with O Crux Ave 1893 inscription and turrets, La Rabatelière Vendée, Fomapan 100
Tiered Rosary monument with Our Lady statue atop against dark sky, La Salette sanctuary La Rabatelière, Fomapan 100
Our Lady standing with Mélanie and Maximin behind iron railings, La Salette sanctuary La Rabatelière, Fomapan 100
Triumph of Cross tower upper section with 1889 date, statues on parapet and cross against sky, La Rabatelière, Fomapan 100
Stone steps rising to La Salette sanctuary with Misericorde Priez sign on railing, La Rabatelière, Canon AE1 Program
Worn stone steps with iron railings ascending to La Salette sanctuary chapel behind, La Rabatelière, Canon AE1 Program
La Salette sanctuary complex: tower, chapel and Rosary monument, La Rabatelière
Dappled tree avenue in La Rabatelière cemetery with millstone of François Suire in middle distance, Fomapan 100
Hillside path with stone wall, eroded finial and Stations of the Cross above, La Salette La Rabatelière, Fomapan 100
Triumph of Cross tower from close below, cross at summit and statue on parapet, La Rabatelière Vendée, Canon AE1 Program
Full La Salette sanctuary with tower, ruined chapel arch and Rosary monument against grey sky, La Rabatelière, Fomapan 100
Narrow window slit in alternating schist and brick wall with raking sidelight, La Rabatelière Vendée, Canon AE1 Program
Triumph of Cross tower full height from across the lawn, cross at summit and figures at base, La Rabatelière, Fomapan 100

Olympus Trip 35 Review: Still Worth Shooting in 2026?

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SEO title: Olympus Trip 35 Review: Still Worth Shooting in 2026? Meta description: The Olympus Trip 35 is one of the most iconic film cameras ever made — compact, battery-free, and surprisingly capable. A hands-on review from someone who dusted theirs off after years on the shelf.

The Olympus Trip 35 is one of the most beloved film cameras ever made — compact enough to slip into a coat pocket, smart enough to handle exposure by itself, and sharp enough to make you wonder why you ever bothered with anything more complicated. Over ten million were made between 1967 and 1984, and they’re still being shot today for good reason. Here’s an honest look at what it’s actually like to use one.

The one that sat on the shelf

I’ll be straight with you, Dear Reader. My Trip 35 has been sitting on the shelf for longer than I’d care to admit. It’s one of those cameras that you pick up, think “I really must use this more,” and then put back down in favour of whichever camera is currently calling to you. In my case, that’s usually the Pentax ME Super or the Mamiya C220 — neither of which fits in a coat pocket, which is rather the point.

So on a Sunday morning in late April I loaded a roll of expired Ilford FP4 — 2013 vintage, shot at 64 ASA — and drove out towards Remouillé and Viellevigne. A route I used to cycle twenty years ago. Past the tree I was going to work on at Le Moulin du Patis, then a right towards La Planche, and eventually down to a fishing lake on the road back. I wanted reflections. Mostly I just needed to get out of the house.

The Trip 35 came with me. The X100F stayed in the bag.

What is the Olympus Trip 35?

The Trip 35 was designed to be the camera you take on holiday — hence the name. Launched in 1967, it was Olympus’s answer to a very simple question: what if a camera just worked, without you having to think too hard about it?

The answer was a 40mm f/2.8 D.Zuiko lens, a selenium cell light meter that requires absolutely no batteries, and a fully automatic exposure system that gives you one of two shutter speeds: 1/40s or 1/200s. That’s it. You focus using zone symbols on the lens barrel — a portrait head, a small group, a mountain — and the camera takes care of the rest.

If there isn’t enough light, a small red flag pops up in the viewfinder to warn you before you press the shutter. It won’t fire (well, it will, but on manual override). It’s the camera’s polite way of saying: not today.

The lens

The 40mm D.Zuiko is genuinely excellent. It’s sharp across the frame, renders colours beautifully, and gives you just enough field of view to be useful for street photography without feeling uncomfortably wide. It sits between the “classic” 35mm and 50mm focal lengths, which sounds like a compromise but in practice feels just right for everyday shooting.

David Bailey famously used a Trip 35 for his street work in the 1960s and ’70s, which tells you something about what the lens is capable of when you put it in the right hands. I make no such claims about my own hands, but the camera is certainly not the limiting factor.

Out in the field

I shot mostly on the mountain zone setting, occasionally dropping to the group symbol for closer subjects. The shutter feels dainty — that’s the only word for it — a light, almost apologetic click compared to the satisfying thunk of a proper SLR. The whole camera feels light. Absurdly light. After years of carrying the Mamiya C220, it’s almost disconcerting.

I could hear crows. The faint sound of distant cars. Sunlight on the lake, sparkling. I found myself thinking about a similar morning walking around a lake in China, and a series I shot in May on the X100F. Photography as therapy. Not portfolio shots — I knew that going in, and it didn’t matter. Sometimes you just need to vibe with the stillness.

The zone focus takes a moment to get used to if you’re coming from a camera with a proper rangefinder or autofocus, but once it’s in your muscle memory it’s actually faster than it sounds. Mountain for landscapes and the lake. Group for anything closer. The camera handles the rest.

