When I look back at this blog, it would appear that I have been “at it” since the 19th of February 2019 (or was it that I took the first photos for the blog on that day?) and it would also appear that I am still “at it!” There have been various themes to the blog, including a bit of photography, a bit of Nantes in France, a few obligatory bike shots, a couple of portraits, a couple of articles about my mental health, and my love of tea and cake.
Today, I will talk about tea and cake, and will also share a favourite address where one can partake in this passion of mine. Not that I’m turning into a lifestyle blog of course. Salivating? Get a napkin and wipe your mouth already!
At the beginning of the month, I had a rehearsal with the Symphonique des Bords de Loire, and with a couple of my friends from Cholet days, who play the fiddle, we went to have tea, and cake, in Nantes after the rehearsal. What a good idea! It would have to be La Passagère, in the Passage Pommeraye, and whilst waiting to be placed, we could ooh and ahh, looking at the cakes and thinking about what we might like to have.
It was just lovely looking through the menu and deciding how we would go about getting diabetes. You’ll be able to get an idea by exploring the photos… The girls had various forms of hot chocolate, and I had Darjeeling. Somebody has to keep standards up! They’re absolutely charming but French… We must show understanding.
So with blood sugar rising, we reminded ourselves of the “brunch sign” that we had seen whilst waiting at the entrance. We have two concerts in May with meeting times at 14h30, which is when they stop serving brunch. Well, it would be a shame to miss that. So we’re not going to miss that! At €28 a head, it seemed to be a good price for such a treat! That somebody has a birthday the same day, has nothing to do with anything. Oh no…
As the good friend that I am, I thought that somebody should do a recce. I would climb up to the parapet and ready myself to go over the top and sacrifice myself to control the quality of this brunch from La Passagère. Somebody has to do it, and as a gentleman, it has to be me.
I turned up and was seated. The waiter showed me the Brunch menu, placed some other people, and brought me the menu back. I was so excited that I missed half of it. Could I have Darjeeling please, even though I could have chosen any hot drink on the menu, even an Irish coffee, and with a choice of brioche, croissant, and pain au chocolat, I went for some pain and chose a citron pressé for my daily dose of vitamin C.
The gentleman brought me my tea, my viennoiserie, which looked perfect, and my citron, and then said, I’ll be back with the rest. The rest. Two short words hold such promise and make Ian, a very happy chappy. He came back with a tray with fromage blanc, granola, fruit salad, and my favourite jam in the whole wide world. Myrtille Jam. And a shrimp salad. There was me being even happier by the moment and remembering to take photos to show my friends in the group chat.
The only thing that I could complain about was the lack of more tasty fruit salad! The prawns were wonderful and felt almost meaty! Everything was magical. Is it the done thing to put jam on my pain au chocolat? Even if it isn’t, it won’t be the last time I do this. I might have to do it in private next time.
A very nice waitress came to see me and asked me whether I was ready for the next plate. What a sweetie, knowing exactly what to say to make me happy. Out came a very timid, yet heartfelt, “yes please!” Back she came with “la suite.” A parboiled egg that had had its shell removed, on a bed of some finely cut leek and carrots in a cream sauce. Cutting into the egg, the yolk was perfectly runny. A true taste sensation! The generous serving of smoked salmon was top-notch. Luckily, there was just enough bread to mop up the sauce and remaining yolk.
And that was just the start of a day of photography on a warm and sunny day in February. But that deserves its own article…
When does Happy Birthday become Happy Not Dead Yet Day? Is there a cut-off age for birthdays, or should men become like women and become just 21 again? Are birthdays just for children? Why am I talking about this anyway? Today is the anniversary of my birth. I was born on this day in 1972, 51 years ago. When this article will be published my birthday will have passed so don’t try finding my date of birth. Some people love their birthdays and enjoy them and just go for it. I, surprise, surprise, am not one of those dreadful people. Noooo, I am just in a foul mood, and despite receiving happy birthday wishes with good grace, I remain, under my breath, just an angry old man. What is wrong with me?!
It could be because my birthday isn’t even being celebrated on the day itself. Well, it is but it isn’t. I expressed the wish for a beer and pizza night. So, of course, I’m the one who has to go out and get the effing pizzas and get the beer. I’m not even allowed to choose the effing film, because I am a sucker for a Rom-Com, and my family members aren’t so we won’t be watching one. My daughter chose a birthday cake, a chocolate cake, which I am rather partial to, but it has that sickly sweet icing on it and is a unicorn rainbow cake. She’s basically taking the piss out of me. This isn’t me being paranoid since she actually admitted everything! I’m even more pissed off with myself as I should be grateful instead of being selfish. Damn you conscience!!!
I don’t like being the centre of attention and feel very uneasy about it. If any bugger sings happy birthday to me, I just want the ground to swallow me up.
There were actually people last year for my fiftieth who actually came around for a party! The utter gall of it! Apparently “they,” say you have to be made a fuss of and receive presents. It was awful. You have to sit there pretending to have a good time. The thing was a disaster and I still have a wine stain on my favourite shirt!
I told my son last night how I generally love my fellow man, and he promptly replied with the word bollocks! You hate people! I don’t necessarily hate them, and I do like them, far away, and on my own terms, i.e. not in my house wishing me a happy birthday!
How can I be like this?? I have no idea. I remember my childhood birthdays with great affection, and I can’t blame booze for giving me just partial recollections. My mother always went the extra mile, and I remember various styled chocolate cakes with great affection. Even when I was at boarding school birthdays were fun. I would get some cards, and Thornton toffees from my grandmother, and Matron would come round asking me if I wanted a chocolate cake or fruit cake? I generally asked if I could have a chocolate cake, and at the end of supper, the cake would be brought out of the kitchen and divided up amongst the whole school which was a great way to do things.
Even when I came back into the state school system, you would get the bumps which never really hurt, and one would have to pretend to struggle and just take it, but it was a laugh. Now it would be classed as bullying and possibly assault! How times have changed!
So, thank you to all who have wished me a happy birthday. Thank you for not picking me up by my hands and feet and not kicking me! Thank you for taking a moment to have a thought for me on my special day. I really do love you all!
As a musician, even one as not as implicated as me, December can be a busy time and has proven itself to live up to its reputation of loads of concerts to finish the year, and carolling. For the moment, I have 3 out of 5 weekends taken up with playing the horn in one form or another.
