Category: Catholic

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

Waiting for the Light: Reclaiming the Cathedral with Ilford HP5+

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I didn’t set foot in the cathedral while Voyage en hiver draped its silence in municipal spectacle. Not out of protest—I simply couldn’t bear to see sacred space turned into a backdrop. So I waited. And when the banners finally came down in December, I loaded a roll of Ilford HP5 into my Nikon FE and walked back in—not as a tourist, not as a patient, but as someone hoping to find the light exactly where I’d left it.

I’ve always abhorred political recuperation. The Voyage en Hiver had no place in the cathedral’s reopening. This was about worship. About returning to God in a space that had been quiet for too long—not about municipal branding or winter tourism. “Give unto Caesar what belongs to Caesar, and unto God what belongs to God.”  (Matthew 22:21)

That day, I chose God’s silence over their spectacle.

My hands were cold when I raised the camera. December light in a stone cathedral is a quiet thing—more absence than presence. I wondered, honestly, if 400 ASA would be enough. But I wanted authenticity: more grain than digital noise, more truth than polish. So I trusted the FE’s metering, opened up my aperture, and let the film do what it does best. No second-guessing. No LCD screen.  Just the click of the shutter and the hope that the light would hold.

And it did.

The frames that emerged are darker than summer would allow—but this was December, after all. And in that darkness, something gentle remains: the grain cradling the texture of worn wooden pews, shadows tracing the ribs of vaulted stone, candlelight bleeding softly into halos where no banner now hangs. Black and white stripped away every distraction—the logos, the seasonal clutter, the noise—until only what mattered remained: light on stone, silence between pillars, the architecture of reverence.

One frame in particular stays with me: the candles. Shot at 1/30s, my hands unsteady not from illness but from the simple weight of the moment. The focus slipped slightly. The flames blurred into one another. And instead of frustration, I felt a quiet relief—the film hadn’t captured perfection. It had captured presence. Grain became breath. Blur became prayer.

I didn’t go to “get out of the house.” I went because the space was clean again—just stone, silence, and the stubborn glow of candlelight. And for a few minutes, with the FE cold against my palm and the smell of incense in the air, I remembered why I love film photography: it doesn’t lie. It holds what’s there—shadows and all—and asks only that you trust the process.

They sold a spectacle. I took back the light. And the grain—warm, imperfect, alive—proved which one will last.  My small act of reparation…

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. 

Summer 2025.  Part III.

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From Lourdes to the mountain. 

Lunch Before the Climb

The children walked ahead through the Sanctuary, as usual. Why is everyone in such a rush? Is it really that important to be first?

We’d done God. Now, God’s creation. But first: lunch. We stopped at Leclerc — secular, efficient, French.  Cheese and chutney for me, sardines for Killian, pâté for Kate — and a baguette each, because of course. Beer for him, ginger beer for us. And diesel for the car.

Driving Hairpins and Dodging Ravines

We would eat on the mountain side, and it would be amazing.  Back to the Pont d’Espagne — still in France, we checked. In Cauterets, we stopped for ice cream. Sat on a bench. Looked at the mountain. Said nothing. Then I herded them back to the car. “Souvenirs on the way down,” I promised.

It was much the same as last time, lots of first and second gear.  Praying all the way not to go off the road and die at the bottom of a ravine.  I wasn’t dying in a ravine today…  Around the hairpin bends we went, but since I had driven there last month I was slightly less panicky, and even started to enjoy the drive.  At last, we arrived at the car park, still in one piece and happy to be alive.  We were guided to a parking spot by staff.   

Killian got his day sack out of the car and as foolish as I am, I decided to rough it and not wear my hat.  I didn’t want to lose it.  When we got to the official entrance we found out that the télésièges and cable car were working. I took my stick anyway — just in case. And if I needed to beat any small children on the way up? Well, it might come in handy.  We bought our tickets to go right up to the Lac de Gaube, Killian would see it at last….  And, I wouldn’t have to walk 500 metres further up in altitude.  This was turning out to be quite the civilised way to go up a mountain.  I could get into this.  