The automatic exposure handles most situations well. Where it can struggle is in high-contrast scenes — bright sky, dark water — where any automatic system is going to make compromises. But for even light and open countryside, it’s excellent. You point, you shoot, you trust it.

The selenium meter: the thing to check before you buy

This is the practical bit. The Trip 35’s selenium meter requires no batteries, which is one of its great selling points. But selenium cells degrade over time, and a meter that worked perfectly in 1975 may not be accurate in 2026.

Before buying one, test the meter. Point the camera at a bright scene and check that the aperture ring moves in response to the light. If it doesn’t move, or moves sluggishly, the meter may be on its way out. A dead meter doesn’t make the camera useless — you can shoot on manual using the Sunny 16 rule — but it removes one of the Trip’s main advantages.

Good copies are still findable, but prices have risen considerably as film photography has grown in popularity. Based on current listings, budget €70–135 for a solid working copy — basic tested examples start around €60–80, while good condition cameras sit at €100–135, and mint examples from Japan (plus shipping) push higher still. Parts-only cameras go for €40–60 if you’re handy and want a project. Recently serviced copies with new seals and leather will cost more, but save you a CLA further down the line. Test the meter before you buy either way.

Film choices

The Trip 35’s automatic system works best in good light. I shot expired Ilford FP4 (2013) rated at 64 ASA, developed in R09 at box speed — the slight overexposure compensating for twelve years of aging. Black and white suits this camera. The rendering feels right for country lanes and lake reflections. For colour, Kodak Gold 200 is a natural pairing on sunny days; Ilford HP5 pushed to 800 if you need to work in lower light.

The camera has a flash sync socket, so if you want to push into lower light with a small flash unit, that’s possible too. But honestly, the Trip 35 is at its happiest in daylight — it’s a holiday camera at heart, even if you’re using it to document a Tuesday afternoon in Nantes.

Is it still worth shooting in 2026?

Yes, unreservedly. The Trip 35 is one of those cameras that removes friction from the act of photography. You don’t need to think about exposure. You don’t need to carry a bag of accessories. You don’t need to worry about battery life. You just load a roll, go outside, and shoot.

That simplicity isn’t a compromise — it’s a feature. Some of my favourite shots from the last few years have come from cameras like this, where the act of not overthinking it has produced something more spontaneous and more honest than anything I might have captured with a more involved setup.

The shelf it was sitting on was my mistake. Not the camera’s.

Quick reference

  • Lens: 40mm f/2.8 D.Zuiko (6 elements, 4 groups)
  • Shutter speeds: 1/40s and 1/200s (automatic)
  • Focus: Zone focus (1m, 1.5m, 3m, infinity)
  • Meter: Selenium cell — no batteries required
  • Film: 35mm, any ISO (set via ASA dial: 25–400)
  • Produced: 1967–1984
  • Second-hand price: ~€70–135 (working, good condition)
  • Best for: Street photography, travel, everyday carry

If you enjoyed this, you might also like my reviews of the Olympus Pen EE and the Pentax ME Super — two cameras that share the same spirit of getting out of the way and letting you photograph.

Black and white film photograph of a weathered wooden fence post with wire insulators, flat fields behind, Vendée.
Black and white film photograph of a lake seen through trees, soft reflections on still water, La Planche
Black and white film photograph of two joggers running along a lakeside path through trees, La Planche
Black and white film photograph of three tree trunks at the edge of a lake, La Planche
Black and white film photograph of two trees beside still water with a soft atmospheric quality, La Planche
Black and white film photograph of a farm track leading toward a tall poplar tree, Vendée countryside.
Black and white film photograph of two bare tree trunks at a lakeside, surrounded by leafy trees, La Planche, Vendée.
A single wooden post stands in perfectly still water, its reflection extending directly below, framed on either side by low vegetation at the bank. The most minimal and considered frame on the roll — and the best argument for leaving the house with a pocket camera.
Black and white film photograph of a narrow water channel through trees with a bright sky reflection at the end
Black and white film photograph of textured tree bark in the foreground with a lake visible behind, La Planche

Half Deaf in the Forêt de Grasla

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The roll started at the Jardin Extraordinaire. It finished here.

I’d loaded the Pentax ME Super with 100 ASA and put on the 50mm f/1.7: a classic pairing, and I wanted that creamy bokeh you get wide open on a prime. The Jardin gave me the first half of the roll. The Forêt de Grasla got the rest.

It’s not far. That was part of the appeal. Staying local, keeping it simple.

The forest is loud in late April. Birdsong, yes; but mostly frogs. Excitable ones. Small things, but what a noise. Good job that I’m half deaf. I found a picnic table, sat down to write, and a wolf spider walked along the wood beside me, not paying any attention whatsoever. I approved of that. The mosquitoes were less indifferent: there was one with designs on me, and I kept my eyes peeled.

I wanted tree shots, and the forest had those. It also had toads, which I hadn’t expected. The latter end of April means the canopy is full, the undergrowth is thick, and everything is moving. In that kind of light, in that kind of density, I dropped the aperture: nothing above f/8.0. Wide open would have been chaos. The forest rewards patience and a stopped-down lens.

There’s a memorial at the edge of the wood: a granite cross, a Madonna behind ironwork, and a bronze plaque to Charette and the parishioners of Grasla massacred for their faith. The Vendée is that kind of place. History sits quietly in the trees.