At the end of the Season in the summer of 2022, I decided not to follow the new direction taken by the Orchestre d’Harmonie de Cholet. Not just out of loyalty to the outgoing conductor who, since 2009, become a close friend, but sometimes you just need a change of scene. I first thought of just having a complete break from music, which is a rash decision but one I have taken in the past. Friends were worried that I would stop music altogether, which would not only be a shame but also a waste of talent or work that I have put into learning the horn over the years. I had lost the love of performing, and rehearsals had become more a way of spending time on something I knew how to do but with less and less pleasure.
I was therefore on the lookout for a new ensemble that needed a horn player. When I was in the Cholet Conservatoire Symphony orchestra, I made friends who talked about this relatively new orchestra based just South of Nantes. You go to Facebook and see their page and try to make a choice. I made a choice. I am now the fourth horn in the Symphonique des Bords de Loire.
So what does this have to do with being busy in December? I’ll tell you. With concerts and rehearsals, I have been playing every weekend since the 26th of November. I am now 50, have taken up napping in a big way, and sleeping, or at least trying to sleep as a secondary calling. All this music is creating an enormous conflict of interest between music and my new vocation, napping. I have tried automatic pilot, but people seem to cotton on and even dare come up to me and try to talk to me when my body is still on, but the brain is experiencing a temporary outage. The sheer audacity of it all!
Last weekend, I did a paid gig for the Brass Quintet Arabesque, replacing my old horn teacher, the Grand, the mother Great, and all-around good egg, Jerome Percher who teaches the horn in the Conservatoire In Angers! He is also a massive football fan and maybe the evening match between our two splendid countries was just too much for him. Little did we know that Harry Kane would be less fortunate than us.
The idea was to have a brass band style quintet with two cornets, one tenor horn, one euphonium, and one tuba. Similar to what you might see the Salvation Army playing when they’re out around this time. We would play three sets of Christmas carols to add some ambience to the Christmas Market in La Roche Sur Yon, which is the administrative capital of the Vendée. It was a beautifully sunny day, but a tad cold. Yes, brass monkey weather!
Now I don’t technically play the tenor horn, but had studied the fingerings to know how to approach the instrument and not look too silly. It’s also much lighter than the more common, yet beautiful instrument, which is the French Horn.
Everything that morning seemed to go wrong. I was already nervous as I didn’t want to let the lads down and my heart was going like the clappers. Then slightly late getting out of the house, having to get the windscreen de-iced, as it was -5°C, which is chilly. Then the car pretended to not want to start. Ha ha ha, it was the car just trying to play a trick on me. The roads had been salted so fine, and I was headed down to La Roche. I had misread the text message with the meeting times and thought I was late. As it turned out, I wasn’t, and our lady answered my prayer for a parking space not too far from the meeting point. I, of course, couldn’t find my colleagues when I arrived in the square and then suddenly I saw Hervé and felt a lot less anxious!
We played our three sets, and the only upset was whilst playing I saw three ships. I think we all managed to sink them!
The organisers had prepared us some hot pretzels and some mulled wine, which just hit the spot and told us where the restaurant was, where we were to have lunch. The five of us needed feeding! Starters and main, or main and dessert, with drinks. I could get used to this. We ate, joked, finished our beer, and said see you later at Hervé’s house for the Soirée to celebrate Jean Michel’s birthday in a French and very fitting way!
I just had to get to Nantes, for confession, to get a little something for my evening’s host, wife, and daughter. Just enough time left over to pick up my wife, and get ourselves to our evening.
Jean Michel has a bit of a reputation as an epicurean, and not only a lover of fine cuisine, but a very accomplished chef! Upon arrival, we went to say hello to everyone, and were told to leave the kitchen, which is exactly what we did! The aforementioned legend that is Monsieur Percher was there with his lovely wife, and it was such a pleasure introducing each other to our respective spouses. The pre-meal beers were served and then out of nowhere appeared a magnum of very nice champagne, which was the first of quite a few exquisite bottles, which complemented Jean Michel’s cooking so well. We’re now in happy as a pig in shit territory.
It was a lovely evening and with the wine, I was beginning to feel a little tired, which is better than being a little tiring. It was time for little Ian to go beddy byes… My new vocation in life. Fortunately, my wife is a professional driver, stone-cold sober, and able to drive us home.
The next day was spent gently getting out of bed, and trying not to let on that I might be a little tired. By Sunday evening I was ready to go to mass, and who would I see, but Hervé and his family. It’s nice not being at mass on your own and was just the surprise I need to finish the evening off on a high point. That and going to the pub afterwards.
Next Saturday, I will play the tenor horn with the Tuba Class with Hervé as their teacher. The weekend after will be a lot quieter. Then three days in the factory before breaking up for two weeks holiday for Christmas, which, Dear Reader, will be a completely different story.
Until then, I wish each and every one of you a very happy, peaceful, and above all drama-free Christmas!
“Music hath charms to soothe the savage breast.” I, like most people, used to think that this was pure Shakespeare. Well, it is not; it is actually from the play “The Mourning Bride” by William Cosgrove, which was first performed in 1697. No, I cannot be having you say that you learn nothing from this blog, right?
So you get a free fact of the day. First, I don’t have breasts, but man boobs, and second, they’re not savage either! Trust me! As suggested in the title, this article is about a concert, and surprisingly the music was American, hence the name of the American Concert. Mind-blowing I know, right?
Now I can hear you saying this blog is about this man’s depression and photography, and possibly tea and cake. Give me some time and I’ll get there. My mental health is on the melancholic side due to rain, and teenagers at home, but it will get better.
My friend Hervé, who has already starred twice on my blog, is part of a Brass Quintet called Arabesque who have only been mentioned once on my blog. This lovely chap asked if I wanted to take some photos of their American Concert and I, of course, said yes, that would be great fun! They are revamping their website and wanted some photographs for it and after the success of the last shoot I did for them, they asked me to come back.
This would be the first concert I would photograph with stage lights. And when you photograph a concert, you have to get it right and not mess it up. I, of course, messed quite a few photos up, but it’s all a learning process, isn’t it? “They” said to use your fastest lenses, which is photographer lingo saying that you need the lens to have the widest opening possible to let in the most light and still have a relatively quick shutter speed. “They” seem to give out some good advice so I took my very fastest lens, an f1.2 35mm lens for my XT2 and because it has focus peaking, you can’t go wrong. That’s what “they” said. I proved “them” wrong and wasted about 60 photos. That’ll teach me to listen to “them!”
