Category: Black and White Photography

Nikon FE Review: Features and User Experience

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Hello Dear Reader. I know you are an astute fellow, and that you never miss a trick. You will have noticed me talking about the Nikon FE. I will share something with you. I actually bought one at the end of last year from my HR director, but wanted to have the right time and places to start using it. One can’t rush this kind of thing.

Some of you might even say, “I thought you were a Fuji guy, or a Canon guy, or even a Pentax guy.” I hate to disappoint all those of you attached to a particular brand, but I am above all “a guy.” Mind you, this was my first venture into Nikon-world. Not a Nikon D something…. I went slightly more old school as I have been known to go before.

Why the FE and not the FE2, or even F3? The guy was selling an FE, that is why. Now that is out of the way, let’s have a look at this camera. First and foremost, it’s a really sexy camera reminiscent of those used in the 60’s by National Geographic photographers. It’s not, but that’s by the by. It actually came out in 1978. Secondly, this particular one was in full working order, always a plus; the price was fair for the camera’s excellent condition. I may be a collectionneur, but a camera is there to be used. Did I say it was a very sexy camera? I did. Oh good.

As I am wont to do, I took it out for a test drive to Nantes, and took it round Bouffay. And the pub… just enough to get a feel for the wee beastie. A roll of Ilford HP5 at box speed and I was ready to go. Verdict? So far so good. I must have done just 10 shots that day, and came back to it later, much later, to finish the roll. The feel in the hand was fine, and what I’m used to. The lens I have is a 50mm f/1.8, aka the nifty fifty. Usability? Aperture priority, which I enjoy. And the one thing that tickled me pink was being able to see the aperture ring through the viewfinder. Very useful…  It’s since journeyed to Lourdes, the mountains, even Northumberland—never once feeling like a limitation.

Does it have auto focus? No. It doesn’t. It has manual focus, which I find easier to use. I prefer to choose myself rather than have modern technology do everything for me. Yes, I use it on my DSLR, but I don’t use that the way I do when doing film photography. Here’s a surprise for you: I am not built for speed. I am built for comfort and won’t be hurried. This kind of SLR suits me to a T.

I know some of you little techies out there need specs about a camera, so for you lovely people, here you are:

Nikon FE – Quick Specs

  • Production: 1978–1983
  • Type: 35mm manual-focus SLR
  • Exposure: Aperture-priority AE + full manual
  • Metering: Centre-weighted TTL (match-needle in viewfinder)
  • Shutter: 1–1/1000s + B, electronically controlled (requires battery)
  • Viewfinder: Fixed eye-level pentaprism (~93% coverage) with aperture & shutter speed display
  • Lens mount: Nikon F (AI/AI-S compatible)
  • Battery: 2× SR44 (or 1× CR1/3N) – note: the camera can operate at 1/90s (M90 mode) without a battery
  • Weight: ~590 g (body only)
  • Fun fact: One of the smallest and lightest Nikon SLRs with full AE.

Is it ‘better’ than the Pentax ME Super? Not objectively—but it fits me. I prefer Nikon’s take-up spool, and that viewfinder aperture display? That’s the clincher. Pentax glass is glorious, no doubt. But this? This is my beastie.

I’m over the moon to have this addition to the working collection, and I have to go and finish the film that’s still inside it. So yes, I enjoyed using it; yes, it wasn’t foreign enough to scare me. Do I have any regrets? Absolutely not! It works just the way I need it to, and when it comes to cameras, isn’t that all we need?

NORTHUMBRIAN SUMMER PART IV

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Edinburgh, Scotland 2025

We’re still in Edinburgh. We’re walking down the Royal Mile. It’s festival season. There are plenty of shows to watch, and the one we saw first was by Max Von Trapp. Not to be confused with the Sound of Music Von Trapps, but a comic magician. One of my favourite kinds. The jokes and tricks rolled fast, as did my laughter.. Kate laughs at all the jokes, even the more adult-focused ones, just like Killian did when we visited the festival when he was that age.

Saint Giles was our next stop. As you know, I’m Catholic, not Protestant. As we wandered through the national Cathedral of Scotland, I was struck not only by the beautiful organ music, but by the lack of the familiar Stations of the Cross, the statues. The centre of attention was not the Lord and the sacrifice of the Mass, but the preacher’s pulpit. I felt this lack and prayed my daily Rosary, head bowed in prayer.