I still had the Panama on. Still keeping the sun off my head.

All photographs shot on 100 ASA, Pentax ME Super, 50mm f/1.7. Forêt de Grasla, April 2026.

P.S. The frogs were still going when I left.

Black and white film photograph of a straight forest road with dappled tree shadow, Forêt de Grasla, Vendée.
Black and white film photograph of a lake seen through overhanging branches, Forêt de Grasla, Vendée.
Black and white film photograph of an empty wooden bench beside a lake, Forêt de Grasla, Vendée.
Black and white film photograph of a lake with an overhanging tree branch, Forêt de Grasla, Vendée.
Black and white film photograph of a granite cross with a Madonna figure in an iron-grille niche, Forêt de Grasla, Vendée.
Black and white film photograph of an ivy-covered tree trunk in the Forêt de Grasla, Vendée.
Black and white film photograph of a curving sandy track through woodland, Forêt de Grasla, Vendée.
Black and white film photograph of a straight dirt track through forest, Forêt de Grasla, Vendée.
Black and white close-up film photograph of backlit beech leaves with a hanging catkin, Forêt de Grasla, Vendée.
Black and white close-up film photograph of a lichen-covered branch, Forêt de Grasla, Vendée.
Black and white film photograph of a sunlit sapling in a dark forest interior, Forêt de Grasla, Vendée.
Black and white film photograph of a wide forest track receding into the distance, Forêt de Grasla, Vendée.
Black and white film photograph looking up through tree branches into the forest canopy, Forêt de Grasla, Vendée.
Black and white film photograph of a family with a pushchair on a forest track in the distance, Forêt de Grasla, Vendée.
Black and white film photograph of a family cycling away along a sunlit forest track, Forêt de Grasla, Vendée.

On Est Bien Là: Back at the Jardin Extraordinaire

Posted on Posted in Black and White Photography, Film Photography, France, Landscape Photography, Nantes Photography, photography philosophy, UrbanTagged , , , , , , , , , 1 Comment

I said I’d come back with the Kodak Ultramax 400. Instead I’m here with a Canon EOS 500 and a roll of AGFA APX 100. These things happen. This was the second time. Time to come back after my first visit.

It’s a warm Sunday in April and the Jardin is busy. Free to enter, free to stay; and people do. Blue sky, green everywhere, the sound of the waterfall carrying up from below. Two mothers nearby are talking about their children and about wishing they had more time to themselves. A group is eating at a table. Kids are in the sun. People are stretched out on the lawns.

I think: how lucky I am to have this time off. I mean it.

I find a spot at the rock climbing end of the park. There are people with helmets: cycling or climbing, I genuinely can’t tell from here. A little girl tugs at her mother’s arm: “Aller Maman, on va ailleurs?” She wants the paddling pool. They move on. Three friends arrive and settle at the table beside me, look around at the afternoon, and one of them says it out loud: “Ok est bien hein.” “Oui.” I agree, though nobody asked me.

I’m back in this spot with the Canon EOS 500. Last time it was the Nikon FE and Ilford Pan 100: a morning visit, birdsong, quieter. The EOS 500 is a different kind of company. It’s light, unobtrusive, asks very little of you; autofocus, auto-exposure, just gets on with it. For someone who’s spent years with a digital body, it eases you in rather than throwing you in at the deep end. You still get the 36 frames, the awareness of what each one costs, the not-knowing-until-the-scans-arrive. But you’re not also wrestling with a new instrument at the same time. It’s a gentle way back into film. I liked it.

The difference today is the 24–70mm, which I’m working through properly: 24, 35, 50, 70, and trying the macro too. It changes how you read the place; you reach into corners of the scene you’d otherwise just glance past. I’ve gone through the roll much faster than expected. The zoom will do that. The AGFA APX 100 has taken it all in its stride: fine grain, happy in the light, doing exactly what a slow film should do on a day like this.

Despite the sound of children somewhere behind me, it’s the 20-somethings who dominate this end of the park: sunbathing, climbing, sitting on the old quarry rock. It’s not disturbing. If anything it’s rather nice. At the base of the face, one of the climbers looks up at the crowd gathered above and says to nobody in particular: “Ya du monde hein!” There is. I got a photograph of one of them mid-climb. Somewhere behind me, for the second time: “On est bien là!”

I wonder what they make of me. Do they know I’m a foreigner? Or am I just a rotund gentleman with a white beard and a panama hat, keeping himself to himself in the sun with an old camera?

Isn’t it just nice to be out in it.

A robin lands near my foot, thinks better of it, and disappears into the bushes. He must have been spooked. I stayed a while longer.

Nice Sunday afternoon in Nantes. Free entry.

All photographs shot on AGFA APX 100, Canon EOS 500, 24–70mm. Developed [to complete], scanned on the Opticfilm 8100. Jardin Extraordinaire, Nantes. April 2026.

P.S. The Ultramax 400 is still in the fridge. Its turn will come.

P.P.S. As a little bonus for you, I started a new roll and walked away with a few more shots….

