Gear: Canon EOS 6D Mark II | 16–35mm | 24–70mm | 70–300mm | CPL filter
A Saturday afternoon in June. Montjean-sur-Loire. I was aiming for the suspension bridge in Ancenis. I missed it, found myself heading towards Angers, spotted a sign for the Loire Valley, and followed it on a whim. The Canon 6D Mark II was on the seat beside me. Sometimes that’s all you need.
I had an idea, to get in my car and drive and do some photography. It was an attempt to escape my family. I love them dearly, but sometimes you need a break. So I broke out and got in the car with my camera. Did I have any idea on where I was going? Absolutely not! As I passed the junctions I crossed out the ideas in my head; First Clisson, then Nantes, oh bugger this was going to be long. I remember seeing a photo of the suspension bridge in Ancenis and thought that could do me nicely. It would have done but I didn’t see it and then I found myself on the road to Angers. I could do that… Little did I know that I wouldn’t get there… Ah well. It wouldn’t be the first time. I saw a sign saying the road that follows the Loire Valley. I thought I’d give it a go. I ended up in a place called Montjean sur Loire. You’re not going to believe this, but the huge river I could see was wider even than the Humber, or so it seemed. I had once seen the Loire before as a boy and later as a grown man, but never like this. As a boy it had been a place we drove along whilst going to the Vendée in 1980. As a man I had been next to the Loire and saw it as this massive river meandering along before it got to Nantes, and then went towards St Nazaire. I had read about Huckleberry Finn and his journey along the river. That’s the feeling I had when I parked up on the quayside, minus Mark Twain. There were massive sand banks and islands on the river. The water was so clear, and I saw a fish jumping. I also saw the fry swimming under the boats. I got out of the car and started looking for compositions. After exploring the quayside I decided it was time for a beer. It’s beer o’clock somewhere in the world. I had a 0% beer. What a wonderful idea. There was a poster for a brass band concert for the 4th and 5th of July and it would be performed by the band that Hervé tried to get me interested in… A reason to go back? I found a typical street photography shot. Using the bars of the terrasse to frame my subject.
I looked at the bridge and tried to find a half decent composition. So I did the usual thing. Going around the sides of the bridge, looking towards where I had come from when arriving in town. “Always look behind you.” I wanted the geometry of the bridge and played with the shapes it provided. I wasn’t going to get the dramatic shadows. By the time I got back to the car, I was ready to go home. Back in the car, music on and through the Mauges towards Cholet then, back into Vendée. It was a long afternoon but a good one.
It was a Friday in May. I received a Facebook message from an old friend. Well, I mean, not ancient, but somebody I have known for 15 years. He was my Director of Music when I played for the Wind Band in Cholet. We have both moved on since then, but still regularly keep in touch. I actually took some photos for him and for his Brass Quintet Arabesque, and even stood in for my old horn teacher playing Christmas carols one year. The rotundness of me and the big white beard had nothing to do with it.
Anyway, he messaged me. Right back on track now. He asked if I would like to go and listen to them play in Nantes. I of course said yes, and told my wife that I would be out. Fortunately I was given permission by “she who must be obeyed.”
His name is Hervé Dubois, tuba player, conductor, and a very good friend. And if you can’t take photos for a friend, then why even bother. I have a lot to thank him for. Not only is he a good friend, but it was through him and Quintet Arabesque that my photography first found a purpose beyond pointing a camera at things and hoping for the best. I did a full photoshoot for them at a concert in Guérande, and to my genuine surprise, those images ended up on the sleeve of their CD. Which means somewhere out there, pressed onto a disc, is proof that I occasionally do something right. More than that, Arabesque gave me a real taste for documenting music: not performing it, but being inside it with a camera. If you want to know more about Hervé, I wrote a portrait piece about him a few years back, and there is also The American Concert if you want the full picture of my ongoing relationship with this particular brass quintet.
I arrived early, as I tend to when I have a camera with me. Nantes was still in afternoon light, and the neighbourhood around the Basilique Saint-Donatien has exactly the kind of streets that reward patience: old stone, heavy shadows, ironwork that throws patterns across walls when the sun catches it at the right angle.
I have been trying something deliberately different with my photography lately. Rather than documenting what is in front of me, I have been looking for what the light is doing. The way shadow doubles the shape of a wrought iron gate on the stone behind it. The texture of centuries-old masonry caught in raking sunlight, where every crack and grain becomes its own small landscape. A wooden door under a fan-shaped iron canopy, lit just enough to pull it out of the surrounding dark. The photographs almost make themselves when you start looking that way; you just have to be in the right place and wait for the light to do its work.
By the time I made my way to the basilica, the sun was lower and the facade was glowing. The equestrian statue out front stood in silhouette against it, which felt appropriately dramatic for a saint’s festival.
Inside, the space had already been transformed. The organisers had bathed the apse in deep red stage lighting, and against the white stone of the neo-Gothic vaulting, the effect was extraordinary: ancient and modern at once, sacred and theatrical. The stained glass windows in the choir, normally gentle with colour, became something stranger under that wash of red.
The programme for the Festival Saint Donatien was built around the relationship between music and place. Quintet Arabesque were performing alongside the cathedral organist and, this time around, a choir as well. The idea was simple and quietly brilliant: drone footage of the basilica, filmed from outside and above, played on a large screen while the music filled the interior beneath. You could see the building from the sky while sitting inside it. Something about that shift in perspective changed the way you heard the music, and the way you felt the space around you.
We were asked not to applaud between pieces, and to let the whole evening unfold as a kind of meditation. It was the right call. In a space like that, with light and music working together at that level, the silence between movements became part of the performance. You sat with it. The acoustics of the stone carried each note long after it had been played, and for a while you stopped thinking about anything at all.