The Cable Car: A Snug Fit

The cable car, well, to do it justice, could best be described as a snug fit, but the three of us piled in.  Up till that point, I was fine — just panicking when phones were poking through windows to film.

Some children were very nearly beaten!

Nearly…

A very close thing…

Mostly because I’d be the poor bugger having to replace thephones if anything happened. 

Nothing did happen.  Thank you Lord!

Surviving the Télésiège

At the top, we faced the télésiège — a bench on a wire, a bar that barely keeps you in. I took my stick. Just in case. And if I needed to beat any small children filming while rocking the thing? Well, it might come in handy.

My legs shook. Not from height — I’m fine above a certain level. It’s the low heights I hate. The ones where you fall and get impaled by trees. Or worse — have to explain it to their mother.

I survived. Stepped onto solid ground. The more-a the firma, the less-a the terror!

Lunch with a View at the Lac de Gaube

The “short” fifteen-minute walk up to the lake was fine and we passed those coming down, and were overtaken by those going up.  I didn’t care.  I would get there eventually.  Killian spotted a couple of boulders that would do very nicely for table and chairs and we sat down for lunch. I joked that my dark brown chutney, squeezed from the container, looked — and sounded — alarmingly like something it really shouldn’t.  The children did NOT find it as funny as I did.  No sense of humour these youngsters!  But with a baguette and a view? Near perfect. He’d regret the beer later. 

Kate in the Water, Me in Awe

Kate paddled in the lake. It was amazing. I’d heard of someone bivouacking up here. Now I understood. Mountains inspire awe. A glimpse into the glory of God’s creation.  

The Descent: More Civilised This Time

The descent was a more civilised affair.  Kate and I shared the télésiège, Killian took the one just behind us.  We got off and I told Killian to stop hanging around…  The “children” — Killian (26), Kate (nearly 16) — filmed the river, even under the water. I was impressed. Back at the car, Killian dumped the rubbish, then sneaked up and went “boo.” The little shit scared me half to death. Much to his merriment.

A Perfect Drive Home

The drive home was perfect.

God is, indeed, good. 

Summer 2025, Part II: Faith, Family, and the Road to Lourdes

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The Lourdes trip.

The Plan: Stress-Free or Bust

I wanted the trip down south to Lourdes to be a quiet one—especially for Kate. Stress-free, as much as possible. I can do this. No stress. Who needs stress anyway? My wife? Definitely not! No shouty-shouty, nothing.

There was an era in French driving when people thought nothing of a five-hour dash. I am not of that persuasion. Not my thing. If I want to stop, I will stop. We had one goal: get to Lourdes—and not die on the way. If that happened… my wife would kill me!

On the Road: Wine, Pines, and a Good Co-Pilot

The only thing I insisted on was that Killian, my son, be my co-pilot on the Bordeaux ring road. His support on our last trip had been invaluable. He has a knack for staying calm and guiding me gently. As we went past Cognac, Jonzac, Saint-Émilion, and Blaye, I could almost taste the wine on my lips—but no, just keep driving, as Dory might say.

South of Bordeaux, other names began to appear: Graves, Cadillac (the wine, not the car), Sauternes, and eventually the Landes, with their towering Pins Maritimes. Then came signs for Madiran—a nice little tipple!

First Sight of the Mountains

Kate was in the back seat, seeing the mountains for the first time. As soon as the Pyrénées appeared on the horizon, we told her, “Those aren’t clouds—they’re mountains.” She seemed to share our awe. She was also amazed that I didn’t say no to snacks, especially the chocolate chip cookies. Killian got me a coffee to keep me going until we arrived. Good man.

Saturday Morning in Lourdes

Saturday morning would be for God, and Saturday afternoon for the mountains.

We set off relatively early—or, in my fifteen-year-old daughter’s eyes, the crack of dawn. We parked where we had during our last visit and walked gently down toward the Sanctuary. I didn’t even have to stop the children from entering each shop, intent on burning a hole in my bank card. The majority were still shut. And there might be some of you thinking I did that on purpose!