Also in this series: Birdsong in Black & White — A Morning at the Jardin Extraordinaire

Messing about along the river in Clisson

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Good morning Dear Reader, I have been out with my camera. What a surprise I hear you say. I have been missing my Canon 6D Mark II but wanted to keep using my lovely lenses. Sometimes the 50 is great, but it’s nice to break out the zoom! I have the 24-70mm EF F4 because I’m not forking out the money for the F2.8 version. But I wanted to go with film. So I did! With the Canon EOS 500 and a roll of Agfaphoto APX 400.

I parked next to the river and ended up looking up at the Castle on the hill and thinking, strangely, of a certain Mr Sheeran, but without the teen angst and drinking. I think it looks lovely. To my right was the river and the old bridge and a vantage point to look at the Sèvre Nantaise coming over the weir. I thought about the photos I’d taken in February, as well as all the others taken over the years.

I took a right at the Café des Cordeliers but instead of going along to the Garenne Lemot park, I took a left down a passage to a place I had only looked at but never visited. Today my panama hat would become my explorer’s hat and I would take a closer look. Well what a surprise it was and definitely a butcher’s.

I remember some advice given to me which is the need to turn around and look behind you and see if you’ve missed anything, and have a real look and you might even see something completely different… This time I took that advice and it was more than worth it.

I would have missed the viaduct I’d driven over before, the one that runs from Clisson towards Gétigné, which I might have to look at sometime soon. The river was reflecting light on the arches and I could have finished the roll there and I would have been happy, but I kept a couple of frames “just in case” for the walk back to the car. You never know…

I walked back to the car just looking up and seeing the laundry hanging out.  It looked like canoeing gear that was drying.  Then back across the bridge, and I was happy with the variety the 24-70mm lens gave me.  Less distortion than my 16-35mm but still enough for some variety, especially the Macro feature for the fern spores.  We can have distortion another time.

All in all a very satisfying trip out and not far away, have you seen the price of diesel lately?  Thank you Orange man!

P.S.  If you want to wean yourself off digital and get back to the street cred that comes with film the Canon EOS 500 might just be your gateway drug.  Modern enough for the new EF lenses, but still having the necessary autofocus.  You can go full manual SLR later.  Break yourself in gently…

Black and white street scene in Clisson showing stone buildings, an estate agency, and the ornate Romanesque bell tower of Notre-Dame de Clisson rising behin
Black and white photograph of a stone arch bridge over the Sèvre Nantaise in Clisson, with multi-storey townhouses and the Restaurant de la Vallée visible behind.
Wide black and white view of the stone arch bridge over the Sèvre Nantaise in Clisson, with the town's riverfront buildings stretching across the frame.
Dramatic low-angle black and white photograph looking up at the ruined interior tower of Château de Clisson, stone walls rising steeply against a pale sky.
Black and white photograph of a weathered stone cross on the parapet of a bridge over the Sèvre Nantaise in Clisson, with a mill building and weir visible behind.
Black and white landscape view of the Sèvre Nantaise weir in Clisson, with the converted mill hotel on the left and a chapel visible to the right through bare trees.
Black and white photograph of stone buildings along the Sèvre Nantaise in Clisson, featuring tall arched windows, a spiral metal staircase, and a terrace above the water.
Black and white photograph of the Café des Cordeliers on a street corner in Clisson, a traditional French café with a painted sign and potted plants outside.
Black and white photograph of a building corner in Clisson with a large painted mural depicting a tropical jungle scene, a figure walking away in the background.
Black and white photograph of tattered fabric bunting or prayer flags strung between posts above garden hedging, with trees silhouetted behind against a bright sky.
Black and white photograph of a narrow dirt path flanked by ivy-covered stone walls, leading toward parked cars and houses in the distance, Clisson.
Close-up black and white macro photograph of fern fronds showing clusters of spore cases on the undersides of the leaves, shot with shallow depth of field.
Black and white photograph of white calla lily flowers growing at the edge of the Sèvre Nantaise in Clisson, dark water and tree reflections filling the upper frame.
Black and white photograph of the medieval bridge over the Sèvre Nantaise reflected in still water, calla lilies in the foreground, an ivy-covered wall framing the right edge.
Black and white photograph of the stone viaduct near Clisson reflected in the Sèvre Nantaise below, four tall arches rising symmetrically above the still water.
Black and white photograph of a white canoe moored on the Sèvre Nantaise in front of the stone viaduct near Clisson, bare trees framing the upper right.
Abstract black and white photograph looking up through the nested Gothic arches of the Clisson viaduct from directly below, stone masonry receding into darkness.
Low-angle black and white photograph of a single stone pier of the Clisson viaduct rising from the river, one arch visible above, taken from close to the water's edge.
Black and white photograph looking up at the Clisson viaduct from below, bare winter tree branches reaching into the upper left of the frame against a pale sky.
Black and white photograph looking up at the Clisson viaduct from below, bare winter tree branches reaching into the upper left of the frame against a pale sky.
Black and white photograph of cascading white wisteria flowers against a sunlit wall, deep shadows behind, shot on 35mm film in Clisson.
Black and white photograph of ornate wrought iron gates set in weathered stone pillars, a cypress tree and period house visible beyond, Clisson.
Black and white photograph of laundry — possibly canoeing gear — drying on a rack in a stone-framed window recess, dramatic shadow arcs sweeping across the wall on either side.