I had my camera with me, as I always do, and I tried to photograph what I was seeing. The difficulty, and the interest, was that the light inside was almost entirely the red of the stage wash and the cool blue filtering through the high windows. There was very little middle ground, and no safety net. You either committed to what was in front of you or you put the camera down. I chose to commit, and some of the results are not what I would call technically accomplished. But a few of them feel like the room actually felt.
Afterwards, the great red doors opened onto the square, and the audience spilled back out into the evening. I stood for a moment in the doorway looking back: the dark interior, the rows of empty pews, the faint glow of the apse still red behind the screen. Then I turned around, and there was the city again.
The streets were quiet on the walk back to the car. Nantes at night has a different quality to it: the stone buildings hold the warmth of the day, and the streetlights pool in places that the sun never quite reaches. I kept shooting. That is the thing about looking for light rather than subjects; the light does not stop being interesting just because the concert has ended.
Hervé and I ended up in a pub, as these evenings generally do. Two old friends catching up in person, which is a very different thing from a Facebook message, and a much better one. The evening had started with a notification on a screen and ended somewhere warmer and louder, with proper conversation that goes sideways in the best possible way. Full circle, really.
On the way back to the car, I stopped in the street and looked up. The twin towers of the basilica were still lit up in red against the black sky, visible above the rooftops from two streets away. It looked less like a church and more like something you might dream.
Gear: Canon EOS 6D Mark II | 16–35mm | 24–70mm | 70–300mm | CPL filter
A warm Wednesday in May. Clisson. Back in April I was here with the EOS 500 and wrote that I was missing the Canon 6D Mark II. Well.
I’ve been here before, of course. You don’t live in this part of France and not find yourself back in Clisson every so often. The medieval castle, the weirs, the old bridge with its stone cross, the Italian terraces creeping up the hillside. It has a slightly unreal quality, like someone has taken a corner of Tuscany and dropped it quietly into the Loire-Atlantique. The Sèvre Nantaise was running high and brown today — all that recent rain — which made the weirs more dramatic than usual, churning white water over the stone steps.
I came down through the town from the castle side. The bunting was up across the streets near the main square, yellow and red triangles strung between the buildings, flapping gently. A woman on a bicycle was navigating the cobblestones with considerable confidence. Two men were eating lunch outside on a terrace — “Bon appétit, messieurs” — and they looked up and smiled. These small things matter. The panama hat was on. I was in no hurry.
The juice bar near the bridge foot, Juste un Jus, had the castle tower rising directly behind it like a film set. I stood there for a moment with the 24–70mm and took the shot. Sometimes Clisson just hands you a composition.
Crossing the Pont Saint-Antoine, I stopped at the stone cross near the midpoint. It’s a modest thing really, weathered and lichen-covered, but the view it frames looking back toward the château is extraordinary. The cobblestones, the parapet, the ruined towers against the sky. I took several frames here and kept coming back to it. One of those spots where you don’t quite want to leave.
Below the bridge on the town side, a woman was standing at the water’s edge looking up at the arches. She wasn’t posing. She was just there, in her own thoughts, which made the photograph. Further along the bank, white calla lilies were growing wild in a tangle of green at the river’s edge, the old stone arch just visible beyond them. The 70–300mm earns its weight on a day like this.
The path along the Sèvre heading away from town is lush in May. The linden trees were in blossom, hanging overhead in the dappled shade. Yellow wildflowers were growing right down to the waterline, their stems reflected in the brown moving water. I don’t know the name of every plant I photograph. Sometimes it doesn’t matter.
On the way back through the streets I noticed a small yellow letterbox set into the wall. “POSTES — CLISSON.” It seemed like a reasonable way to end the afternoon.
On était bien là.
Article notes
On the Canon 6D Mark II in 2026: Yes, it was released in 2017. Yes, Canon has long since moved on to the EOS R series. No, I don’t particularly care.
I came to Clisson knowing this outing would feel different. I wanted to test that honestly: same town, same kind of light, a familiar subject, but a different tool. And it does get the job done. It gets the job done very well. But did I feel like I was cheating? In some respects, yes.
The 6D Mark II is in many ways point and shoot. The autofocus makes decisions quickly and accurately. The image stabilisation in the lenses gives you frames you would simply never achieve on film — handheld shots at slower shutter speeds that come out clean, details in low-contrast shade that hold together. You don’t have to count frames or worry about whether a scene is worth the cost of the shot. You can try things freely. And yet I was shooting mindfully, the same way I would with film. Pausing. Looking. Deciding before pressing the shutter rather than after. The camera was doing more of the mechanical work, but the intention was the same.
Which is where the imposter syndrome creeps in.
Do I deserve the results? The images are good because the light was good and the composition was considered and the 6D Mark II’s full-frame sensor handled everything it was asked to handle. But some small part of me wonders how much of that I can genuinely claim. With the EOS 500 you earn each frame by committing to it. You have thirty-six shots. No preview. No second chance. The discipline is built in. With digital, the discipline has to come from you, and it is easier to let it slip without noticing.
The 16–35mm was a deliberate experiment. I knew it would show me Clisson differently. Getting low near the castle, letting the wide end exaggerate the height of the towers, using the diagonal of the outer wall as a lead-in. That is something the EOS 500 and a fixed 24mm simply cannot do. I shot on aperture priority for most of the day, which kept me thinking about depth of field rather than handing everything over to the camera. It felt like the right balance: let the 6D Mark II handle the exposure arithmetic, but keep the creative decisions in hand. For the 70–300mm I switched to shutter priority. At that focal length you need to know the shutter speed is fast enough to keep things sharp, particularly with the river moving, people on the bridge, wildflowers shifting in any breeze. The compression and selective focus that lens gives you — the yellow wildflowers sharp against the blurred water behind them — only works if the shutter is doing its job. These are results I would never get on film. The workhorse earns its place.
The CPL filter helped throughout. It deepened that May sky, cut the glare off the weir, brought the riverbank green back from what the flat midday sun was trying to do to it. One of those practical things you stop noticing until you see what the images look like without one.