Fortunately, I had my Plan B (Canon 6D MarkII) with me, which worked a treat. What did I learn from this precarious situation? First, I was the only one who knew that I had messed up. Second, the importance of having a Plan B. Thirdly, using both cameras and thus still getting the shot, and fourthly that using a manual lens usually provides no worries during the day, but autofocus can be quite a good friend, especially for a concert. No need to be a purist. You can save that for later. What you need is to get the job done. So leave your pride at home and get some decent photos.
The entire show was splendid, and the music was first class too! If you have time to see Arabesque in concert you’ll definitely enjoy yourself, and you’ll be supporting live music and a great bunch of guys too! I would also like to thank them for the restaurant meal after the concert. What a delightful way to spend an evening!
Right, I’m going to be completely honest with you Dear Reader, and tell you that the next few articles will be about my Summer (sorry 12 days in Summer) whilst in the UK. No novels, just photos. I might tell you a little about the context of the photos, how they happened, and under which circumstances they happened. So basically it’s my holiday snaps and not creative writing. Just thought it fair to warn you in case. You never know.
I mean, I say holiday snaps, but I have tried to keep a certain standard and make the photos look good! I wouldn’t dare do otherwise!
So, let’s get some context. The last time I was in Alnmouth I didn’t have my Canon 6D Mark II with me and I didn’t have my 16-35mm lens. As you might know by now, this is my other favourite set-up and rivals the Fujifilm X100F. Yes, I like to go a little wider when I can!
Now the following conditions were something that I had never seen before here but really knocked me for six. It was suddenly that the beach disappeared. This fog just came from the sea and ate up the entire village, like me, with a piece of cake. Gobbled it up as if it were the last cake on the plate. The whole place became quite eerie and when on the beach, I couldn’t even see the sea. I could only just make out some people sitting on the beach being very English and bloody-minded. Well, we got here. It’s foggy, but we’re still going to have a good time on the beach. It was almost French… Almost…
It was my first morning in the village and I had slipped out saying that I was off to take some photos. I was, of course, but said nothing about going to Scott’s of Alnmouth, which is a rather gorgeous deli, and coffee shop. It used to be the village Grocers, and I love what they’ve done to the place. It looks magnificent, and I also follow the owner on Instagram and was so happy to get there after so much time. I was welcomed as an old friend which always makes me feel special. The coffee was the best coffee that I had ever had in the UK, which is saying something. British people are good at tea. The French are excellent at coffee. The French have traumatised me with what they think of as a cup of tea. Warm tepid water with not enough tea, no milk, and a crappy little biscuit to say sorry. British coffee inspires the same disgust in me. Killian and I, famously, once tried Costa coffee, and said never again! And when I say never, I really mean never. However Scotts of Alnmouth destroyed the myth that the Brits know nothing about coffee, and I was very agreeably surprised. The generous slice of Tiffin that I had with it had nothing to do with my state of happiness. Well, it did, of course, but the coffee was superb!
Everyone seems to ask that question after the summer holidays when we take leave from our daily toils and worries, and maybe for a week or two, we can create our own little paradise on earth. Some make it to a hotel next to the ocean and enjoy the sun’s warmth on their skin, whereas others will find a boat and spend time in the ocean trying to stay cool. Others will drive all over making that Grand Tour that the Victorians made. Others will be at work keeping the country going. Others will be fighting fires in the Gironde because of somebody’s carelessness in this heat wave, which I wouldn’t really call a wave but rather a smack around the face, with the heat taking away our comfort, our sleep, our water, our rivers, and our gardens.
Whatever your summer, I hope you could find moments of cool, in the figurative and literal senses. What can I tell you about my summer? In four days, I go back to work to start the humdrum of my daily life, and in these remaining four days of freedom, I seem to look back over the previous three weeks wondering where it all went!
It went off to the UK, that’s where it went. I haven’t been back home since 2019 and it was about bloody time that I got back to my roots. Living without roots or being able to feel rooted somewhere that one calls home is an idea that only immigrants can really get their heads around. They left their homes, sometimes forced by evil and unfortunate circumstances, and for others, it was for love and freely entered into. I was lucky to be in the latter category. But it’s still amazing to get back home.
With modern technology, I can call my parents on the phone when I want to, and do so a few times a week. I can hear their voices, but it’s not the same as taking them in my arms and hugging them and really showing them how much I love them. Only when in their presence can I do that. And as none of us is getting any younger, one has the morbid thought, will this be the last time I see them? I tend not to dwell on this rather disturbing question, but one still asks it.
I found a country where everyone speaks the same language as me and where my wife and daughter seemed to cope with what I do every day (ie speaking a foreign language) and maybe it gave them the chance to walk around in my shoes for a while, as Atticus Finch once said in a book a long time ago.
I found a country that had gone through Brexit, Covid, and yet further Tory government and it looked more or less the same. Tired, pissed off, but still exquisite to my eyes. And most of all, it was home. The Germans talk about this concept of Heimat, home, but not quite. It’s more akin to a motherland, or a place where you are rooted. Some could argue that after nearly 30 years in France, France should be my Heimat, and although I am very grateful to have been “welcomed” to France, it certainly isn’t home, despite all the best intentions.
Anyway! I saw my parents in Alnmouth and surprisingly took some photos. They haven’t all been edited yet, as I have to sort and edit them, which will be a hefty job. We didn’t really go wandering like we have in the past, but just tried to relax in the comparative cool of Northumbria. I wandered around the village and even was as bold enough as to go into Alnwick and let my daughter discover Superdrug’s cosmetics counter! Ah well, it was going to happen one day.
I had some time with my father as we drove towards Otterburn to get some landscape photos. It was lovely just sharing with him how I take my photos and seeing this part of me that few people see. We ate with my parents and enjoyed curries, Chinese food, and the tastiest of Sunday roasts. My daughter, that intriguing and sometimes frightening creature, discovered more of her father’s country and just how special it is.
As some of you may know, I am adopted and have been since three weeks after my birth. The story of all that, Dear Reader, is understandably only for those concerned, and during our time in Alnmouth, I had the good fortune to see my birth mother and my half-sister for the day. Afternoon tea and we even had crumpets with salted butter and jam, and tea. Coffee is fine, but tea in the UK takes you to what heaven must feel like!