We popped into the café: Killian and I had espresso with croissants, while Kate enjoyed hot chocolate and a tartine of bread with unsalted butter. I felt so bad for her—we live in a region where salted butter is almost sacred! We thanked our waiter, amused by the children speaking French to me while I replied in a different language.

Faith, Water, and Candles

The morning was for God. I went to confession, half-hoping the nun from last time—the one who had made such an impression on Killian—would still be there. She wasn’t, but that was fine. We drifted toward the grotto and said a quiet prayer to Our Lady. Kate seemed less impressed than we were, and I secretly hoped she might feel something. We asked about the baths, but they had reached the daily limit. I still managed to have them sprinkle the healing waters of Lourdes on their faces.

As we crossed the bridge, we spotted a fish—Kate was delighted. She lingered, fascinated by the enormous candles left by pilgrims, each wrapped with prayers. We lit our own candles and said “our” prayers. I checked the mass times for the next day—and found them! No idea where the mass would be, but Kate got us there. Today was Saturday… not Sunday yet.

These photos were taken on the Nikon FE using HP5+ film shot at box speed.

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Summer 2025. Part I: Beer, Bad Decisions, and the Road to Lourdes

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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.

Eejit number 1 on the right and his sister who would be putting up with us for the weekend… Nikon FE 50mm Ilford HP+ at box speed.

Lourdes 2025

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There are places in the world where time feels different — where the air is thick with memory, hope, and something quieter than silence. Lourdes is one of those places. This is the story of my pilgrimage there with my son Killian — and of the moment that changed us both.

Lourdes 2025

I look back on our trip to Lourdes with great affection and know that I will be going back with Killian one day. Lourdes is one of the most significant sites when it comes to Marian apparitions — and was where the dogma of the Immaculate Conception was confirmed. Our Lady made several apparitions to Bernadette Soubirous, and the grotto remains exactly as it was, as does the spring she once dug by hand, along with the sacred alcove where Mother Mary actually appeared.

This time we didn’t manage to go to the baths, but I did attend Mass and go to confession.

Was it a pilgrimage for both of us? In some way, yes. Killian’s faith path and my own may be at different places, but we couldn’t help but feel changed.

Little did I know that while I was waiting inside to go to confession, an African nun had come up to Killian and had started talking to him.

When I was confessing my many sins, the priest guided me, taught me, and reminded me of some of the key elements of the faith — and the importance of looking after myself. He was completely right about everything. It was a moving experience — I left that confessional a new man, newly reconciled with God. I said my penance and went to find the boy.

For those of us who went to Catholic schools, we know all about the power of nuns — and you listen to them. She spoke to him not only with authority, but with profound wisdom, deep kindness, and the kind of love only an African mother can carry in her voice. He later told me how much she had marked him. When I came out of confession, she was still talking to him — and boy, was he listening.

Was it just a nun — or was it Our Lady speaking to him the way Jesus speaks through the words of the priest during Mass? I don’t know. But what I do know is that what that nun said to him had moved him more than any lecture from his father ever could. She was such a happy woman, and her laugh was infectious. She truly had the joy of serving Christ.

Lourdes is a place of hope, healing, and searching — a place where we often find God through Mary.

Killian had not only been a constant companion to me, helping me and laughing with me, but I believe God had spoken to that boy through that nun and set something in motion. Is he still fighting his demons? Yes. But there was a glimmer of hope in the darkness — one that won’t leave him untouched.

I didn’t question him further. Some moments are too sacred to dissect. And every soul walks its own path to God.

We had spontaneously gone to Mass the day Pope Leo was elected, and there was a joyful energy in the sanctuary. Habemus Papam. It was a special day.

Not because of the ceremony, or the news, or even the setting — but because, in that moment, I knew: God had not stopped speaking.

Sometimes, He speaks through a stranger. Sometimes, through a mother’s voice. And sometimes, through a son who learns to listen again.

The Pyrenees Mountains – and the Pont d’Espagne which isn’t in Spain

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If the Vendée is Jane Birkin — elegant, understated — then the Pyrenees are full-on Marilyn. Proper mountains. Vast. Unapologetic. Even in May, some peaks were still capped in snow.