For the people who were already here

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A few months ago I finished a book. It didn’t start as a book — it started as a series of posts on this blog, one question at a time, and then became something I realised was a single argument rather than a collection of pieces. The argument is this: photography is not complicated, but it requires attention. The technique is learnable by anyone. The eye takes longer. Both are worth the effort.

The book is called Photography from the Heart. It covers the exposure triangle, composition, lenses, film formats, street photography and the full cycle — developing, scanning, printing. Not a manual. More like a long conversation with someone who has made most of the mistakes already and kept going anyway.

It’s available in the shop at 12€. But if you’re reading this here, on the blog, you were here before the book existed. You read the posts it grew from. In some ways you’re the reason it became a book at all.

Get the book →

— Ian

The Parc D’Asson

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So I’ve been off work, on the sick. Part of the healing has been going out with my camera. Clisson, the Jardin Extraordinaire, but recently I started asking myself why I wasn’t looking closer to home. There’s a tendency, I think, to always seek out the dramatic or the obviously photogenic. The ruined château, the dramatic coastline, the somewhere that announces itself as worth photographing. But photography has been teaching me, slowly and not always gently, that the ordinary places are often where the real work happens.

One morning I went into Montaigu and wandered through the Parc D’Asson, the same park where I’d dropped my daughter off to meet friends. I park nearby when I go to Mass, I’d been through it once before, and somehow never properly seen it. You know how it is with places close to home. They sit in the background of your life, familiar enough that you stop registering them. Time to make amends.

It was quiet. A weekday morning, the light still low and a little uncertain, which turned out to suit what I had in mind. I’d decided to rate HP5+ at 200 ISO rather than its box speed of 400, pulling it by two stops and overexposing the film to give the negatives extra density. I’d done it by accident on a previous roll and liked what came back: a softer, more forgiving tonality than I usually get from HP5+. Less of the grain-forward contrast that pushed film is known for, more of a gentler, almost contemplative quality. So this time I did it on purpose, loaded the Nikon FE, and shot a whole roll. I’ve just developed the film and the negatives look good. Dense, as expected, with a quality of light that feels right for a quiet park on a quiet morning. There might be something there.

I’ve also been working on the Sunny 16 rule. No light meter, judging exposure by eye, the way my forefathers in photography did it. The rule itself is simple enough: in bright sunlight, set your aperture to f/16 and your shutter speed to the reciprocal of your ISO. From there you learn to read the light, to adjust by feel, to trust your eye over your electronics. I can hear you saying well, yes, the Nikon has a perfectly good meter in it. True. But there’s something valuable in the discipline of not using it. It slows you down. It makes you look harder at what the light is actually doing rather than letting the camera decide. And when you’re trying to use photography as a way back into yourself, slowing down is rather the point.

I’m getting better at reading light. Not expert, not yet, but better. The Parc D’Asson gave me good material to work with. The way the morning came through the trees, the texture of the paths, the small details that a park in winter offers if you’re patient enough to look for them. These are not grand subjects. But I’m starting to think that grand subjects are overrated.

Whether I’ve actually cracked the Sunny 16 rule, you’ll be able to judge for yourselves when I eventually share the three rolls of Tri-X I shot on the Mamiya C220 in Clisson back in February, metered entirely by phone app until I gave up on the third roll. That’s a story for another day, and probably a cautionary one. This roll, at least, I’m quietly optimistic about.

Capturing Time: A Photographic Journey Through Château de la Preuille

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It was the 20th of March, the first day of spring, and I drove out to Saint-Hilaire-de-Loulay to photograph a château I’d been meaning to photograph again for some time.

Château de la Preuille has been here since the 11th century — through medieval fortress, Renaissance residence, abandonment, and whatever quiet resilience comes after that. Today it’s a living estate: chambres d’hôtes, gîtes, wine workshops, weddings. The people who run it have a motto: “It’s not perfect, it’s paradise.” Spend an afternoon there and you’ll understand why they chose it. The place has character that no amount of renovation could manufacture — it simply accumulated it, over nine centuries.

What they’ve built is worth visiting on its own terms. The accommodations range from rooms in the château itself to the old wine press building sleeping up to ten, to Le Donjon, a tower with its own private wing. The wine workshops — blind tastings, tastings under the stars — are exactly the kind of thing that sounds gimmicky until you’re actually there, on a working estate, surrounded by vines that have been cultivated on this land for generations. It’s thirty minutes from the Puy du Fou and feels like another world entirely.

I made one deliberate technical choice before I left: I pulled the HP5+ from 400 to 200 ASA. One stop of overexposure, finer grain, softer tones. For nine-hundred-year-old stone and dormant vineyards on a still March morning, it felt right. A harder, faster film would have been the wrong conversation.

What I found myself photographing wasn’t the grand architectural gestures — though the round towers with their conical slate roofs reflecting in the moat are there, and they earn their place. It was the details that kept stopping me. Wine bottles glimpsed through a window. The number 5 cast into a piece of rusty agricultural equipment. Ivy claiming the side of a wooden barn. Vine stocks twisted and patient, waiting for warmth. The decay and renewal that a place accumulates when it’s been genuinely lived in rather than merely preserved.