On our way back south towards France, we stopped off to see my birth mother again. It felt so intimate being able to visit her in her own home. My half-brother’s daughters were there to meet not only me but probably more Kate, their half-cousin who by definition is exotic because she is French! They have, of course, received an open invitation to come over whenever they like. We even saw my Aunty Margie, whom I hadn’t seen for over 5 years.
Then down to Hull to see my father’s side of the family. My cousin Nick and his wife, Maria, received us like kings and I will be ever grateful to him for organising the family reunion where 23 of us gathered in his immaculate back garden. A couple of beers were drunk that day. The following day it was off to see Aunty Mon, and Kate was delighted to see me being scolded as I answered a question for her. Nobody messes around with Aunty Mon! We met up with Nick and Maria in the next village for a pub lunch, with the traditional and nigh quasi obligatory roast dinner! Those two pints of Yorkshire bitter just helped wash down the meal in the most tasteful way.
Sadly, we had to continue our voyage down South and ended up in Dover, where the next day, we were to catch our ferry back to France. We met up with my wife’s cousin for dinner in our hotel, and they discussed everything about family, from gossip to scandal, to the next generation who will carry the family name.
We arrived home and found my newly single son at home and Molly, the dog who have both been sorely missed.
As I read the article, there is one word that seems to stand out, and that word is family. These holidays had nothing to do with visiting tourist sights. It did, however, have everything to do about renewing connections to those most important in our lives after Covid had separated us for so long. That is what the holidays meant to me. I became rooted in my country, my culture, and my family. That doesn’t mean that I didn’t want to see old friends, but everyone knows that family has to come first. It’s what gives us our sense of being and belonging. It is the visible form of our roots on God’s Earth, however warm that earth might feel during an exceptionally warm summer.
May God bless you and your families, bring you together, heal the eventual discords, and give you too a feeling of being grounded after so long.
Dear Reader, I may have mentioned before in previous articles that for my many sins, and to curb my pride, I am a musician, and some might even go further still, and remind me I am a horn player. As a musician, we can have a tendency to “do” concerts and play in them, rather than going along as a listener. I mean, of course, that we listen to our fellow musicians, especially when playing that music together. It is a team effort, after all. But not as a spectator.
Little did I know that when I went to taste some homemade beer at my friend Hervé’s house, he would invite me to take some photos of a concert he was playing in, on the 18th of June. I, of course, jumped at the opportunity. An evening of taking photos and getting to listen to live music at the same time? What a way to spend the hottest day of the year so far!
We were rehearsing together the following Friday, and he said to be at his house at such-and-such a time, and that I should just park up in the driveway. There would also be my old and very much revered horn teacher, as in my previous horn teacher, and not my old new horn teacher, nor a teacher that is old despite his great wisdom. But that is a story for another day. Hervé was going to drive us to the concert. Jérôme, my very much revered horn teacher, plays in the same ensemble as Hervé. They are members of the Brass Quintet Arabesque, made up of instrument teachers from across my particular region of France.
So, I got into the car, turned on the ignition, saw the temperature, and promptly melted. 44°C! For those who only work in Fahrenheit, body temperature is 37°C, and 44°C is 111°F. My point exactly. By the time I reached Hervé’s house, it was a mere 40°C. A tad warm, even for me!
I drove up, parked, saw my horn teacher in very summery attire, but always with a hat, saunter up, and Smaug, the family Labrador, who you remember from my last article, who does not know what sauntering is about, just ran around the car three times and jumped up to say hello, being as friendly as ever. Bless him! We quickly went inside into the shade and cool. I do like a bit of cool from time to time.
We eventually got all the kit together in the car, thanks again Hervé for doing all the driving, and set off. The way to Guérande isn’t very complicated, and it’s pretty plain sailing. We talked about everything and nothing, about my presence at the Wind Band next year, and what alternatives I could think of, about the photoshoot from the previous week, about the various instruments and would we change instrument, how much it might cost to change, and what newer instruments could bring to the table, or should I say rehearsal room…
Parking in Guérande was a doddle, and we headed to the Collégiale, or church inside the medieval walls. We dropped everything off in the church, and things suddenly became very serious. Where would we eat? The first place we tried, a creperie, was no longer serving food, so we headed to Plan B. Plan B was fully booked, but was able to fit us in. Five brass musicians, one organist, and yours truly. Luckily I don’t seem to take up much space. Simon said he had to go and shave and came back with blood on his face. Michel, the organist that would be playing with the quintet, told us that the organ in that building needed a makeover and was basically shite. Out of tune, and half of it didn’t work. That’s something you don’t really want to hear when you don’t have a huge amount of time to have the pre-concert setup and run through. Another thing you don’t want to hear is that you’re all going to have to tune your instruments up to 444hz. This basically means you’re all fecked because your instruments have been in slightly warm cars. After all, it’s boiling outside and you’ll just never make it. The brass expands in the heat and therefore will sound flatter, and at 444hz you really need to be on the sharper side. It’s a bit like me trying to walk past a slice of cake and a nice cup of tea; it’s just not going to happen… Luckily the food arrived, as did the beers, and the puds. We were happy. I had all my camera gear, and most importantly plenty of batteries in case the batteries inside the cameras gave up the will to live. Some lovely shots were begging to be taken outside the church.
What I didn’t have, especially inside the church, was a whole lot of light. For photography, light is quite important. Understatement of the year contender again… This was going to be interesting. I had been fed by Arabesque, and now there was bugger all light inside, so photography was going to be a tad tricky.
Luckily, somebody turned on the lights and I was saved. Who said miracles never happen in the Catholic Church? They did this evening. The only photos I could take were before the concert actually began because afterwards the church would fall into darkness as there was going to be drone footage shown on a screen behind the Quintet as they played, showing the church in which they were playing. This was the main idea behind the concert. Through music and film, show people the church they were in from a slightly different viewpoint. It was great just to sit and take in the music. And take in the music I did. I was always told the importance of concert-going to musicians and how it helps us develop musically in so many ways. I only had to make an effort to sit there, make no noise, and just listen and be captivated. And captivated I was! I thought the tuning was fine and not at all the catastrophe announced by the organist. But I was just here to listen to some quality sounds and not to be a critic from the Times
The first half finished with the Toccata by Charles Marie Widor from his Organ symphony number 5. Any pedal notes that were missing from the organ were amply covered by the bass notes of the tuba that seem to just go right through you. It’s also a piece of music that has, amongst others, the ability to make my eye become all watery with emotion. I’ll leave it here for you to listen to.