I was in Lourdes hoping to strengthen my faith. I think Killian needed that too — but more than anything, he needed his mountains. Now, finally, I get it. Up there, I saw him more clearly: less the boy I once knew, more the man he’s becoming.

Like most of us, he has his issues — but he’s working through them. And sometimes, he even lets me help. Those are the moments I think I might just be getting somewhere as a father.

He’d decided we were heading to see his beloved mountains. The place? The Pont d’Espagne — yes, in France, despite the name. I may have mentioned that. Maybe.

We left the impressive foothills of Lourdes behind and climbed into the real mountains. Snowy peaks against blue sky and drifting clouds. Windows down, music low, we drove toward the famous pont. It had better be worth it.

Killian and I travel at a relaxed pace. If the view’s good, we’ll pull over. Get the camera out. Take a few shots. See what happens.

Sometimes it works. Sometimes it’s a fiasco. But more often than not, we come away with something.

Oh no! Catastrophe! A village where you can park, and go and get an ice cream. Ah well. We took one for the team, and the lady behind the counter told us that the previous week they had snow and were shut, yet this week everything looked just like a day in May should look like. Ice cream seems to have this way of just hitting “that” spot. It’s not the tidiest of foods to eat, but it’s one I’ve developed a great fondness for it over the years.

I was already learning how to approach the infamous concept of the hairpin bend. As you know, a full head of hair hasn’t been my issue for years — let alone hairpins. But the name fits. The main thing is to drive slowly, carefully, and not die… Given I’m writing this now, reports of my untimely demise were, as they say, greatly exaggerated.

We arrived at the Parc National des Pyrénées. You go through a barrier that didn’t seem to be working — one that had given up on life and was just standing to attention, waiting for whatever ‘it’ might be. So, being the thoroughly decent chaps and all-round good eggs that we are, we tried to find a ticket. We couldn’t, but since we had tried, we said something that rhymes with bucket, and started walking to see, at long last, the bloody bridge. It had better be worth it.

I had the X100F with me and Killian was carrying my DSLR and kit. What a good lad he is. He later said that if I wasn’t lugging it around, we might’ve gone just that little bit further. So back to the pont…

Before we even saw the bridge, we heard it: the sound of the water was tremendous. Water is a primeval force, and this was huge. I wanted the “money” shot, and decided to try with the X100F, giving it a sporting chance. The Canon 6D Mark II, with its stabilised lens, would come out on top. Handheld at 1/6th of a second? Not ideal — but fun to try. You get the feeling of movement in your shot, and with the magic of ND filters, you’re not overexposed.

The site itself is just astounding — not just because of the view or the sound, but because of the raw power of the place. Killian led me grumbling up the hill and we sat down to have our picnic. We fed the ants a bit of our pâté en croûte and watched them discover it, then devour it completely. And devour it they did.

He led me past the téléphérique — closed, of course — and followed the river until we reached a wide, flat-bottomed valley with water snaking through it. We saw traces of horses and wild boars, which are a lot less boring than you might think. I noticed the clouds coming round the mountains as they go, but not singing. I don’t know a huge amount about mountains, but that’s usually a cue to get back to the car…

The walk back to the car was just about being father and son — taking the mickey out of each other as we went. It seemed to be the way we operated, and I wouldn’t change it for the world.

Lourdes 2025: A Father–Son Farewell Tour

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When your son tells you 2025 is going to be his year, you smile, nod, and try not to think about how quiet the house will be once he’s gone. But before Killian set off into his new chapter, he offered me something unexpected: one last road trip—just the two of us.

You might well be aware that I have a son. His name is Killian, he’s 26, and he’d been living at home since a rather painful break-up. My wife had been dropping “subtle” hints for months, wondering aloud when her boy might consider leaving again. Last year, he brashly declared that 2025 would be his year.

The little bugger was true to his word. I now live with my wife and daughter, firmly in the minority. Molly, the dog, and Zombie, the cat, are both girls. The only other male left in the house is Mamaduke, the other cat—and he was neutered as a kitten.