Black and white was the only option. Colour would have placed these images firmly in March 2026. In monochrome, they could be from any point in the château’s long life — and that ambiguity suits the subject. Preuille doesn’t perform its history. It simply has it.

Shot on Nikon FE, Ilford HP5+ pulled to 200 ASA. Home developed in Ilfosol 3 at 1:9, scanned on an Opticfilm 8100. Château de la Preuille, Saint-Hilaire-de-Loulay, Vendée. 20 March 2026. chateau-de-la-preuille.fr

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YOU CAN’T BUY HAPPINESS, BUT…

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What Nantes teaches me about the good life

“ON NE PEUT PAS ACHETER LE BONHEUR MAIS ON PEUT ACHETER DU BON VIN.”

You can’t buy happiness, but you can buy good wine.

I found this handwritten on a Nantes café window, and it stopped me cold. Not because it was profound, but because it was honest. The French don’t promise happiness — they promise pleasure. And they’ve built entire cities around this philosophy.

I walked through Nantes for days with my camera, trying to understand what makes a city not just beautiful, but livable. What I found changed how I think about urban life.

The lampposts told me everything. Not mere functional poles, but sculptural objects — twisted metal trees with globed lights, as if someone asked: why shouldn’t street furniture be art?

This question was everywhere. In the Passage Pommeraye, a 19th-century shopping arcade where statues line ornate balconies and natural light floods through glass ceilings. In the Théâtre Graslin, where neoclassical columns frame a cultural temple that feels both monumental and welcoming.

Nantes treats beauty as infrastructure, not luxury. The city is meticulously designed but never precious. Historical preservation and contemporary life coexist without tension. Beauty isn’t gated—it’s in the streets, the squares, the passages. This is democracy in action: the insistence that everyone deserves to walk through beauty every day.

They sat on a bench in Cours Cambronne, an elderly couple, backs to my camera, watching life unfold behind an iron fence. They weren’t waiting for anything. They were simply being, in a city that had built space for exactly this: the luxury of unhurried presence.

Later, inside the Passage Pommeraye, a solitary figure sat in a bistro chair surrounded by statues and columns, resting or reading or just thinking. Alone, but not lonely. Present in beauty on their own terms.

Great cities understand something crucial: urban life isn’t just about community. It’s about choice. You can be alone in public without isolation. You can observe without participating. You can rest without justification. Nantes accommodates both connection and contemplation, and this is dignity — the freedom to exist in public space however you choose.

The espresso cup sat empty on its saucer, the last drops evaporating. Someone had been here, recently. They’d had their small pleasure — five minutes of warmth and caffeine and pause. Now they were gone, and the cup remained: evidence that happiness might be unbuyable, but this — a good coffee, a moment of rest — was accessible to anyone with a few euros and the willingness to sit down.

This is the real philosophy of Nantes: you don’t need to be happy all the time. You need access to small, reliable joys. Good coffee. Good food. Good company, or good solitude. A beautiful square to sit in. A tram to carry you home. A bicycle locked to a post, waiting for your return.

This is the real philosophy of Nantes: you don’t need to be happy all the time. You need access to small, reliable joys. Good coffee. Good food. Good company, or good solitude. A beautiful square to sit in. A tram to carry you home. A bicycle locked to a post, waiting for your return.

The French understand: happiness is abstract and permanent, a state you chase. Pleasure is concrete and temporary, a moment you inhabit. One is exhausting to pursue. The other is sustainable to practice.

The bicycle stood locked to its post, basket empty, front wheel aligned with the cobblestones. It wasn’t going anywhere right now. It was simply there, part of the city’s quiet infrastructure of possibility. When its owner returned, it would carry them somewhere — work, home, a café, a friend. For now, it waited. Like the empty chairs on terraces, like the benches in squares, like the trams at their platforms.

Nantes has built a city that waits for you, that makes room for you, that offers small pleasures without demanding grand happiness. You can’t buy joy, it seems to say. But you can buy a good espresso, and sit down, and see what happens next.

And sometimes, that’s enough.

Here is the full lot of photos taken at the begining of March on HP5 (box speed) and 4 photos on Rollei RPX 400, all shot with the Nikon FE, and developed in Ilfosil3 1:9. For me they represent different aspects of Nantes – Bouffay, Place Graslin, la place Cambronne, la rue Crébillon, le passage Pommeraye, et la rue de la Paix.