I joined Kate outside, slightly perturbed by the experience.

Lunch was a kebab. Simple and delicious. Kate loved it.

It was time to move on to see Greyfriars Bobby, a wee brown dog, famous for his loyalty. The legend is such that the people of Edinburgh raised a statue to honour him, and people rub his nose either for luck or as a sign of affection. I went into the Greyfriars Pub for some Guinness, reflecting on my own dog Molly, now 16, who greets me every morning as if I’m her favourite person and gets all excited when I get home from work. I can see why wee Bobby was a legendary dog, and why he inspired so many people.

We wandered through the graveyard looking at the tombs of the citizens of Edinburgh from the past. And we found a certain Thomas Riddell who JK Rowling used in her books. Kate acquiesced and allowed me to take her photo in front of it.

We ventured towards the Covenanters’ section of the graveyard, supposedly the most haunted section. I felt nothing and saw nothing, but Kate started to have a headache. We paid our respects and decided to find Bobby’s grave at the entrance. Kate noticed the sticks put on his grave, as you might leave a favourite dog toy. She just had to go and find him a suitable stick. Bless that dog. Teaching us a valuable lesson in pure love years after his death.

We ventured back out onto the streets of Edinburgh, leaving the relative tranquility of the graveyard behind us. This was about to be the reason she wanted to come to Edinburgh in the first place: a cocktail bar. But not any ordinary cocktail bar. The Geek Bar, decorated every four months into a new theme. The theme she wanted was from a video game that she plays with Killian. Oh no—they’d changed everything… It was now all about Stranger Things on Netflix—something I had heard by name but knew nothing else about.

Liquor? Maybe quicker, but it’s not something I’m a great fan of. The lady took our order and explained the concept. I felt as if I was in Starbucks for the first time. She asked which flavours I liked, and with her expert help, I made up my mind. The drink was obviously dangerous—too smooth, too sweet—and I couldn’t feel the alcohol. Neither could Kate, who was only allowed a mocktail. I have to be a responsible parent after all. The second round was just as deadly, and I was beginning to feel very happy. I wonder why…

So maybe, at the end of all this, the real magic isn’t in the tricks or the drinks or even the famous city. It’s just—being there. Following your children into their weird, wonderful universes, and watching them set the place on fire with laughter.
And really, what’s better than that?

NORTHUMBRIAN SUMMER PART III

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Edinburgh, Scotland 2025

It was my daughter’s turn to have some Dad time. Before we left France, I asked both children to think about what they wanted to do the most in the UK. Both of them said they wanted to go to Scotland—Edinburgh in particular. The Lourdes trip when I took them both had drained the coffers…

Killian had been.
Virginie had been.
Kate had never been.

It was my daughter’s turn to have me all for herself.

When I told them,
Killian nodded. “That’s fair.”
Virginie smiled. “We’ll do something together.”
And just like that, it was settled.
This day would be hers.
Just her. Just me.
Edinburgh, at last.

It would be a long day. I wanted to give her a full day—to let the city work its magic… We couldn’t visit everything, but for the first time I thought of Princes Street, and the Royal Mile, and Greyfriars Kirkyard. She’s fifteen—shopping first, history later—yet I’d offer her the quiet places anyway.

I just wanted her to feel the city, not just the shops.

We could always come back.

And next time, she’d walk these streets not because I brought her,
but because she chose to.

We walked along Princes Street looking at the chainstores, even daring to go into H&M but soon left once we realised that you have to be skinny to dress there. We moved on to M&S and had our second breakfast. The bacon roll she had on the train was “interesting” but hardly filling. I saw outfits that I thought she might like but was told, non!

I was on the lookout for a tweed spectacle case but despite looking in numerous tweed shops, I only saw the same things over and over again. I was disappointed, but Kate wasn’t! She saw a beautiful tartan étole that called out to her…

How could I refuse her? It would be perfect for winter and the wool was so soft.

We crossed the bridge next to the National Gallery,
Festival posters peeling in the wind.

Then she stopped—a shadowed shop glowing with silver.
The same one where Killian chose his claddagh six years ago.
“Like Killian’s,” she said, tapping the glass.
Not a question. A claim.