Feeling somewhat emasculated, Killian offered to accompany me on one final road trip before leaving me alone with all this oestrogen. He suggested we return to Lourdes, as we had done back in 2019. He was a different man back then—brighter around the eyes, more reckless, maybe—but he has since matured through his heartache, and the healing that followed.

The Airbnb was booked and paid for. The car was ready. We were ready. My wife was looking forward to some peace and quiet. We’d be fine, and yes, we promised to send messages on the way to let her know where we were. We had the whole week off work, and this four-day visit would give us a bit of time together before he started this new chapter of his life. One last Ian-and-Killian trip.

On the way down, I quickly learnt that I’d have to hand over control of the music. That was going to be interesting.

He still hates selfies, and is terribly self-conscious about being on camera. So when he spotted my phone recording the both of us, he just muttered, “Mais quel enfer…” The road was very quiet for most of the journey, and things only got rough around Bordeaux. We passed a lorry on its side, cargo strewn everywhere. We said a quiet prayer for the driver. It was a sobering reminder of how fragile life on the road can be.

Killian kept a close eye on me as we tackled the ring road around Bordeaux, directing me with impressive calm. Once we got past the city, things settled down—so did we. Frequent stops for coffee, and fresh air at service stations helped. I wasn’t about to push through and risk ending up like that poor lorry driver. My wife would kill me if I died…

We managed to find our digs for the stay, and although small, it was perfect for the two of us. Killian made us dinner, and we got to bed feeling happy to be alive, and happy to be once again in Lourdes.

We would go down to the Sanctuary the next morning, say hello to Our Lady, maybe go to confession, and visit the baths. Killian wanted to go to Spain, but since I didn’t have our passports, that wasn’t going to happen.

Through the Lens of Love: Reframing Shakespeare’s Sonnet 18

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Through the Lens of Love: Reframing Shakespeare’s Sonnet 18

I’ve been experimenting with video lately — combining image, voice, rhythm, and mood. So I made a simple film of myself reading Sonnet 18. No music. No flair. Just words and breath.

“Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day?”

It’s one of Shakespeare’s most quoted sonnets and one of his least thought about. Everyone knows the first line. Fewer people follow it to its conclusion — which is essentially an argument against time. Beauty fades, summer ends, but the poem itself refuses to. Art, Shakespeare is saying, holds what life cannot.

Photography makes the same claim. We press the shutter because we don’t want to let go.

I’m no literary scholar. But I’ve been married for over thirty years, and that gives you a particular relationship with the idea of love lasting. Virginie and I are not the same people we were in our twenties — and I’m grateful for that. What I felt then wasn’t what I feel now. It was the seed of it. Love doesn’t stay still. That’s its difficulty and its grace.

My son has just left home after his first real heartbreak. It was messy, as first loves tend to be. He’ll come through it — hopefully a little wiser, maybe a little gentler. My daughter still believes she knows exactly what love is. I hope I can guide her without crushing that certainty too soon.

In the North of England where I grew up, summer is short and unreliable. Shirtless Geordies drinking lager in May, ice cream vans doing brisk trade under grey skies — we know the value of warmth because we get so little of it. Here in the Vendée the summers are longer, but just as hard to hold on to. The light is different. Softer. Still slipping.

“By chance or nature’s changing course untrimm’d.”

Untrimmed sails. Love as a voyage. Not always calm water.

A photograph feels permanent. Look at it years later and the people in it have become slightly foreign — younger, in clothes they no longer own, with expressions they’ve since lost. Art doesn’t stop time. It echoes it.

We don’t photograph to freeze a moment. We photograph because we know it’s already leaving.

Shakespeare understood this. He didn’t name the beloved. We don’t know who the sonnet was written for. But we feel the love — and that’s the part that survives.

So long as men can breathe, or eyes can see — So long lives this, and this gives life to thee.

The Opening of the Film Archives—Abbaye de la Grainetière, October 2016

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“They” say that if you leave your child to the Jesuits for seven years, then that child will belong to the Jesuits for life. I am not a Jesuit, but I was heavily influenced by the Benedictines when I went away to prep school in 1980. Mummy, Daddy, let me reassure you, this isn’t about Gilling—some things are better left in the past. This article will instead focus on a different Benedictine site, one that I visited much later in life: l’Abbaye de la Grainetière, a peaceful monastery here in the Vendée.