Black and white photograph of an empty café interior in Nantes, leather banquette seating in the foreground, a single espresso cup on a table visible through the window beyond.
Black and white photograph of a crowded café terrace in Nantes with people seated at bistro chairs in bright winter sun, a tram passing in the background.
lack and white street photograph of Rue Crébillon in Nantes, pedestrians casting long shadows across the wide pavement in low winter light, Haussmann-style buildings receding into the distance.
Black and white photograph of a busy café terrace in Nantes, a woman in a white coat reading at a table in the foreground, the square and shops visible behind.
Black and white photograph of people sitting on the steps of the Théâtre Graslin in Nantes, one person feeding a pigeon, the ornate lamppost and neoclassical columns framing the scene.
Black and white photograph of people playing in the open space of Cours Cambronne in Nantes, a statue visible in the middle distance, bare winter trees and Haussmann buildings lining the square.
Black and white photograph of two people standing together in a Nantes square, bare pollarded trees behind them, Haussmann buildings in the background.
Black and white photograph of two elderly people with white hair seen from behind, seated together on a park bench in Cours Cambronne, Nantes, an ornate iron fence and figures beyond.v
Black and white photograph of heavy iron gates in Nantes, several people visible through the bars, a grand white building with tall windows in the background.
Black and white photograph looking up at one of the distinctive ornate metal tree-form lampposts of Place Graslin in Nantes, twisted branches and globe lights against an overcast sky.
Black and white photograph of the neoclassical façade of the Théâtre Graslin in Nantes framed by shrubs, a lone figure walking across the square in front of the Corinthian columns.
Black and white photograph of a Nantes café window with the handwritten French phrase "On ne peut pas acheter le bonheur mais on peut acheter du bon vin" — you can't buy happiness but you can buy good wine.
Black and white photograph of an empty café terrace on a Nantes street, bistro chairs and tables in the foreground, string lights above, pedestrians and shop fronts beyond.
Black and white photograph of two women seated at an outdoor café table on a narrow Nantes street, a sushi restaurant sign and pedestrians visible further down the lane.
Black and white photograph looking down through the ornate multi-level interior of the Passage Pommeraye in Nantes, classical statues lining the balconies, shoppers on the ground floor below.
Black and white photograph of a solitary person seated in a bistro chair on an upper level of the Passage Pommeraye in Nantes, classical columns and statues behind them, empty chairs around.
Black and white photograph of a narrow street in the Bouffay quarter of Nantes, a waiter arranging chairs outside a bar with a Guinness sign, a solitary figure walking through the middle distance.
Black and white photograph of a narrow street in the Bouffay quarter of Nantes, a waiter arranging chairs outside a bar with a Guinness sign, a solitary figure walking through the middle distance.
Black and white photograph of a large crowded café terrace on Place da Bouffay in Nantes, young people at tables in the foreground, a statue and city buildings behind, shot on Rollei RPX 400.
Black and white photograph of a Nantes tram on a cobbled boulevard lined with bare plane trees, tram lines converging in the foreground, shot on Rollei RPX 400.
Black and white photograph of a Nantes tram on line 1 to François Mitterrand arriving at the Bouffay stop, passengers on the platform, a second tram alongside, bare plane trees above.
Close-up black and white photograph of a near-empty Cafés Richard espresso cup on a saucer and tray on a café table in Nantes, a blurred figure in the background, shot on Rollei RPX 400.
Black and white photograph of a row of Martin Hot Sauce bottles displayed on a wooden shelf in a Nantes shop, each with a different illustrated label, shot on Rollei RPX 400.
Black and white photograph of a bicycle with a front basket locked to a post on a Nantes pavement, front wheel facing the street, shot on Rollei RPX 400.

Birdsong in Black & White: A Morning at the Jardin Extraordinaire

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Birdsong in Black & White: A Morning at the Jardin Extraordinaire

I’d never been to the Jardin Extraordinaire before. And I’d never shot Ilford Pan 100.

Honestly? I wasn’t sure what to expect from either.

What I found was a place that felt alive — birds everywhere, water cascading down massive rock faces, people just being there. Reading on rocks. Walking along paths. Letting kids splash in the shallow pools. And if you look closely at a few of the wider shots, you’ll spot the Grue Titan across the Loire at the Hangar à bananes. It’s not in the garden, but it’s in the photographs. I like that. A small nod to the bigger story of this city.

The Jardin Extraordinaire is built on an old granite quarry in the Prairie au Duc. You can still see the rock faces where they cut into the hillside, metal walkways clinging to the stone, plants reclaiming what machines once carved out. And that waterfall — 35 metres of water pouring down the old quarry walls. Dramatic and peaceful at once, if that makes any sense.

What I didn’t fully register while I was shooting is how the garden fits into Nantes’ wider landscape of transformation. The Hangar à bananes, the Machines de l’Île, the whole Île de Nantes redevelopment — they’re all part of the same conversation about what to do with industrial space. The garden is the quiet, green chapter. The crane across the water is the bold industrial punctuation. When I got the scans back and saw the Grue Titan peering into a few frames, that clicked.

Full disclosure: I was the older gentleman in the Panama hat, moving slowly around the paths with a cane and an analogue camera. Taking my time. Stopping to frame things. Not in any hurry.

I watched the Nantais doing their thing while I did mine. A parent reading on a rock while children scrambled nearby. Couples strolling. And me, clicking through 36 frames like I had all the time in the world. Which I did. That was rather the point.

I did spot one other photographer — shooting with a very modern, very impressive DSLR. And I had to consciously stop myself from slipping into smug film photographer mode. Oh, you’re chimping your screen? How… digital. I held it together. Mostly. The honest answer is we were both just doing the same thing with different tools, and there’s room for all of it.

As for the Pan 100 — I’d heard it was contrasty, fine-grained, sharp. What I didn’t expect was how well it would suit this particular place. The Jardin Extraordinaire is all about contrasts: dark rock against bright sky, rough stone against smooth water, industrial metal against wild greenery. Pan 100 didn’t fight any of that. It leaned into it. I shot mostly between f/5.6 and f/16, trusted the FE’s meter, and when the scans came back I was — pleased? Surprised? Both. The images feel like the day felt.