The colours are perhaps the starkest difference from film — and I should say, the most obvious one, given that the AGFA APX 100 I use in the EOS 500 is a black and white negative film. There is no colour to compare. The 6D Mark II gives you the full scene: the terracotta of the buildings, the vivid green of the May riverbank, the blue the CPL filter pulls out of the sky above the castle towers. AGFA APX 100 gives you grain, tone, contrast, texture. A different kind of truth about the same place. Neither is more correct. That is exactly why it is worth doing both.
Then there is the edit. The 16 images I kept were processed with minimal adjustment and a single Portra preset — a film emulation based on Kodak Portra colour negative film. Warm lifted shadows, a slight vignette, teal-shifted blues. The result is that these digital files, shot on a nine-year-old DSLR to see what digital could do that film cannot, have been processed to look as much like film as possible. I did not plan that irony. But there it is.
One concrete number from the day: 123 frames, 16 strong images. A 13% hit rate. On a roll of 36 with the EOS 500 I would expect to come back with 4 or 5 solid keepers — roughly the same proportion. The digital camera gave me more attempts, more flexibility, no cost per frame. The ratio stayed almost identical. That is either reassuring or unsettling depending on your mood. It suggests the extra frames didn’t make me careless. It also suggests that 36 frames of discipline might have found those 16 anyway.
But yes. Guilty pleasure. I know it is just a tool, and a good one. I know the results come from the eye as much as the camera. I know all the rational arguments. And I will keep making them to myself, probably for longer than I should, every time I reach for it instead of the film bag.
If you’ve read the Lourdes articles, you’ll know that I have a particular devotion to Our Lady and to the sites of her apparitions. So when May 1st came around — the first day of the Month of Our Lady — it seemed only right to do something about it.
Out with the Canon AE1 Program, loaded with a roll of Fomapan 100. Destination: La Rabatelière, about twenty minutes from the house, and the Sanctuaire de la Salette.
I said my Rosary in the car on the way over. Stopped off at the Parish Church of Saint-Charles and said an extra decade. Well, it’s the Month of Mary. Start as you mean to go on.
The French say: En avril, ne te découvre pas d’un fil. Don’t shed a thread of clothing in April. It was May now and 26°c. The Panama hat was already feeling like too much. Shirt sleeves it was.
I’ve been to La Rabatelière before, about twenty years ago, but I hadn’t really taken it in properly. This time I wanted to do it right.
The Parish Church of Saint-Charles is where you begin. It was built in 1633, consecrated the following year on the feast of Saint Charles; that coincidence of date gave the church its name and its patron. A solid, unshowy building — what the heritage plaques call style bas-breton: a massive façade, plain and purposeful. Exactly the kind of church that says: we are here, and we intend to stay.
Except, of course, they tried to burn it down.
On 8 December 1793, during the War of the Vendée, Republican forces put the church to the torch. For those who don’t know the War of the Vendée: it was the uprising of the western provinces against the Revolution, and the Republic’s response was one of the darkest episodes in French history. The colonnes infernales — the Infernal Columns — swept through this region killing civilians, burning farms, destroying everything they found. Here in the Vendée, people carry a devoir de mémoire, a duty of remembrance. They do not forget.
The church was restored in 1802. A century later, Abbé Hillairet enlarged it; he added a transept to give it the shape of a Latin cross.
Then, in 1905, came the Law on the Separation of Church and State. All Church property was to be inventoried by the state. For a lot of French Catholics, this was not a bureaucratic inconvenience. It was another assault. The Revolution had burned the church down. Now the Republic wanted a list of everything inside it.
In February 1906, word went around La Rabatelière that the inspectors were coming. The parishioners didn’t wait. They dragged tree trunks in front of the doors. When the inspectors arrived, they found the church barricaded and the congregation inside with their priest, refusing to move.
It held. For a while.
On 23 November 1906, they came back with axes. The left side door — the one on the north side of the nave — was broken open. You can still see the marks. Deep ones. Not the kind of thing that weathers away or gets sanded smooth. They are still there because nobody has chosen to remove them. La porte des Inventaires. That is what the door has been called ever since. The Inventory Door. Not a nickname that flatters the Republic.
I stood in front of it and thought: a hundred and twenty years, and there are the marks. The Vendée does not forget. It does not perform forgetting either.
Before heading up the hill I walked through the cemetery, which the municipal council reorganised around 1970. Near the entrance sits a small millstone, on display. It was found in a tomb believed to belong to François Suire (1753-1794): a miller, killed by Republican soldiers during the War of the Vendée. Forty-one years old. Nobody famous. No monument beyond this stone. But there it is. Still there.
Near the central cross is the granite tomb of Abbé Elie Hillairet (1840-1908), the parish priest here from 1873 until his death. He is, as we’ll see, the man behind most of what you can still see in this village. It seems fitting that he is buried at the foot of his life’s work.
Then the climb.
The Sanctuaire de la Salette sits on a hillside above the Petite Maine river, and I can confirm: it is a bit hilly. There were signs for the handicapped route but I couldn’t make head nor tail of them. My legs were killing me by the time I reached the top.
For those who are less familiar with the apparitions of Our Lady: La Salette is one of the great Marian apparitions, confirmed by the Church in 1851. On 19 September 1846, on a mountainside near Corps in the French Alps, two young shepherds encountered a weeping woman seated on a stone. Her name: Mélanie Calvat, aged fourteen; and Maximin Giraud, aged eleven. The woman rose and spoke to them: about faith, about the breaking of Sunday rest, about blasphemy, about a people drifting from God. She gave each child a secret. Then she ascended into the light and was gone.
As apparitions go, La Salette has always struck me as a sorrowful one. Our Lady of Lourdes is serene; you see her in her grotto and feel peace. Our Lady of La Salette is weeping. She comes as a mother at the end of her patience, and her message is a warning. But it is still love. Only love would bother.