The interval arrived. I say that but it didn’t really make an entrance. It just happened. The public was invited to walk around the church and rediscover images from the film in real life. They could also purchase CDs of the Quintet. 10€ each, or 20€ for three. They could also subscribe and have a CD of the programme, as well as make a contribution to the Association Résonnance, who gave their name to the entire project. It also meant that I could take more ambience photos and not be in anybody’s way.
Up until then, I had been using the Canon 6D Mark II which makes a tremendous noise when the mirror moves up to expose the sensor. I was worried that I would disturb everyone and switched to the comparatively silent Fuji XT2 with the 18-55mm zoom lens, which is a 24-70mm full-frame equivalent, so a good all-rounder for reportage. During the second half, I could be seen trying to move silently the way Corporal McCune taught me to so as not to disturb my fellow concertgoers.
The second half started with the horn and trombone playing a one thousand-year-old tune for the Easter celebration. Unfortunately, the audience hadn’t cottoned on to the fact that the second half had just started and some were still talking! As soon as the other musicians appear and Hervé started introducing the next piece, they seemed to get the message and promptly shut up! They lead us through time through the Baroque, the Classical, and the Romantic periods. They ended up with Aaron Copland, and music from Grover’s Corner, whoever Grover was. I suspect it wasn’t the same Grover that lives on Sesame Street…
After the concert, we did the official group photo, and eventually said good night and see back at Hervé’s house. It was midnight, much cooler, windy, and felt as if a storm was on the way. Jérôme fell asleep in the back, and Hervé and I just chilled, talking about this very blog and photography, especially the differences between being a good amateur photographer, and a professional photographer and how the two are completely different, in the same way, that I quickly realised when doing my music studies here in France. You have to produce consistently good results, and the pressure is on. They were already doing the concert debrief about everything that went wrong. I tried to reassure them that it wasn’t a competition and that as an audience member, I had a great time. Basically, the same things that I had been taught by Jérôme. If the audience is happy, then the audience is happy.
On the way home, we saw the sky fill up with lightning and thunder. It felt magical, and also the temperature had halved. It was a mere 22°C. It felt wonderful. We got home first and had a beer whilst waiting for the others to arrive. The others arrived and there was still some English beer for them, and some homemade beer too. It received the seal of approval from everyone present. We ended saying what went wrong with the concert and how it was a learning experience. I still thought it was brilliant. So there!!
For my many sins, I am a musician and not just a depressive dude with a camera. I play the French horn. Some might even say that I’m a French French horn player, without being corrected by my autocorrect. So this music thing… I play the horn in a Wind Band, in Cholet, in the Anjou region of France, with good food and wine. I wonder what decided me to join them… There are a series of concerts every year with each concert having a given theme. This next concert’s theme is about the planets. The programme will be The Planets, by Gustav Holst, and the third Symphony by Johan de Meij, Planet Earth.
If you want to read Wikipedia to tell you about the Planets by Holst, then you can click here. I will now give you my version of events. Gustav Holst, a man with Swedish, German, and Latvian origins but born in England, wrote a series of pieces that made up the Planets Suite. His ancestors must have settled before Brexit! This was ground-breaking stuff, akin to Stravinsky and his Rites of Spring. However, this program is about the planets, so we’ll leave Spring to Igor, the composer and not Frankenstein’s whacky assistant. As any trailblazer will tell, they just weren’t ready for it man, and that it was ahead of its time, which to be fair, it was. He started writing the suite in 1914, and the first movement was “Mars, the bringer of War.” Quite eerie when you think about what happened in 1914. Composing finished in 1917 and the première took place at Queen’s Hall, on the 29th of September, in 1918. There were seven movements, and when I was a child, I always wondered why the planet Pluto wasn’t included. What did they have against Mickey Mouse’s dog??? Then I learnt Pluto was only discovered in 1930. The poor planet was demoted in 2006 and is no longer considered a planet but is still a heavenly body… Just like Yours Truly!
This music that first disturbed people, has, over time, and thanks to John Williams, become the music of space and the stars, wars or no wars. Some have accused John Williams of nicking everything in the first movement, Mars the bringer of War, and using it to compose the music to Star Wars. I’m not saying he nicked it, but… A nice American gentleman, Charles Cornell, has exposed his point of view in a YouTube video
When you look at it like that you can get where those people are coming from. But in a completely nonpartial way, I couldn’t give a flying fart. Both composers’ music is wonderful, and I think one could call it more homage than pilfering. Mind you, there are certain similarities.
When you look at the Planets Suite, you notice the Earth isn’t mentioned. One person that noticed this and who could do something about it, is a certain Johan de Meij, whose name is engraved on a plaque on our rehearsal room in the Cholet Conservatoire. A Dutch trombonist, he moved into composition, arranging, and conducting. In the Wind Band world, he is very well known and respected. Nearly all of us will have played some of his music at one stage in our careers.
The third Symphony takes us from the beginning of our Lonely Planet, Planet Earth, ending with Mother Earth. It isn’t as much a narrative, but a more auditory exposition of ideas in an abstract form. A soundtrack with electronic sounds helps the symphony become one musical experience as opposed to the classical three separate movements. Planet Earth really is a continuation of Holst’s Planets.
It’s a whopping significant piece and a joy to play despite a few difficulties to challenge the horn player. We were very fortunate to have Johan come and visit us, not just to say Hallo, but to explain the piece to us, conduct us and rehearse us. The poor lad was full of cold, but shared his wisdom and experience with us, which I’m sure will prove itself invaluable for our performance on the 14th of November in the Théâtre Saint Louis in Cholet. We worked on aural skills listening to the chords and listening to them to adjust the tuning and seeing where we fit into those chords. It might be an insignificant detail to you, but the seats are very comfortable and the acoustics are pretty damned good too!. Holst couldn’t make it. Must have had something else in his diary for that weekend!
After the success of my review of the Fuji Film X100F, I thought I might have to present another camera to you. For the non-techy of you, don’t worry, this camera is a doddle to use, and my daughter was using it when she was a seven year old! It won’t get complicated.
I wanted to use a film camera to do it. I will presume that you have no experience of using a film or vintage cameras also, so Millennial friendly, and after a certain age, you will be meeting an old friend. I would like to introduce you to the Olympus Trip 35.
