Category: France

The Great Shutter Disaster of 2025

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Ah, family lunches in France. As a rule what can go wrong, will go wrong, and what would go right, generally doesn’t. But why let that get in the way of a family reunion. Fortunately we all love eachother and woe the person that tries to say someting from outisde!

A Calm Before the Storm

Marina and Vincent (sister-in-law and her husband) had arrived that night. Virginie was already downstairs having her shower, and I sat outside waiting my turn, talking to Marina. Lunch preparations were already underway. Marina was cleaning the tables, and I was hoping that Virginie would soon vacate the bathroom and let me get on with my ablutions. Marina is a lovely girl; we get on well, and it’s a joy to talk to her.

Dapper Daywear

Saved by the Virginie. Time to get clean and get dressed in my killer outfit. Well, maybe not a killer — but certainly looking almost smart and dressed for the warm weather. I had gone for beige linen trousers, a darker beige Cuban collar shirt, brown desert boots, and had my Panama to protect me from the sun. I was looking quite dapper, if I say so myself.

When I came back from my shower, the tables were laid out and people were being very well behaved. It was almost civilized. I can hardly believe it myself.

Tables Set, Guests Arrive

People started arriving: Marina, Vincent, Sylvie and Raymond, Marien, my wife’s brother, his wife Nathalie, Marie Lou their daughter, and Raphaël, Marie Lou’s little boy; Jessica and Xavier with two of their little people, Enora and Gabriel, who are slightly less little now. I don’t think I’ve missed anyone. Bugger. I forgot Bali, Raymond’s labrador, who was almost as sweet as Molly. But no dog is as sweet as my Molly, of course!

Drinks, Dishes, and a Dog House

I was sat next to Xavier, keeping the two black sheep together in the proverbial dog house. Marina was next to me, so a lovely lunch in prospect. My mother-in-law had made her tabouleh, which she always gets spot on. Marien started the apéro with whiskey, which — as any Caledonian will remind you — is always drunk at the end of a meal. But since Marien lives in New Caledonia, they must have changed everything. The other choices were kir, a family favourite, or martini and tonic water, a beverage that didn’t have a huge amount of water despite the name. I settled on Coke Zero. Meaning I could drive away and “do some photography” if ever the proverbial were to hit the fan.

The Shutter Strikes

I knew things were going far too well. The inevitable happened. Virginie had wound up the shutter too high, and the bloody thing had disappeared. Gisèle was setting off, blaming the whole thing on her bloody ex, who was nothing more than a leecher and was now some other poor woman’s problem. Virginie was going mad at the idea of the great shutter disaster being her fault.

Shutter Savior

I actually work in a factory that makes these kinds of shutters, and therefore, for once in my life, I was able to shine. This was going to be my finest hour, my time to shine. I was going to be like Lin-Manuel Miranda in Hamilton , and not miss my shot. I was starting to feel all warm inside, as I actually knew what the hell I was talking about.

I looked at the offending shutter, secretly celebrating on the inside that it wasn’t my fault, and tried to guide Virginie through how to fix the problem — which, for clarification, was not my fault. We eventually got the bloody thing back into place and blocked it. Problem solved. And I had earned points from my wife.

Seating Charts and Sun Hats

During this débacle, Gisèle was now seated next to Vincent, and Virginie was now seated next to Marien. I did warn you about the names of everyone. You really must keep up! Xavier and I were relishing not being in the dog house for once, and I loaned him the Chapeau de Bonheur — the happy hat; you wear it and you’re happy — to protect him from the sun. I was allowed my two sausages, some tabouleh, which Marien had decreed was dégeulasse , though I thought it was quite tasty.

A Siesta and a Fireworks Forecast

This was turning out to be a very enjoyable lunch, for once. I removed myself from the gathering and headed up to bed for my sieste. I would be seeing everyone later anyway for the firework display…

Drama Avoided

I have chosen to forget the inevitable shouty shouty between Virginie, Marina, and Gisèle, because, firstly, it wasn’t my place to intervene. I may be the black sheep, but I’m not suicidal. Things seemed to calm down, and Marina declared that the three women couldn’t rule the family. And how wise it was of me to keep out of the way of this formidable feminine force. As Ronnie Corbett so famously said, I know my place…

Back to Hell’s Belz

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Welcome back, dear reader, to my world.

Today we will talk about families, food, being a hero, and more family, and kir. I know you can’t wait, so let’s begin.

Arrival in Bretagne

It was early evening and we eventually arrived in Bretagne, feeling very warm, surprisingly peaceful, and ready for whatever the weekend had in store for us. Or so I thought, but more about that later.