Inside, the air smelled of wool and old metal.
She ran her finger over the trays—
Past the ornate knots, straight to the simplest ring.
“This one,” she told the jeweler. “Like my brother’s.”

I watched her try it on, heart facing outward.
Right hand. My heart is free. (I didn’t need to say it.)
“For remembering,” she whispered.
Not “growing up.”
Just: This is mine now too.

Edinburgh breathed around us—
alive, urgent, temporary.

NORTHUMBRIAN SUMMER PART II

Posted on Posted in Black and White Photography, Family Life, Landscape Photography, Northumberland, Reportage, The UK Chronicles, Travel photography, United KingdomTagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , 4 Comments

Craster 2025

It was getting close to lunchtime.  I was enjoying this father-son day and dared to ask if we could go out to Craster.  I really wanted a picture of Dunstanbrough Castle,something I had seen in a YouTube video by Thomas Heaton but it wasn’t to be.  Just take the images you can and enjoy the process.

We would visit Craster.  But first food.  Despite the blueberry muffin we had shared earlier, I was going to indulge us in one of my other UK rituals – The Marks and Spencer sandwich.  I have a great fondness for the feeling of being home and returning to my youth.  The French are a wonderful people and make so much top notch food, but you can’t get a decent Cheese sandwich anywhere.  Wonderful cheese, and marvelous bread, but the idea of putting both together, has totally escaped them.  

The French make glorious food. But they’ve never quite grasped the sacred simplicity of a cheese sandwich. Or the sublime elegance of a prawn sandwich—peeled pink shrimp, mayonnaise, in a relatively grainy brown bread full of goodness. A British delicacy, perfected.

So I bought three: the Ploughman’s, the Wensleydale with carrot chutney, the Ultimate Prawn—nothing but the best for my father. And a bottle of sparkling water.

Food fit for a king. Or at least, for a man who’s earned his rest.

Guided first to the car park, and then to the village by my father going against the wisdom of the GPS Sat Nav we had arrived.   We passed the smoke house—thick plumes curling into the breeze, the air thick with oak and salt. The kind of smell that clings to your sensorial memory. I didn’t take a photo. But I inhaled it, sweet as any incense at mass.  Smoking local fish for local people. 

At the end of the street was the Jolly fisherman, who is not a happy angler, but the local pub.  Well, it would be rude not to… We both fought to pay for the pints of Guinness, but I won and we sat down at a table to drink them.  I think we have a duty to support local pubs as they’re closing at a rapid rate of knots in the UK. This “core” of British and Irish society must be kept alive! 

My  mother had tried to phone us but in vain.  Messages and calls couldn’t pierce the pub walls.  I suggested my Dad go outside to try and call my mother just to reassure her.  It still didn’t work.  I tried on my phone, but didn’t have any luck.  We both decided that my mother suspected that I might lead my father astray and take him to a watering hole.  Ooops!

In for a penny, in for a pund! The harbour, the lobster pots, the salt on the breeze—Northumbrian summer in its purest form. You’ll see it in the images below.

NORTHUMBRIAN SUMMER PART 1

Posted on Posted in Alnmouth, Black and White Photography, Family Life, Northumberland, Reportage, Street Photography, The UK Chronicles, Travel photography, United KingdomTagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , 6 Comments

Alnmouth 2025

I came back to Alnmouth not just to see my parents, but because the place has become part of me and maybe in some very small way we had become part of Alnmouth.

Each visit is different. Sometimes I’m chasing “the” image. Sometimes, like this year, I’m just learning how to sit still.  This is the tale of the other part of Summer.  The UK part of Summer.  The Northumberland part of Summer.  Going home to visit my parents, and show them the children.  It was a Tuesday, I know this because I checked the metadata on my phone.  My mother had decreed that she would go with Virginie (my wife) and the children to Morpeth to do some clothes shopping.  I would have a day with my father.  

It was to be a quiet day with a father and his son catching up and putting the world to rights as we often do during our weekly telephone calls.  Which reminds me, I must call on the way home from work.  He often talks about walking around the village and always bumping into people he knows.  A hello here, a hello there…

More than anything it was a day out with my father.  Which is rare, so I decided to take advantage of his company and ever present wisdom.  Whatever was to happen I had my X100F with me to capture everything.