Hillairet understood this. He was curé here from 1873 to 1908, and he built this sanctuary as an act of deliberate faith during the most aggressively anticlerical period in French history. The Republic was dismantling the Church’s presence everywhere it could reach. Hillairet planted statues on a hillside.
Work began in 1887. Three groups of statues marking the three moments of the apparition were inaugurated the following summer. A Rosary monument came next. The path climbs to a tower: the Triumph of the Cross. At the summit, the Chapel of the Cross of Jerusalem, a square keep in local schist and brick, built in 1893. A Stations of the Cross path added along the hillside in 1902.
Standing up there, looking out over the valley, I thought about the miller buried down in the cemetery. And the axe marks in the church door. And Hillairet up here, building all of this in the teeth of a state that wanted nothing to do with it.
The Vendée has its wounds. It tends them carefully.
I am officially knackered. The Fomapan went through fine. The Panama hat stayed in the bag.
I drove home with the windows down, thinking that May 1st had been rather well spent.
All photographs shot on Fomapan 100, Canon AE1 Program. La Rabatelière, Vendée, May 2026.
It was the 20th of March, the first day of spring, and I drove out to Saint-Hilaire-de-Loulay to photograph a château I’d been meaning to photograph again for some time.
Château de la Preuille has been here since the 11th century — through medieval fortress, Renaissance residence, abandonment, and whatever quiet resilience comes after that. Today it’s a living estate: chambres d’hôtes, gîtes, wine workshops, weddings. The people who run it have a motto: “It’s not perfect, it’s paradise.” Spend an afternoon there and you’ll understand why they chose it. The place has character that no amount of renovation could manufacture — it simply accumulated it, over nine centuries.
What they’ve built is worth visiting on its own terms. The accommodations range from rooms in the château itself to the old wine press building sleeping up to ten, to Le Donjon, a tower with its own private wing. The wine workshops — blind tastings, tastings under the stars — are exactly the kind of thing that sounds gimmicky until you’re actually there, on a working estate, surrounded by vines that have been cultivated on this land for generations. It’s thirty minutes from the Puy du Fou and feels like another world entirely.
I made one deliberate technical choice before I left: I pulled the HP5+ from 400 to 200 ASA. One stop of overexposure, finer grain, softer tones. For nine-hundred-year-old stone and dormant vineyards on a still March morning, it felt right. A harder, faster film would have been the wrong conversation.
What I found myself photographing wasn’t the grand architectural gestures — though the round towers with their conical slate roofs reflecting in the moat are there, and they earn their place. It was the details that kept stopping me. Wine bottles glimpsed through a window. The number 5 cast into a piece of rusty agricultural equipment. Ivy claiming the side of a wooden barn. Vine stocks twisted and patient, waiting for warmth. The decay and renewal that a place accumulates when it’s been genuinely lived in rather than merely preserved.
Black and white was the only option. Colour would have placed these images firmly in March 2026. In monochrome, they could be from any point in the château’s long life — and that ambiguity suits the subject. Preuille doesn’t perform its history. It simply has it.
Shot on Nikon FE, Ilford HP5+ pulled to 200 ASA. Home developed in Ilfosol 3 at 1:9, scanned on an Opticfilm 8100. Château de la Preuille, Saint-Hilaire-de-Loulay, Vendée. 20 March 2026. chateau-de-la-preuille.fr
“ON NE PEUT PAS ACHETER LE BONHEUR MAIS ON PEUT ACHETER DU BON VIN.”
You can’t buy happiness, but you can buy good wine.
I found this handwritten on a café window in Nantes, and it stopped me. The French don’t really promise happiness, they promise pleasure, and the city seems built around that idea.
I walked through Nantes for days with my camera, trying to understand what makes a city not just beautiful, but livable. What I found changed how I think about urban life.
The lampposts told me a lot. Twisted metal trees with globed lights, more sculpture than street furniture.
This question was everywhere. In the Passage Pommeraye, a 19th-century shopping arcade where statues line ornate balconies and natural light floods through glass ceilings. In the Théâtre Graslin, where neoclassical columns frame a cultural temple that feels both monumental and welcoming.
Nantes treats beauty as something everyone gets access to, not a luxury reserved for a few. The city is carefully designed but never precious about it, and the old and the new sit together without much fuss.
An elderly couple sat on a bench in Cours Cambronne, backs to my camera, just watching the world go by from behind an iron fence.
Later, in the Passage Pommeraye, someone sat alone in a bistro chair among the statues and columns, resting or reading or just thinking, in no hurry to be anywhere else.
What I like about Nantes is that it doesn’t insist you be sociable. You can sit in public on your own without it being strange. The city makes room for company and for solitude equally.
The espresso cup sat empty on its saucer. Someone had been there a few minutes earlier, had their coffee, and moved on. You can’t buy happiness, but a coffee and five minutes to sit down costs less than you’d think.
That might be the real lesson of Nantes: you don’t need to be happy all the time, just to have regular access to small, reliable pleasures. Good coffee. Good food. Good company or good solitude. Somewhere pleasant to sit.
Happiness is the big abstract thing you chase and rarely catch. Pleasure is smaller and more immediate, and you can actually have it on a Tuesday afternoon.
The bicycle stood locked to its post, basket empty, waiting for whoever left it there to come back and ride it somewhere, work, home, a café, a friend’s place.
Nantes offers small pleasures rather than promising grand happiness. You can’t buy joy, as the sign said, but you can buy a good espresso and sit down and see what happens next.
And sometimes, that’s enough.
Here is the full lot of photos taken at the beginning of March on HP5 (box speed) and 4 photos on Rollei RPX 400, all shot with the Nikon FE, and developed in Ilfosol3 1:9. For me they represent different aspects of Nantes – Bouffay, Place Graslin, la place Cambronne, la rue Crébillon, le passage Pommeraye, et la rue de la Paix.