We arrived and my mother-in-law was talking to some people with Southern accents. Strange… But I recognised something in the gentleman’s voice. It was Raymond and Sylvie who are friends with Marina, my sister-in-law, and Vincent, her husband. You’re going to meet quite a few members of the family, so try and keep up. Vincent is deaf and has a hearing loss of 94%. Raymond was completely deaf, but had had a cochlear implant and could now hear! Isn’t science amazing. Sylvie is his wife.

L’Apéro – The Social Ritual That Just Happens

As will happen in summer, especially in France, we settled down to have the apéro. What an amazing invention. I have talked about this before, but they just seem to happen and people just know what to do and fit naturally into their respective roles. We talked about our hearing aids, and the difference they made in our lives. And started cracking jokes and basically having a good time. I was on the fizzy mineral water—you never know when you might need a driver.

Crisis Calls – Jessica and Xavier Need Rescue

We were in coastal Bretagne and it was nice to be back seeing Gisèle, my mother-in-law. The conversation was flowing and it was turning out to be a lovely evening. The phone rang. For once, Gisèle heard the phone and answered it. She has hearing problems too. Jessica, my wife’s other sister, and her husband Xavier, had been in La Rochelle and had taken a coach to get back home. That coach was late, and the boat back had stopped running. Ian to the rescue.

Xavier and I are the black sheep of the family, and get the most criticism. Xavier, because he is Xavier, and me because I’m not French. After 30 years we have become accustomed to our rôles and are secretly proud of it.

To the Rescue – Loca Loca Restaurant, Here We Come

I reminded my mother-in-law how shitty it can be when a plan, well, doesn’t go to plan—even more so when it’s not your fault. I said, right, let’s get in the car and go and get them. My mother-in-law would be the navigator. She asked if my car was a new car. I wasn’t, but it would be nice if it were. And wasn’t it far to drive? No, it wasn’t. She would have told them to stay the night with their son. True, but isn’t it nice, at the end of a long day of plans going wrong, to have something that goes right? It’s good to be good, etc.

Embrassades and Bises – Reunited at Last

We arrived at the station and couldn’t find each other. Gisèle was starting to get worked up, and I just calmed the situation down. Jess, you where? OK. I don’t know how to get there but I saw the Loca Loca restaurant. Can you both go there? They could. I drove round the block and I’m not sure whether where I parked was legal, but no flying farts were given, and that would be where I would be parking to pick them up. Embrassades and the famous “bise” and let’s get that case into the boot. Try and find a place on the back seat. They found a place on the back seat. And back to Belz to get them home. Yes, it’s good being good.

Kir, Shrimps, and a Forgotten CPAP Machine

Gisèle and I got back to her house, and the Kir was flowing and now it was my turn to have a few. Very nice it was too. We talked, talked, and talked some more, and Raymond went back to Sylvie and Gisèle, my wife and I decided to eat. Shrimps, homemade mayonnaise, and boiled potatoes. Simple, and wonderful!

We were to sleep in the bureau. My wife was upset at me because I had forgotten my CPAP machine. I would just go to sleep and enjoy the night… Tomorrow would be another day, full of adventure. Well, everything is relative I suppose. I will see you, Dear Reader, tomorrow…

Bastille Day 2025

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An audio “deep dive” into the article…

Bastille Day, or should I say la fête nationale, is linked to the French Revolution but technically has nothing to do with the Bastille, which was a fortress prison in Paris that was stormed on the 14th of July 1789. It only housed seven prisoners, and yet it became a symbol of anti-royalism. It still cost the guv’nor his head! Oops-a-daisy.

No, no, no. La fête nationale, technically speaking, started as the Fête de la Fédération in 1790, and was only officially established in 1880. After the fall of Napoleon III and the creation of the Third Republic in 1870, there was a need to unify the country and create a shared national identity. They always need so much time, these Frenchies, to get some things done and agreed upon…

To the modern Frenchman, it is synonymous with a weekend off, the military parade, the chance to hear the President’s speech, to make a biting critique of said President, and to declare him a despicable little man. It’s always their fault anyway. It is also synonymous with firework displays and dances organised by the fire brigade—bal des pompiers—which, contrary to popular belief, does not literally translate to “firemen’s balls.”

It also marks the official start of the Grandes Vacances, when the country begins to shut down for summer until the rentrée in September.