As the name might suggest the Olympus Trip was a camera designed for travel photography and for the mass market in the 1960s and 1970s (production stopped in 1988). A point and shoot. No gimmicks. Although this is not a style or fashion blog, this camera is a beautiful object, and if you thought you had people coming up to you and telling you how sexy your camera was with the X100F, then you’ll get even more people coming up to you telling you how gorgeous your camera is. It is one of those timeless cameras that just oozes sex appeal. I replaced the original wrist strap with a more chunky and comfortable version from Amazon.
There are some things that you will not be able to do with this camera. You won’t be able to add another lens. You get a 40mm Zuiko F 2.8, however the 40mm focal length will have you covered for the majority of situations for your photographic trip, and also gives beautiful results, especially with modern emulsions!. Just look at the X100F photos and it will be self evident. You won’t have all the modern conveniences of a Modern DSLR or even mirrorless camera, but you won’t have any problems with batteries. There aren’t any. The power for the metering comes from the selenium cell (which contrary to appearances isn’t a New Romantic group from the 1980’s). You will have get film for it. It take film from ISO (or ASA) 25 to 400 which, for when you’re on the road is fine, and will cover most eventualities.
Loading film is so simple that a child of seven could do it, and my child, when seven years old did it easily. Then basically, you’re ready. Off you go and explore. I haven’t talked about how to focus the camera. So…. The camera uses the principle of zone focussing. You turn the lens and you will see a face, a couple, a group of people, and then a mountain. If you turn the camera around so the top is the bottom, and the bottom the top (Pride reference, even if I am slightly late), you will see the distances marked out: 1m, 1m50, and 3m to infinity, but not beyond. We’re talking photography, and not a film based on Ants, or Seven Samurai.
There are two shutter speeds, 1/200th of a second and 1/40th and the camera chooses which one it uses. But 1/40th with a 40mm lens shouldn’t give camera shake. So you can cover light from F22 at 1/200th of a second to F2.8 at 1/40th of a second. You will see an F stop dial on the camera, and that you will see in the viewfinder. When not using a flash, just put it to A (automatic). If ever there is not enough light, there is a little red flag that pops up into the viewfinder, and the camera shutter won’t fire. It’s idiot proof!
I will include a video from YouTube to show you how to load the film as it will be easier than describing to you in written language.
So get out there and start taking some photos! Go on the streets. Go on a Trip. Just get out there and start using it. Have fun and share photos if you want! Mine are from a trip to Portugal and the Canary Islands from 2016 taken on Ilford HP5 Plus. Make of them what you will…
At school I wasn’t a winner. Not really. There was one time at prep school when I won the First form prize, which was a book about birds. I still have it! I once entered a competition to win a first day cover of stamps featuring various fish native to British rivers, and won the first day cover as well as postcards of the stamps. I wasn’t a great sportsman, something which seems to have followed me through my life and therefore didn’t have the chance to win a cap for my school. Whilst I used to wear green for a living, I would often hear the phrase, “It pays to be a winner gentleman,” being yelled by certain junior NCO’s. I was of course never that winner, so would have to repeat the exercise with all the other losers.
You get used to being a loser. In certain respects, it’s great because you don’t have to bother yourself with that maternal ambition that was imposed on you. It lowers your expectations and you get used to accepting your fate in life. You ramble along, as you may have seen and read Dear Reader, I am a rambler. I was fine with that.
Then of course I moved to France. Try being English in France. Then again maybe don’t. It’s worse than being French in the UK. They lost WW2, yet celebrate VE Day every 8th May. Oh sweet Caroline, I mean irony! But that’s fine. It’s in their mind-set of being the inheritors of the Glory of France. Then the bastards went and won the World Cup in 1998. They are ghastly when victorious, and I remember saying to myself, they’re going to talk about this for 20 years… 20 years came and went, and they only went and won the bloody thing a second time!!!
Whenever they beat us at rugby, I am inundated with mentions of how great they are, and yet when we beat them, I am allowed to remain silent and hide in my office! This losing does have a tendency to teach you about humility.
Now I will talk about the B word, yes, Brexit. As I may have let slip, I am a remainer, and therefore “lost” the vote in 2016. Since that time, my life here in France has been in suspended animation, suspended rather than animated. My future was dependant on a “deal”. Then Boris came along. I was going to be buggered one more time, yet despite the odds, we “won” an agreement that would allow me to stay here. But knowing the French, nothing was certain. That uncertainty doesn’t help a guy’s mental health and Brexit has taken it’s toll on me. But less of the grumbling.
On the 22nd June, 2021, I receive an email from the prefecture telling me to come and see them on the 9th July, with this mail, my old carte de séjour, my residency card, which allowed me to remain in France, and will allow me to remain further. I arrived here in France on the 9th of July 1994, to start the rest of my life. I got that mail, read it, and had tears welling up. For the first time in 5 years, I was turning into a winner.
That week I entered a competition on Instagram. One of those things where you win a basket full of samples from a shop, and you have to like the post, post the names of two people on the comments, and they will announce the winner in a story. This was for a shop that sold CBD products and I thought why the hell not. Well when the story came out announcing the winner you’ll never guess who won. Yes me!!! So for a perpetual loser like me, this was amazing. I was high on the positive vibes. Things are calmer at home and at work, and I have less pain in my arthritic knee. Maybe it does pay to be a winner after all.
I am not a fan of Shadenfreude, except when France is the cause of it. In the Euro 2020 competition, happening in 2021 because of Covid, no winners there really, France was knocked out of the tournament by Switzerland. I haven’t said a word about it at work. Wouldn’t be cricket after all. Oh and we beat Sri Lanka in the Cricket too! On Tuesday night there was the fateful match, between Germany and England, and I don’t want to hear anything about two world wars and on world cup!! Even though…. We beat them, for this first time in a tournament in the knock out stages since 1966 when we beat them in the world cup… The English side of me was very happy, and yet I have been gracious in victory and not mentioned it at work to my French colleagues despite the desperate urge to do so. Even if I were to mention it, it would be wasted on them and wouldn’t be cricket! Damn you gracious VICTORY!
I’m in the pub after having heard Mass in the Cathedral with my son. Last might he was out having “drinks” with friends for his birthday. I said I would meet him in Nantes the next day and that we would spend the day together.