My favourite shots aren’t the big dramatic ones. They’re the clusters of berries photographed close enough to see their star patterns, the metal butterfly on a gate, a single log on the path casting a long shadow. The things you almost miss when you’re moving too fast. With 36 frames and a roll that costs money, you look. You wait. You notice things. And then those become the photographs you actually care about.

I developed it at home, as always — Ilfosol 3 at 1:9, scanned on the Opticfilm 8100. No lab, no outsourcing. Just chemicals and patience. The smell of the developer, the little thrill of seeing what’s on the film. It’s all part of the same story.

I’ve got some Kodak Ultramax 400 in the fridge. Expired 2022. No idea what it’ll do. I think I’ll take it back to the Jardin and find out.

All photographs shot on Ilford Pan 100, Nikon FE. Home developed in Ilfosol 3 (1:9), scanned on an Opticfilm 8100. Jardin Extraordinaire, Nantes. The Grue Titan at the Hangar à bananes appears across the river, uninvited and welcome.

P.S. If you’ve been to the Jardin Extraordinaire, shot Pan 100, or you just love Nantes — drop a comment or send a message. Always happy to talk shop.

P.P.S. And if you’re curious about home development or scanning, ask away. Happy to share what’s worked for me.

P.P.P.S. And if you ever spot me at a photo spot with my FE and a Panama hat? Please gently call me out on the film snobbery. I’m working on it.

Also in this series: On Est Bien Là — Back at the Jardin Extraordinaire

Part 3: The Grind — General Rehearsal on HP5+ 3200

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The soloists had gone home.

Saturday’s concerto rehearsal was done — the collaboration, the translation, the careful work of integrating guest artists into an established ensemble. But the concert wasn’t just one piece. It was a full programme. And the rest of that programme needed rehearsal too.

Sunday. No soloists. No concerto. Just the orchestra, the conductor, and the grind.

I loaded HP5+ pushed to 3200. Same Nikon FE, same 50mm f/1.8. But three stops of push this time — more grain, more contrast, more raw. If Saturday’s 1600 was work, Sunday’s 3200 was iteration.

You can feel the difference when the guest artists aren’t there. Saturday had a particular energy — the stakes of building a shared language with people from outside the ensemble. Sunday was just us. The regulars. The people who were eating lunch in the car park the day before. Corentin back in his seat next to me. Viktor on oboe. Nicolas patient behind the timpani. The conductor at the whiteboard, same as always, but now talking only to people he knows.

No translation needed. Just the work.

Here’s what general rehearsal looks like: we play. The conductor stops us. Again. We play. He stops us. From 47. We play. No, from 45. We play. Better. Now from the top of the phrase. Over and over, getting it right, then getting it better. It’s not glamorous. It’s not even particularly musical most of the time. It’s iteration — and the HP5+ at 3200 suits it. The grain is heavy but not ugly. Textural. Urgent. Honest about what it’s depicting.

What strikes me looking at the images now is the concentration. The hunched shoulders, the heads bent over sheet music, the conductor’s hands cutting through the air. Nobody is thinking about dinner or what they forgot to do at work. For these few hours everyone is just here, trying to make something work. The grain matches that energy — it says this is real, this is process, this is nowhere near the victory lap.

The full arc of the weekend, in one table:

Fomapan 100 — LunchHP5+ 1600 — ConcertoHP5+ 3200 — General
CameraPentax ME SuperCanon AE-1 ProgramNikon FE
LightNatural daylightMixed indoorMixed indoor
GrainFine, subtleTextural, controlledPronounced, raw
MoodRelaxedFocusedUrgent
StoryCommunity at restCollaboration at workThe machine in flow

Three cameras. Three films. One story.

The choices weren’t accidental. I chose Fomapan 100 for the lunch because I wanted calm. HP5+ at 1600 for the concerto because I wanted texture with control. HP5+ at 3200 for Sunday because I wanted the grain to do some of the work — to say without saying it that this is unglamorous, repetitive, necessary. The photojournalists who shot jazz clubs in the 1950s understood this. You don’t hide the process. You lean into it.

From my seat in the horns I photographed the machine I’m part of — the horn resting in its case between takes, valves gleaming; coffee cups on the floor by the woodwinds; sheet music thick with pencil marks. These are the million small adjustments that add up to a rehearsal. And eventually, if everything goes right, to music.

Seeing the Symphonique des bords de Loire through a viewfinder across a whole weekend changed something. I saw not just the work but the commitment behind it — all these people who could be doing anything else on a Saturday and Sunday afternoon, here instead, playing the same bars until they’re right.

Rehearsal is where the music is actually made. The concert is just the victory lap.

The trilogy is complete.

Shot on Nikon FE, 50mm f/1.8, HP5+ pushed to 3200. Edited in Lightroom — contrast via tone curve, subtle vignettes, grain left exactly where it was.

P.S. All three parts are now published: Part 1 (Fomapan 100, Lunch), Part 2 (HP5+ 1600, Concerto), Part 3 (HP5+ 3200, General). Thank you for following along.

Also in this series: The Break — Lunch on Fomapan 100 · The Work — Concerto on HP5+ 1600