But for me, it meant getting the children to a restaurant for lunch on the Saturday to eat with my brother-in-law, his wife, his daughter, and his grandson. Killian was a “little tired” after a long week at work and some drinkie-poos with friends at the bottom of the castle walls in Montaigu. No, of course he wasn’t hungover, heaven forbid. Of course he hadn’t lost his phone, and of course he hadn’t hurt his wrist wrestling—or cuddling with—his mates. He had tried to get out of it, but was told, “Not bloody likely,” by his mother, and I said I’d take Kate to go and get the boy. A friend had found his phone, so we passed by her flat to get it back. The Anglais arrived fashionably late at 12h15. Sat down and had a couple of beers. We almost looked presentable!

We ate and caught up, had a very pleasant lunch, and I finally met my new nephew Raphaël—a lovely two-and-a-half-year-old. Motherhood suits my niece to a tee, and it felt wonderful not to have to be on full alert because it was no longer my job. After eating, we men went to pay for the meal, and Killian was more than happy to contribute, bless him.

We dropped off Killian, who declared his intention to have a “little snooze,” and dropped Kate off at home so she could welcome Emeline, who would be spending the weekend with her. Virginie had cleaned the kitchen, and Kate had been briefed to keep said kitchen just as spotless for our return from Brittany to visit my in-laws… The last visit had gone surprisingly well, and it was with actual pleasure that we set off. It was still a tad warm, and since there was a risk of fires, all fireworks had been cancelled by the préfet. In Montaigu there would be no fireworks, no bal des pompiers, but in Brittany it would be fine! Yippee!!

The trip up was very much the usual trip to Brittany on a busy weekend on the roads. We were not driving at a rapid rate of knots, and Virginie’s infamous and rather colourful language punctuated the drive. The Frenchman, whilst driving in 36°C heat, can get a little irate. His ultimate goal is to get there—wherever there might be—before the car in front of him.

The hierarchy of traffic, as far as he’s concerned, goes like this:
– Anyone from the same department is a mate.
– Anyone from our region is a mate—unless they’re from Maine-et-Loire, who apparently don’t know how to drive, or Loire-Atlantique, who think they know how to drive but clearly don’t.
– We’re from the Vendée—and we do know how to drive… we’re just usually too drunk to do it properly.
– Anybody else from France is fine, I suppose.
– UK drivers are also mates—especially if, like us, your car proudly displays both an F and a UK sticker.
– Drivers from 75 (Paris)? Absolutely clueless.
– Those from 91, 92, 93, 94, 95, 77, and 78—the rest of Île-de-France—are also deeply suspect.

Ah, Bastille Day. The revolution may be over, but the road rage? That’s just getting started.

Drop in next week for another adventure where we actually get to Hell’s Belz, in one piece. That first evening is already full of adventures as I rise to save the day, Jessica and Xavier, and not get told off by Gisèle. I do get told off by my wife for being a complete idiot and forgetting my CPAP machine for my sleep apnea…

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. I had decided not to overdo anything, and just see where the trip would lead us. No stress, and no rigorous schedule. All I wanted to do was to get to confession, to Mass, and get some water, take some photos, and film to make a video. Killian wanted to go to the Pont d’Espagne, which—despite the name—is in France. But more about that later…

The Opening of the Film Archives – March 2017 with Kate in the Vines

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Hello you! It’s great to have you back for another dive into the archives. Over the past few posts, you might have noticed a recurring star of the series: my Canon AE1. While it’s true I’ve leaned on this camera heavily for many of these moments, I promise there’s more variety to come—even some colour film photography! For now, though, let’s continue exploring these Canon snapshots together. Thank you for sticking with me—it means a lot to me.

This time, I took my daughter Kate for a walk among the vines—a walk I used to do with Killian when he was about her age. Admittedly, it wasn’t the most creative choice for me, but for Kate, it was a brand-new adventure. That’s my excuse, and I’m sticking to it.

The day was all about Kate, the wind, and the way it danced through her hair. Unlike me, where the wind barely leaves a trace, it created a beautiful, dynamic subject in her. There’s something magical about how the movement of hair and clothing in the wind adds life to a photograph. I captured some truly memorable shots that I now treasure as priceless souvenirs of a fleeting moment.

Maybe they were some of those famous Kodak moments… Whatever the case, they bring back lovely memories of simpler times. Looking back, it reminds me how the simplest moments—like a walk through familiar vines—can hold so much meaning. Sometimes, what’s close to home can be just as captivating as far-off adventures.

It also reminds us that though we might be in familiar territory, that territory can look entirely different to someone seeing it for the first time. The soft, diffused light that day brought out rich textures in the vines, and Kate’s sense of wonder made even the most ordinary details come alive.

When you’re out with your camera, maybe, just maybe, that’s something to keep in mind. How might your everyday surroundings look through fresh eyes—or through the eyes of someone discovering them for the first time?