Saturday’s concerto rehearsal was done — the collaboration, the translation, the careful work of integrating guest artists into an established ensemble. But the concert wasn’t just one piece. It was a full programme. And the rest of that programme needed rehearsal too.
Sunday. No soloists. No concerto. Just the orchestra, the conductor, and the grind.
I loaded HP5+ pushed to 3200. Same Nikon FE, same 50mm f/1.8. But three stops of push this time — more grain, more contrast, more raw. If Saturday’s 1600 was work, Sunday’s 3200 was iteration.
You can feel the difference when the guest artists aren’t there. Saturday had a particular energy — the stakes of building a shared language with people from outside the ensemble. Sunday was just us. The regulars. The people who were eating lunch in the car park the day before. Corentin back in his seat next to me. Viktor on oboe. Nicolas patient behind the timpani. The conductor at the whiteboard, same as always, but now talking only to people he knows.
No translation needed. Just the work.
Here’s what general rehearsal looks like: we play. The conductor stops us. Again. We play. He stops us. From 47. We play. No, from 45. We play. Better. Now from the top of the phrase. Over and over, getting it right, then getting it better. It’s not glamorous. It’s not even particularly musical most of the time. It’s iteration — and the HP5+ at 3200 suits it. The grain is heavy but not ugly. Textural. Urgent. Honest about what it’s depicting.
What strikes me looking at the images now is the concentration. The hunched shoulders, the heads bent over sheet music, the conductor’s hands cutting through the air. Nobody is thinking about dinner or what they forgot to do at work. For these few hours everyone is just here, trying to make something work. The grain matches that energy — it says this is real, this is process, this is nowhere near the victory lap.
The full arc of the weekend, in one table:
Fomapan 100 — Lunch
HP5+ 1600 — Concerto
HP5+ 3200 — General
Camera
Pentax ME Super
Canon AE-1 Program
Nikon FE
Light
Natural daylight
Mixed indoor
Mixed indoor
Grain
Fine, subtle
Textural, controlled
Pronounced, raw
Mood
Relaxed
Focused
Urgent
Story
Community at rest
Collaboration at work
The machine in flow
Three cameras. Three films. One story.
The choices weren’t accidental. I chose Fomapan 100 for the lunch because I wanted calm. HP5+ at 1600 for the concerto because I wanted texture with control. HP5+ at 3200 for Sunday because I wanted the grain to do some of the work — to say without saying it that this is unglamorous, repetitive, necessary. The photojournalists who shot jazz clubs in the 1950s understood this. You don’t hide the process. You lean into it.
From my seat in the horns I photographed the machine I’m part of — the horn resting in its case between takes, valves gleaming; coffee cups on the floor by the woodwinds; sheet music thick with pencil marks. These are the million small adjustments that add up to a rehearsal. And eventually, if everything goes right, to music.
Seeing the Symphonique des bords de Loire through a viewfinder across a whole weekend changed something. I saw not just the work but the commitment behind it — all these people who could be doing anything else on a Saturday and Sunday afternoon, here instead, playing the same bars until they’re right.
Rehearsal is where the music is actually made. The concert is just the victory lap.
The trilogy is complete.
Shot on Nikon FE, 50mm f/1.8, HP5+ pushed to 3200. Edited in Lightroom — contrast via tone curve, subtle vignettes, grain left exactly where it was.
P.S. All three parts are now published: Part 1 (Fomapan 100, Lunch), Part 2 (HP5+ 1600, Concerto), Part 3 (HP5+ 3200, General). Thank you for following along.
Thank you for being here. If you’re reading this, you’ve been following my work for a while — and that means more to me than I can easily say.
I wanted to share something with you before anyone else.
Over the past months I’ve been quietly building a small print shop — seven photographs that have stayed with me long after the shutter closed. A path in Huizhou. A canal in Shaoxing. A Vespa in the Quartier Bouffay. A tiny wooden shed in Northumberland that stopped me in my tracks.
Each print comes with the story behind it — because a photograph without its story is only half the picture.
If one of them speaks to you — I’d be genuinely honoured to have it on your wall.
Thank you for six years of reading, liking, commenting, and quietly being there.
Part 2: The Work — Rehearsing a Double Violin Concerto on HP5+ 1600
The lunch break ended. Tables were folded. Containers packed. The last crumbs brushed away.
And then they arrived.
Two Chinese violin soloists — guest artists who’d travelled some distance to play a double violin concerto with our little orchestra in a French community centre. They weren’t at lunch. They weren’t part of that casual, sunlit gathering outside. They were here for work.
So were we.
I put down the Fomapan and loaded HP5+ pushed to 1600. Swapped the Pentax for the Canon AE-1 Program. Same 50mm philosophy, different camera, different film, different mood. The sunlight was gone. The fluorescents were on. The break was over.
You can feel it when rehearsal starts — the shift from community to concentration. From chatting about weekends to counting measures. The conductor, same man who was smiling over a food container an hour ago, is now at the whiteboard, baton in hand, writing notes about tempo and bowing. The soloists take their places at the front. Tuning. Focused. Not quite part of our tribe yet — guests, professionals, here to do a job.
I photographed from my seat in the horn section and from the aisles during breaks. The AE-1 Program in Program mode — no thinking about shutter or aperture, just framing and timing. The camera handled exposure. I handled seeing.
What you witness, photographing a concerto rehearsal, is translation. Not just musical ideas passing between conductor and players, but something more specific: two soloists from one tradition finding a shared language with an orchestra from another. The conductor stops us. Softer in the strings. The soloists adjust. He stops again. A touch more projection. They adjust. We play. He listens. He stops. This goes on. Not because anyone is wrong, but because everyone is finding the same musical space.
HP5+ at 1600 sits in the right place for this. Not the fine, almost invisible grain of the Fomapan lunch shots. Not the raw, declared grain of 3200. Textural, controlled, appropriate — honest about the work without dramatising it.