He decided that we were going to go for a walk in the village as he is wont to do.  I wanted to pay my respects to Scotts of Alnmouth as I do every time I come to Alnmouth.  We follow each other on Instagram and always say hello when I’m “in town.”  It costs nothing to say hello and you never know, it might make that person’s day.  It may even make your day!  With an espresso and black currant muffin, I bade farewell to Scotts of Alnmouth for the year telling them “See you next year.”  

Dad just wanted to drop into the village shop to say hello too.  Why?  Because he’s a lovely man and saying hello costs nothing.  Just a small gesture.  Am I repeating myself?  Ah well…  My father had a spot that he wanted to show me.  This spot overlooked the golf course, the beach, and out to sea we could make out Coquet Island and its lighthouse.  

When I was younger,

the idea of sitting on a park bench,

just sitting there,

would have been impossible.

Yet the man I am at 53?

I revel in it.

When you only get back once a year,

you realise you might have only weeks left

with your father.

And those moments—

silent, shared, ordinary—

become sacred.

There’s no need to talk.

Even when we do.

Just being next to this man is enough.

I see myself in him too.

The way we walk.

What we pause to see.

Just those small things.

My future? 

Summer 2025 Part IV.  What I Gave Them at the Grotto.

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Mass, Ice Cream, and the Retour

Setting the House in Order

I owe it to my children to be the best father possible.  A priest once gave me this advice:  Whatever you do for your children, do it with love.  And that if I do that then I won’t go too far wrong.  I wanted to bring them to Lourdes and show them my faith. 

My son always says that, each time we go to Lourdes, something changes.  The last time was the nun, this time it was the desire to do sport and get even more back on track.  For Kate it was being exposed to something different.  It might have been God’s creation in the mountains, or just seeing that I’m not the guy who goes to mass, and who prays…

Maybe we’ll never know.  But the faith isn’t something that you impose.  It is something that can be introduced in gentleness and humility.  Seeing Dad go to confession and then to mass might just have left its mark upon her.  Maybe that is what I gave them at the grotto.

It was Sunday. That meant returning to the Sanctuaire for Mass—a last thank you to Our Lady in the Grotto, lunch, and then, for dessert, Burger King ice cream with the mountains laid out before us.

Before leaving, the house had to be set back in order—towels and bedding piled for washing, bags zipped, keys returned. Killian was up bright—almost—and early, already in gear. I was coaxing my diesel brain awake. Kate was still asleep. Pretty normal, if you ask me. She’s not a morning person. With her it’s always the softly-softly approach.

We gathered outside at last, the three of us dressed appropriately for Mass. Kate looked radiant in her dress—gone are the days of childhood. She is a young woman now. We only made sure her shoulders were covered before we left.

The Way She Knew

“Papaaaaaa”—tone number three: I want something.
 “Can I take the jumper from the back of the car?”
“Yes,” I said. “Take the jumper—but don’t forget, it’s mine.”

Every trip to Lourdes leaves me grateful I came—and wishing I could stay. It’s strange how quickly a place becomes home. The children were already debating who would control the car radio. It wouldn’t be me.

We parked where we usually do and headed down to the sanctuary. Chocolatines in hand—this is the South-West, after all—I tried explaining to them why it wasn’t a “pain au chocolat.” I doubt I convinced anyone.

I knew the name of the chapel where Mass would be said, but not the way. Kate did. She deserves more credit than she gets.

Beside Me

Mass was in English. After thirty years in France, it felt strange yet familiar. “And with your spirit” still jars in English, though I say it every week in French and in Latin.

But what mattered most wasn’t the words. It was having them beside me. That turned Mass into something more. Into a legacy. Into my spiritual gift to them — something I hope will outlast even me.

Grainy. Imperfect. Like Love.

 We ate Indian food for lunch. Had ice cream at Burger King, overlooking the same mountains that had watched us that weekend. A good way to begin the long drive back to reality…

I didn’t take many photos that day—Kate and Killian together in the sanctuary, sunlight cutting across their shoulders. Kentmere, 100 ASA, f/8. Slightly grainy. Imperfect. Like faith. Like fatherhood. Like love.

Maybe that’s all I ever gave them.

And maybe it’s enough.