The Abbey of Notre-Dame de La Grainetière, on the outskirts of the town of Les Herbiers in Vendée (France), encompasses nearly nine centuries of tumultuous history. For over 50 years, numerous restoration works have been undertaken. These efforts allowed for the re-establishment of a community of monks at the end of 1978, nearly 200 years after the abbey was abandoned by the monks, shortly after the Revolution of 1789. Classified as a historical monument since 1946, many volunteers are working to continue the legacy of La Grainetière.

To those of you unfamiliar with the ins and outs of the Catholic Church, the role of monks is to live in community, and their main duty is to pray for us in the wider community. The monks elect a Father Abbot, who is responsible for running the monastery. In centuries gone by, the Abbot would wield a huge amount of influence, but this power has been reined in over time and is less evident outside the monastic community.

When I visited l’Abbaye de la Grainetière, I couldn’t help but reflect on how different this Benedictine monastery felt from my school days. The quiet prayer, the stillness—it offered a kind of peace that I hadn’t experienced for a long time, and a life that was once very appealing to me.

The monks follow the Rule of Saint Benedict, a foundational guide for monastic life that addresses not only prayer, but also how to live both within and beyond the monastery walls. Though written for monks, many of its teachings have been adopted by the laity seeking a structured, spiritually focused life.

I could almost say I envy them the simplicity of monastic life compared to the complexities of modern society and family life—juggling careers, responsibilities, and the endless distractions of today’s world. While I don’t regret the joys and vibrancy that come with having a family—something perhaps lacking in monastic life—it’s hard not to admire the stillness and purpose that a simpler existence can offer. We all have different vocations in life. Mine was to be a father.

As I packed away my camera and left the grounds of l’Abbaye de la Grainetière, I found myself still pondering the contrast between the quiet, ordered life of the monks and the complexity of my own. It’s not a question of envy or regret, but a reminder that we all find peace in different ways — theirs in prayer and solitude, mine in the laughter of my children and the rush and noise of everyday life. Each vocation, after all, carries its own kind of grace.

Post Scriptum:

The photos were taken with a Canon AE1, and its FD mount 50mm F1.8 lens, using Ilford HP5 + black and white film.

Navigating the Digital Abyss: Unmasking the Devil’s Tactics in Online Discourse

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Internet comment sections can bring out something close to malice in people. I found this out first-hand after wading into a discussion on fatherhood that turned into one of the more hostile exchanges I’ve had online.

I’d shared my own experience of fatherhood and the joy it’s brought me. When I pushed back on some of the more negative takes in the thread and made the case for the personal and societal benefits of raising a family, I was met with a wall of hostility. I was called a “dinosaur” and a “boomer” for holding “traditional values,” accused of being “out of touch” and “selfish” for wanting children, told to “shut the fcuk up,” asked “did you take your meds today?”, and told I was probably senile or had Alzheimer’s.

None of that was pleasant, but more than that, it was clearly meant to shut the conversation down rather than engage with it.

What struck me most was the intellectual dishonesty on display: misrepresenting my actual position, cherry-picking whatever supported the other side, and going after me rather than the argument. When I pointed out the positive impact fatherhood has had on my own life, I was told overpopulation was the real issue and that personal freedom trumped any responsibility to family. It’s flawed logic, but it was also just a way of dismissing the subject rather than engaging with it. “Who cares what you think?” and “mind your own business” were about as far as the counterarguments went.

It’s a classic echo chamber effect: people are only exposed to what confirms what they already believe, which entrenches them further and makes real dialogue harder.

I keep coming back to my Catholic faith on this one. The Church’s teachings call for discernment, humility, and the pursuit of truth, even in the face of hostility. As Pope Francis put it, “We were created to love, and love demands an open heart, open to God.” That’s a better guide for how to handle disagreement than anything I’ve seen in a comment section.

The internet isn’t just a place to shout opinions. It’s also a place to learn and build relationships, if we let it be. I’d rather use it that way than let comment-section hostility be the last word.