The three-roll arc of the weekend, laid out:
Fomapan 100 — Lunch
HP5+ 1600 — Concerto
HP5+ 3200 — General
Light
Natural daylight
Mixed indoor fluorescents
Mixed indoor fluorescents
Grain
Fine, subtle, clean
Textural, present, controlled
Pronounced, bold, raw
Contrast
Gentle, even
Moderate, balanced
Punchy, dramatic
Mood
Relaxed, communal
Focused, collaborative
Urgent, iterative
Story
Community at rest
Collaboration at work
The machine in flow
Same orchestra. Same weekend. Three worlds — and the technical choices were the point from the start.
From my seat in the horns I see the whole machine differently than an outsider would. I know which passages are coming. I know which sections are struggling. I know the rhythm of this room. But through the viewfinder I see something else — the strings moving in that eerie synchronised way, the brass gleaming under the fluorescents, Viktor on oboe, Nicolas patient behind the timpani, Corentin next to me absorbed in something difficult, glasses slipping, completely gone.
The small details tell it too. A French horn resting in its case between takes. Coffee cups on the floor near the woodwinds. Sheet music thick with pencil marks. These are the million small adjustments that add up to a rehearsal — and eventually, if everything goes right, to music.
Saturday was the concerto. The focused, collaborative work. Sunday would be the rest of the programme — no soloists, just the orchestra and the conductor and whatever needed fixing. The grind. The iteration.
Part 3 is coming.
Shot on Canon AE-1 Program, 50mm f/1.8, HP5+ pushed to 1600. Edited in Lightroom — contrast via tone curve, subtle vignettes, nothing added that wasn’t already there.
Let’s be honest: orchestras run on two things. Music and food.
Most documentation skips the food. Concert halls, polished instruments, formal attire — that’s what ends up in the frame. But before any of that, there’s a lunch break in a car park outside a community centre, and that’s where I wanted to start.
I’m the fourth horn in the Symphonique des bords de Loire. Which means I’m also inside the story, not observing it from a safe distance. I know these people. I count rests next to Corentin, our first horn. I watch Victor — oboe, cor anglais, and the man who quietly keeps the whole enterprise running — arrive with a tote bag full of provisions. I see the conductor holding a food container and chatting, no baton, no authority, just a man at lunch with his colleagues.
That’s what I wanted to photograph.
I loaded the Pentax ME Super with Fomapan 100 and spent the break outside. Aperture priority, natural light, film at box speed. No pushing, no games. The choice was deliberate — I knew I’d be shooting the rehearsal indoors on HP5+ pushed to 1600 and 3200. Those would be grainy, urgent, intense. This needed to feel different. Calmer. The breath before the dive.
The difference, when you put the two rolls side by side, is striking:
Fomapan 100 — Lunch
HP5+ 1600 — Rehearsal
Light
Natural daylight
Mixed indoor fluorescents
Grain
Fine, subtle, clean
Textural, present, moody
Contrast
Gentle, even
Punchy, dramatic
Mood
Relaxed, communal
Focused, intense
Story
Community at rest
Collaboration at work
Same orchestra. Same day. Different worlds — and that contrast was the point from the start.
Fomapan 100 in good daylight gives you an honesty about the light that suits candid work. The faces, the bread, the containers of salad, the glass bottle catching the sun — none of it is staged, and the film doesn’t try to make it anything other than what it is.
The two Chinese violin soloists — the guest artists who’d be the focus of the afternoon — weren’t there for lunch. They’d arrive later, after the tables were packed away. For now it was just us: teachers, retirees, students, professionals, amateurs. All ages. The usual mix. Gathered outside a community centre with a faded sign, sharing food before three hours of work.
This isn’t a fancy conservatory. It never was. That’s rather the point.
After lunch, the tables come down. The last conversations finish. Someone rinses a container. And then, quietly, the same people who were just eating become musicians again. The conductor picks up his baton. Viktor picks up his oboe. Corentin finds his pitch. I put down my camera, pick up my horn, and count rests.
The soloists arrive. The work begins.
That’s Part 2.
Shot on Pentax ME Super, 50mm f/1.7, Fomapan 100 at box speed. Developed in Ilfosol 3. Edited in Lightroom
I’m a bloody fool. I made the stupidest of mistakes when shooting HP5 Plus 400 speed film at ISO 100.
I’d been intending to use 100 ASA film in my Nikon FE, so in preparation, I had set my camera’s ISO dial to 100. I loaded the HP5 and forgot to change this blasted setting. By the time I realised, I had already taken “some” photos. I didn’t want to wind the film on to change the setting because the sun was shining and I didn’t want to waste the light.
In for a penny, in for a pound. I thought, “What the heck?” They say you have all this “latitude” with film, so I went online to find out if I could salvage the roll. Here we go for a walk in the Parc Garenne Lemot in Clisson.
I developed the film in Ilfosol 3 (1:9) and used the development times for Kentmere 100, praying that I would have something usable…
THE STATUE – Front view of classical statue on pedestal – This shot demonstrates the beautiful tonal range achieved through pull processing
The Theory: Pulling Two Stops
For those who aren’t deep in the film weeds, here is what I actually did. By setting my camera to 100 ISO while using 400 speed film, I was overexposing by two stops.
Now, common wisdom says that pulling HP5 to 200 ASA (one stop) is perfectly fine. But I thought I was pushing my luck pulling it two stops to 100 ASA. I thought I was taking the mickey with the film gods.
By giving it extra light and less development, I was essentially asking the film to reduce contrast and grain significantly. I was testing just how much abuse it could take before the negatives turned into flat, grey mush.
I didn’t develop it for standard HP5 400 times. I treated the whole roll as if it were 100 ISO film from start to finish.
The Results
When I pulled the negatives out of the tank and held them up to the light, I braced myself for grey mush. What I got instead was dense, rich negatives — a bit chewy for the scanner, but nothing it couldn’t handle. And when the scans came up on screen, I just sat there for a moment.
