Category: Film Photography

February 2026 — Clisson with the Nikon FE

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Maybe I’m a little stubborn, just maybe, but I’m insisting on using my Nikon FE and for my health I have to get out. I had some Tri-X that needed using, and some HP5+ left over, so time to use it. And it does my mental health good too—getting out of the house despite the horrible light and rain.

“They” always say to go out in good light and use golden hour. We haven’t been blessed with good weather lately (understatement of the year contender 2026), and I always say just go out anyway and do it.

I shot two rolls that afternoon—72 frames total. Tri-X and HP5+, both at box speed. No pushing. I developed them in Fomadon LQN because it handles flat light cleanly: shadows stay defined, grain doesn’t get muddy even when the sky gives you nothing. When I scanned them, about half were ok enough to keep—36 frames that worked. Of those, maybe half a dozen were real keepers. That’s how it goes. Not every frame needs to be a masterpiece. Some just need to exist.

In Lightroom I only used the curves tool to pull a bit of separation between the wet stone and the grey sky. I wasn’t trying to manufacture contrast that wasn’t there. The rain had already done part of the work: cobblestones held texture because the light was even, puddles on the stairs created accidental reflections, and the streets were empty enough that I didn’t have to wait for tourists to clear the frame.

I won’t pretend I enjoyed standing in the damp. My shoes got wet. My hands were cold. But I needed to leave the house, and the camera gave me a reason to do it. The film was a deadline. The weather was irrelevant.

As you can see in the following photos, the light wasn’t fabulous, so we adapt. There are still interesting things to be seen.

Shot on Nikon FE with 50mm f/1.8. Kodak Tri-X 400 and Ilford HP5+ rated at box speed, developed in Fomadon LQN. Edited in Lightroom: curves adjusted for shadow separation only.

More Light Than We Imagine

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Shooting Nantes at Night with HP5+

One September evening I walked between Place Bouffay and rue des Petits Écuries with the Nikon FE and a roll of HP5+. Box speed—400 ASA. No pushing. No stand development. Just me, tired eyes, and the hope the city would be kind.

It wasn’t always.

Some frames failed outright. Missed focus—my eyes couldn’t lock the split-image patch in the dim light. Others blurred from camera shake at 1/15th, handholding like a fool. I won’t pretend those shots have hidden merit. They’re gone. But the ones that landed? They held more than I expected.

Because Nantes at night isn’t dark. Restaurants pour light onto wet cobbles. Shop signs, streetlamps, even those little menu stands outside cafés—they all feed the scene. I’d guess the focus, press the shutter, and move on. Later, scanning the roll, I found detail in shadows I thought were lost. Not because I’d exposed well—I hadn’t—but because HP5+ gathered what was there even when I fumbled.

That’s latitude in practice. Not a spec sheet promise, but the difference between a usable negative and a blank one when your hands shake and your eyes fail. I didn’t push to 1600. I didn’t need to. I just needed a film that wouldn’t punish me for being human.

The December shots are more traditional street work—grey skies, low sun, the light you expect. Even the coffee cup photo owes something to Instagram. I won’t deny it. We absorb what we see online; it seeps into our framing without us noticing. No shame in that—it’s just how we learn now.

But the September shots that worked feel more like my own. Standing in Place Bouffay as evening deepened, watching light pool around tables and bounce off stone—I wasn’t chasing a look. I was just there, squinting, hoping. And HP5+ met that without fuss.

I’m not claiming mastery. I’m claiming a few good frames out of a roll that also held misses. That feels honest. Cities don’t go dark—they transform. And sometimes, even with bad eyesight and shaky hands, a simple roll of film gives you just enough to keep walking.

All photographs shot on Ilford HP5+ at 400 ASA, developed in standard chemistry. Nikon FE, Nantes—December 2025 and September 2025, Place Bouffay and rue des Petits Écuries.

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.