He would be able to choose his birthday cum Christmas present. Since I’m a nice guy and loving father (sometimes…), but what the heck, I said that I would pick him up at his friend’s flat. The plan was to go into town, have brunch together in the Passage Pommeraye, go around the shops for him, his sister, and my wife, and then go to mass together.
That, at least, was the plan. I picked him up and he looked almost human. We drove into town and actually had a coherent conversation, but he did say that it was a little too sunny and bright… We parked the car and entered “smug mode!” There wouldn’t be any spaces later on, but I found one quite easily… Lady Luck was smiling on us. Little did I know she was just lulling us into a false sense of security.
First things first, he needed some cigarettes, so of we went to the Tabac, then off for brunch. On the way we met a couple who are those kind of people that know how to make you feel wonderful as soon as you see them. I’m not saying that being Canadian has anything to do with it, but it might explain something. Or it might just be that they are just so special and one of a kind. They’ll know who they are if and when they read this. They’re also the couple that told me about Mass in the Cathedral on a Sunday night.
We left them to their meal and pre-meal drinks on the terrace of the café. Direction, the Passage Pommeraye for a wonderful brunch, and Killian was in need of coffee. We got there and the bloody place was shut! Disaster. That Lady Luck was being somewhat less of a lady.
I started scrambling for a plan B. We found a place that sold hot dogs. Everything made on the premises and sourced locally, and not expensive. But they were massive, and we wondered how we were going to get something so big into our mouths, which as you guessed is what she said… We sat on the steps in the street to eat them. As we ate, we saw children passing and “they” knew they had just seen Father Christmas…. Happens often at this time of year.
I had decided that my son needed some clothes and I wanted him to have something nice, so we headed to the nice part of town. We hadn’t had coffee yet and he really needed some, so we ordered 2 expressos, and chatted whilst we sipped them. There was a shop that I had been in and thought, oh I have to take Killian there, and I had forgotten the name of the place and where it was. Two hours and quite a few steps later we found the place and our luck changed. The shop was open!!!! He wanted a flat cap à la Peeky Blinders, and he found one. Present for Killian, check!
By this time he was human again and caffeine had obviously worked its magic, in that peculiar way that caffeine seems to do.
We started wondering again, but this time looking for something for my wife. We ended up on a kitchen equipment shop selling any gadget you could need. This is a very dangerous place for me as my eyes light up like those of a child in a sweet shop.
We got a message from a friend’s daughter saying that she and he brother were in town with friends and would we like to meet up. I of course said yes and that we were near such and such a place. She said she would phone me as soon as she was parked. She couldn’t find a space so they would park away from the city centre and catch the tram to joins us and where would we be. I of course said why don’t we meet up at the pub, and here’s how to get there. We arrived just in time to order Guinness and say hello to the guys behind the bar, and in they came. It was good to catch up and we talked about nothing and everything in equal amounts and they left saying how we would meet up in 6 weeks time at their mother’s wedding. I’ll be taking a few photos as a present for the bride.
Killian and I wondered around more shops just in case we found something for the girls (wife, and my daughter) we couldn’t find anything except for my daughter, but as we were talking about my wife, his mother, we knew what we were going to get for her. Except we have no idea on where to look.
We got the the Cathedral with time to spare so looked around before mass started. That organist is amazing, and you can literally feel the organ music and it resonates in the church. It goes right through you. It was lovely not being on my own for mass too.
Afterwards we thanked the priest for mass and headed off to the pub for a quick pint, and then on to get some food. Vegan burger that was actually really good, and even Killian thought so too, which is praise indeed.
A long day, but a good day. The kind of day that any father and son should have once in a while. The only thing missing? Some cake….
I’m writing this in a theatre before the tune up begins in about half an hour’s time. I was thinking back to yesterday and going out to Nantes to take a couple of photos.
I was in a foul mood on Friday; a colleague who was a nice bloke and all round good egg has just resigned and Friday was his last day. Plans have been put in place to find an “interim” solution which means more work for me and somebody else doing the forklift work. I’m not sure it will work as well. Anyway! That’s my problem and not yours, but explains why I needed to get out and do some photography.
Some of you might have heard of the Gilet Jaune movement or Yellow Vest movement in English. It was responsible for a few demonstrations that gradually became part of every day life in France. I had forgotten that yesterday was the 1st anniversary of the movement. They hadn’t, and neither had the police.
As I came into town I could see a whole load of police vans parked up in front of the castle. I thought that for a sightseeing trip it was a bit strange. I parked the car in the underground carpark and as I came out onto the street I did what I always do. I check my camera settings and take my first couple of photos.
It was foggy that day and I could see people heading towards me. They were crying. The fog gave some lovely photos. Very atmospheric. Lkke having a smoke machine on a film set. And then I started crying. The emotion of it all? No. Tear gas.
I’d seen worse, and a very nice young lady gave me some water to rinse my eyes. You see, the president has brought the population together but maybe not in the way he hoped.
It must have been around 17h. I had to be at mass for 18h on the other side of the Cours des 50 Hotages. The only problem was the police and demonstrators had decided to play silly buggers and take the mickey out of each other. More gas. I asked one of the policeman dressed in a rather fetching black number did he think it was possible to cross the road and be in time for mass… He thought it would be possible. That bloody chicken never had any problems crossing the road.
I eventually crossed the road and started talking to a couple of Turkish guys. They said what a very well mannered and elegant demonstration it was. Well, this is France after all. But that the riot police looked pretty hardcore, which in all fairness is true! The demonstrators moved forward. As did the police. Then the police put the smoke machine back on.
I dragged myself off to mass and it was lovely until a guy, either drunk, or high, or both came in. Strangely enough I was more enraged by the fact that he hadn’t taken his hat off. I left my seat, genuflected, and gave him my arm as we walked down the aisle. It must have been a really pretty picture of the happy couple. People looked on with relief as they didn’t have to do the dirty work.
I opened the door and told him to sober up first and then it might be possible to talk and not to interrupt the people at prayer. As I came back in there was a man who said thank you, as there a four doors to the church and how he can only cover two doors at a time. He thanked me and my new friend tried to come back in. I marched him out gently again. At the end of mass I saw the gentleman who had thanked me. Apparently our friend had come in three times by different doors. Never dull in ‘Ull, or Nantes either.
Mass finished and I headed towards the pub to say hello to everyone and get a bite to eat before going home. The car was parked nearby too and that’s the only excuse you’re getting!