The first thing that struck me was the shadows. HP5 at box speed can get muddy in the dark areas — a graininess that clogs rather than adds texture. Here, the shadows under the pergola and along the fence are deep and rich, but they’re not blocked up. You can still see into them. That matters.
FENCE WITH LONG SHADOWS – Diagonal shadows cast across gravel path – wood grain inside film grain. Both doing their job.
2. Texture and Grain
But the real revelation was the grain — or rather, the near-absence of it. Because the film had been drowning in light and starved of development, the grain structure in the mid-tones is almost Delta 100 territory. Look at the texture on that weathered wooden post. Every crack, every split in the grain of the wood — the film is rendering it, not obscuring it.
WEATHERED WOODEN POST – Close-up showing wood grain and texture – The fine grain structure is clearly visible in the wood texture
3. Highlight Control
I’d been braced for blown skies. Two stops of overexposure in spring sunshine — I was mentally preparing my excuses. But the reduced development had pulled the highlights back beautifully. Look at those bare branches against the sky. It’s a grey gradient, not a white void. The film held on.
BARE TREE BRANCHES AGAINST SKY, Garenne Lemot — I was expecting white sky. I got this instead.
4. Tonal Range
And then there’s the tonal range across the whole roll — from the white marble of the statues to the dark foliage behind them. The separation is superb. There’s a creaminess to it, a classical smoothness, that I’m honestly not sure I’d have got from HP5 at box speed. A happy accident, as it turns out, can sometimes produce results you wouldn’t have had the nerve to plan.
ORNATE URN WITH STATUE IN BACKGROUND – Layered composition – Foreground and background detail with smooth tonal transitions CLASSICAL COLONNADE – Stone pillars with cloudy sky – Weathered stone texture and cloud detail demonstrate the technique’s versatility
The Verdict
So, was this a disaster? Absolutely not.
In fact, it might be some of the most satisfying film I’ve shot in a while — and I shot it by accident. The shadow detail is rich, the highlights are controlled, the grain is almost invisible in the mid-tones. It has that smooth, almost medium-format quality that you usually have to pay for in slower film and longer development times.
Ornate scrollwork detail – Razor-sharp detail and micro-contrast prove no sharpness was lost
It turns out, what I thought was a stupid mistake is actually a technique some photographers use on purpose. Pull processing HP5 (rating it at 100 or 200 ISO and developing accordingly) is known to produce finer grain and lower contrast. I thought I was pushing my luck going two stops, but the film handled it like a champion.
Would I Do It Again?
Would I do it deliberately? Probably not — if I want 100 ASA film, I have 100 ASA film. But that’s almost beside the point now. What this roll taught me is that HP5 has reserves I hadn’t tested, and that sometimes the best thing you can do is commit to the mistake and see where it takes you. In for a penny, in for a pound — and in this case, the pound came back with interest.
If you ever load the wrong film, or find yourself caught between changing light and the wrong ISO setting, don’t panic. HP5 can take the abuse. It might even thank you for it.
Have you ever accidentally shot film at the wrong ISO? Did you save the roll or bin it? Let me know in the comments below.
Happy shooting
Ian from IJM Photography
P.S. The Kentmere 100 development time was a guess. An educated one, but a guess. The fact that it worked is either good research or dumb luck. Probably both.
P.P.S. I have since checked the ISO dial on the Nikon FE before every single roll. Every. Single. Roll.
P.P.P.S. The images from this roll are available as prints. Some accidents are worth keeping.
Continuing on from my last article about shooting in sub-par lighting, I’ll introduce my next roll of film—RPX 400 from Rollei. I usually like this film. This roll also marked the first time I really tried to use the Tone Curve tool in Lightroom. I’m still getting used to it. But I thought that with RPX 400, I might be able to make some ordinary prints somewhat less ordinary.
After forty years of doing this, you’d think I’d have it all figured out. You’d think I’d have a fixed workflow, a set of rules, a way of knowing exactly what the result will be. But this roll reminded me otherwise. There’s always something new to learn, or something old to look at differently. And I’ve started to wonder if there’s something honest in admitting that, rather than pretending the process is ever truly finished.
Pont Caffino on a February afternoon is exactly that kind of place. I’d never visited before, though I’d heard about it from other photographers. The sky was uniform. The light was flat. Nothing was going to jump out and grab me. So I loaded the Rollei, walked down to the river, and started looking.
The River
The water level was low—noticeably so. I knew this because not long before, I’d been at the Maine in St Hilaire de Loulay where the river had broken its banks completely. You couldn’t even see the weir there, just water spreading across the landscape. Here at Pont Caffino, the opposite was true. More of the granite banks showed through. More of the weir structure was exposed. The river looked different, and I found myself photographing it differently.
River surface with bridge in distance
When the light is flat, water becomes less about reflection and more about texture. You notice the foam patterns, the subtle ripples, the way debris catches on submerged rocks. RPX 400 handled this beautifully—there’s a softness to the water that feels accurate to how it looked that day, not how I wished it looked.
Water Level Gauges
The gauges became an unexpected focal point. They’re functional objects, not particularly beautiful on their own, but they tell the story of this place better than any dramatic landscape could. The reflection of the numbers in the still water added a compositional echo I didn’t plan but gladly kept.
Weir Structure
Where the water quickened over the weir, I had to be careful with exposure. Film handles highlights more forgivingly than digital, but I still metered conservatively. The fallen branch caught my eye—it’s the kind of detail you miss when you’re looking for the big shot, but it adds a diagonal line that pulls the frame together.
On editing the water: The challenge here was separation. When both sky and water are grey, they tend to merge into one another. I used subtle dodging to lift the highlights on the water’s surface, just enough to ensure the reflections didn’t disappear. Nothing dramatic. Just enough to guide the eye.
The Cliff Face
The granite cliffs that frame the Maine valley are dramatic even in bad light. They’re also popular with climbers, which adds a human element I hadn’t planned to capture but couldn’t ignore.