The photos for the day were taken with the Canon 6D Mark ii and the vintage lens Pentacon 50mm f1.8. The older lenses give you a different feel and effect. I hope you enjoy them. Feel free to comment…
Halloween has come and gone and the countdown to Christmas has begun, but no trees until at the earliest the beginning of Advent or at the latest St Nicholas’ Day.
The weather is now officially miserable and rainy. And with the hour having gone back the nights seem to be staring earlier. The rain is not proper rain, but drizzle. It’s not cold yet but the humidity is making itself known. As I drive though the country I can see leaves changing colours, falling and turning into mush along the roads. I can see mushrooms sprouting out of nowhere and remember not to take them from fields that have had crops in them.
It’s the kind of weather that makes you want to dive in to a cafe, and have a nice cup of tea and piece of cake. The French are making great efforts at tea, and though not up to Yorkshire standards, it is becoming more and more drinkable. I have stocked up on Yorkshire Tea pre-Brexit, so should be good for a while. Thank heavens for extensions!!
For the photographers amongst us we are facing the other challenges that Autumn sends our way. Bad light, rain, and worrying about getting our gear wet. I still think it’s worth going out though. You might think that you need the sun, the good light, the warmth of Summer or Spring, but each season has it’s own particular beauty and deserves its place in our photographic collection. The soft light will lead to less contrasty images, and you will have to think more about the scene in front of you.
Photographs are like ideas. They are there waiting to be picked and put down on paper, or on screens, and shared. Are we really inventing and creating or are we merely recording what is there?
People have accused me of being and artist, and I have told them that I am nothing more than an observer and documentalist.
I have heard a definition of art saying that art is the transformation of matter by the artist into something new. Drawing is taking the graphite in the pencil and applying it to a page, painting is taking the pigments, putting them into a medium, be it oil, acrylic, or water, and applying them to another medium, be that paper, canvas, or anything else that will let the paint stick to it.
Now in photography one could argue that the matter is light, that we apply to a film in our carmera or our sensor… I see people creating things either in the darkroom or on the computer. Is it art? Possibly. But I feel that what I do isn’t. I do some minimal editing, the basics if you will, reframe and then publish. I might apply some of the basic rules of art to my photographs, but does that make me an artist? I don’t really think so.
When I was studying the horn, yes dear reader, for my sins I am a musician also, I was told that when you play your concerto in front of an audience, you are reciting the text on the page of music before you. The phrasing is given by the composer, as well as indications of nuance and dynamics. Alright, not before the classical period, but they followed conventions that were deem so self evident that there was no point in writing them down… so! I play my concerto. The audience may listen to it and maybe moved by the composer’s music, and when they clap at the end, or throw bottles of beer etc., is it due to the music, or just my playing of it? I won’t be as prideful to say it’s my playing. I am just reproducing what is on my page. The same things goes for photographs.
Once that concerto, or photo is out there, it is no longer mine. It belongs to the audience or you, the viewer. It might inspire an emotive response, but it is not me, it is your response to the stimulus before you. It might remind you of something. It might spark that souvenir from the past that I talked about in my last article. You might even interpret it in some way that I couldn’t even begin to imagine.
The photos were taken on the x100f. I’m off to mass so I will love you and leave you. I hope you enjoy looking through these photographic offerings.
For those of you who don’t know Lourdes, let me tell you about it. It is no ordinary place, and there is a feeling of profound hope, and healing, that strikes you immediately. There are mountains, souvenir shops for Catholic pilgrims, and the sanctuary itself.
Oh. I said that “C” word again. Except this one doesn’t rhyme with “punt.” I am unashamedly Catholic, and had drifted from the church, but I wanted to drift back.
When people go on pilgrimages, even unofficial ones like this, we talk about the voyage being almost as important as the destination. This is, of course, not just the physical journey, but the mental, and spiritual voyage also. I’ve wanted to return to Lourdes since I was 9, and this time I took my son with me.
As a parent you can only do so much, and part of my faith is to know that I can’t control everything in my life, let alone in the lives of others, and that there is something else that is beyond my comprehension. I wanted to help my son in his life, and despite maintaining a dialogue, I had done as much as I could. I could do no more, so I asked Our Lady to look after him. We all need a mother, and most of the Jewish people that I know, seem to agree that a Jewish mother is the best. And you don’t need to be a Jewish to be a Jewish mother. It’s a state of mind. And if God decided on a Jewish mother for His Son, then it was good enough for me. As a Catholic, we see Mary as being a mother to all of us. So when the proverbial **** hits the fan, you ask your Mum if she can help, before you ask your (heavenly) Father. Mums have a way of talking to Dads that help make things alright.
That’s something I understood once I became a father myself. God has that relationship with us. In Judaism, and Christianity, He does anyway. A father loves his child. Even when that child is “naughty,” we still love them. We might punish them, but we always want to forgive them. God is the same with us. You could argue that it’s a way of showing humanity through divinity.
Wow, this got heavy all of a sudden!
Anyway. I went to Lourdes to try and reconcile myself with God. To ask forgiveness for my many sins, to make reparation, to heal, and to try and return towards my Father. We do this with our own fathers here on earth, and so it was the same process for my soul. Does that make sense?
My son was my carer, and he did his job admirably. He also benefitted from his trip. In the Sanctuary there is an overwhelming sense of peace. We went to the grotto, and prayed. We did the night time procession and recited the rosary holding our candles. We bathed in the baths with the water from the source that appeared when Mary asked Saint Bernadette to dig. That source is still there and provides water for the many pilgrims. We put some of that water into bottles to take home with us. I went to Confession.
We also went up a mountain, and came down again. It was almost as much a religious experience as the rest of the pilgrimage. When Moses goes up the mountain to receive the ten commandments it is to be closer to God. At the top of that mountain we saw a nun talking to a young friend. They were laughing and taking selfies. We saw a priest praying from his Brievery. It was a moving experience seeing the cloud coming over the summit. We saw the clouds clear, and we looked over the valley to the other mountains. I still don’t understand how people can look at that scenery and doubt the existence of a creator.
Anyway. Let’s talk about the photos. They were taken with the X100F which is compact enough not to be noticed, and a little less heavy than my DSLR and all the lenses that I use with it. It limits me, but makes it all simpler. No unnecessary questions about which lens to use etc. Feel free to comment on the article or the photos. Any feedback is always welcome.
IJM Photography 