Climber on Granite Close-up
I haven’t shot rock faces like these on HP5+ before. The nearest I got to that was shooting in the Pyrenees mountains—different stone, different light, different everything. So I didn’t have a direct comparison to fall back on. What I noticed with RPX 400 is how it renders texture without aggression. Every crack and lichen patch comes through, but without the bite that HP5+ might have given. For this particular day, that suited the mood better.
Climbing Scene Wider
Seeing the climber and belayer together reminded me that landscapes aren’t empty. They’re used. They’re lived in. The rope creates a diagonal line through the frame, and suddenly there’s narrative—someone is trusting someone else, and both are trusting the rock.
On editing the cliffs: This is where dodging and burning did the most work. Flat light makes rock faces look two-dimensional, like cardboard cutouts. I spent time burning in the crevices and dodging the raised surfaces, essentially repainting the light that wasn’t there when I pressed the shutter. It’s not about creating drama that didn’t exist. It’s about revealing the dimension that the light flattened.
Details
I’ve learned to slow down on days like this. When the big vistas aren’t cooperating, the small things start to speak.
Catkins/Branches
The catkins hanging from bare branches aren’t dramatic. They’re not even particularly interesting as a subject. But they caught the light in a way that felt worth capturing. The shallow depth of field creates a dreamy quality, and the grain—more noticeable here than in the landscapes—adds character rather than detracting from it.
Water Edge Vegetation
Mechanical Detail
The mechanical detail—the lock gate mechanism, I think—was almost accidental. I was walking back from the viewpoint and noticed the bolts, the geared rack, the weathered metal. It’s the industrial counterpoint to all the natural elements. Sometimes you just stop and shoot because something looks like it has a story.
On editing the details: I was careful not to over-sharpen these. The natural grain of RPX 400 provided enough texture without needing digital enhancement. If anything, I pulled back on clarity rather than adding it. These images work because they’re soft, not in spite of it.
The Town & Viewing Platform
For the full perspective, I drove up to Château-Thébaud’s belvedere, “Le Porte-Vue.” It’s a striking piece of architecture—Corten steel extending 23 meters out at 45 meters above the river, designed by Emmanuel Ritz and inaugurated in 2020.
Walkway to Viewpoint
Walking out onto the platform, you feel the height. The steel underfoot, the railing at your side, the valley opening up below. There’s a figure in this shot—could be another photographer, could be anyone taking in the view. It adds scale and reminds you that you’re not alone in these places.
Le Porte-Vue Architecture
Framed View Through Steel
The Corten steel handled the flat light better than I expected. The weathered texture gave the film something to hold onto, and the geometric lines contrast nicely with the organic landscape beyond. The framed view through the steel structure became one of my favourite shots—it acknowledges that you’re looking from somewhere, not just capturing a scene.
River Valley Overview
This is the establishing shot. The full Maine valley from above, all the elements visible at once. You can see the weir, the cliffs, the tree line. After seeing the Maine at St Hilaire de Loulay with water everywhere, this view felt almost spare. The lower levels exposed more of the structure than I’d imagined possible. It’s the image that ties everything together.
Church Steeple
Village Street
The village itself grounds the landscape. The church steeple adds a human landmark to the valley. The quiet street with its leading lines and the number “28” on the wall—these are accidental details that add authenticity. This isn’t a pristine wilderness. It’s a place where people live.
On editing the architecture: I focused on straightening lines and ensuring the steel texture didn’t look too smooth. The flat sky was retained intentionally. I could have blown it out or added artificial clouds, but that would have been dishonest. This is the light I had. This is the day I experienced.
On Making It Less Ordinary
Looking down at the river from Le Porte-Vue, I thought about what I was actually trying to do.
This was my first time at Pont Caffino, and I wasn’t sure what to expect. RPX 400 felt right for this quieter, more exposed version of the valley. But the film alone wasn’t enough. The scans came back flat—accurate, but lacking the dimension I remembered from being there. That’s where the work began.
In Lightroom, I used the Tone Curve to add a gentle S-shape, nothing aggressive. Just enough to add punch without crushing the blacks. I lifted the deepest shadows slightly to preserve the atmosphere. And then I spent time dodging and burning—manually painting light into the highlights of wet granite, holding back exposure in the shadows of riverbanks, guiding the viewer’s eye through texture and tone.
I’ve only started using the Tone Curve with this roll of film. I’m still getting used to it. But I’ve found it offers basic yet subtle controls, as does the dodging and burning. It’s easy to feel like this is cheating. Like you’re admitting the photograph wasn’t good enough straight from the scan. But I’ve started to think of it differently. Dodging and burning isn’t about fixing mistakes. It’s about translation. It’s about taking what you saw and felt and finding a way to communicate that to someone who wasn’t there.
There’s a danger in thinking you know everything. Usually, that’s when you stop seeing. When you assume the light will behave, or the film will respond the way it did last time, you miss what’s actually in front of you. I’d rather be the one still figuring out the Tone Curve after forty years than the one who thinks there’s nothing left to learn.
The result isn’t dramatic. It’s not the kind of image that stops you scrolling. But it felt honest—a quiet enhancement rather than a transformation. And on a grey February day at Pont Caffino, that’s exactly what I was after.
Technical Note
Film
Rollei RPX 400
ISO
Shot at 400
Camera
Nikon FE
Lens
50mm f/1.8 Nikkor
Development
Ilfosil 3 (1:9)
Scanning
Plustek OpticFilm 8100
Lightroom Adjustments:
Tone Curve: Gentle S-curve, highlights lifted slightly, shadows preserved (First serious use of this tool for me)
Local Adjustments: Radial filters for dodging/burning on rock textures and water surfaces
Grain: No reduction applied
Sharpening: Minimal, applied selectively on details
Thanks for reading. If you’ve shot RPX 400 in similar conditions, I’d love to hear how you approached it.
