Category: Reportage

Bastille Day 2025

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An audio “deep dive” into the article…

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Lourdes 2025

Posted on Posted in Black and White Photography, Catholic, Family Life, Portrait, Reportage, Travel photography, VideoTagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , 3 Comments

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

Lourdes 2025

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Saint Cado

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The concert was for the municipality of Lorient and was more I’ll scratch your back if you scratch mine. Sometimes as musicians we have to kowtow to certain political matters to keep the municipality sweet. They said it would be cramped, but it was, at worst, cosy, so no complaints there.

After the concert, I had organised my car so I could sleep in it. I parked up in front of my mother-in-law’s house to spend the night and get some photography in during the early hours of the morning — and because my mother-in-law can be intense, and I don’t like bothering people. It’s not that I don’t like staying overnight in people’s houses, but at one stage on exercise with the RCT (Royal Corps of Transport) back in the late 1980s, I learnt that I could sleep anywhere and that it was nothing to worry about. I didn’t have my sleeping bag from those days, which would let me sleep comfortably in minus temperatures, but I did have a couple of Scottish tartan blankets that would keep me nice and warm.

It wasn’t long before I got off to sleep. I actually slept quite well, considering, and bought myself breakfast at the local boulangerie. No snoring to contend with and no risk of being shouted at because the dog was awake and needed to go outside to poop. Yes, a very satisfying night.

After my wonderful bakery breakfast, I headed to St Cado, which really is a cadeau — a gift — for the eyes. You’ll see what I mean when you see the pictures.

I relish solitude, not just because I’m an introvert, but because I like calm and quiet. And the idea of being up at the crack of dawn is wonderful, especially when I don’t have to get out of my bed and stop hugging my wife. I was on my own and loving every minute of it.

I arrived at St Cado and used the public conveniences, as it is not the done thing to poop in front of everyone. I’m not a dog, after all. St Cado was there waiting for me to get some photos in some beautiful light. I’ve started bracketing lately to get as much as I can out of each image. Bracketing, for those who think I am speaking in Chinese, consists of taking the same photo three times — once with normal metering for light, once underexposed, and once overexposed. Back in the day, you would set up your tripod and take each photo one at a time, but now I press the button and it does it automatically. On film you would lose film doing this, but on digital, with an empty SD card — why not?

As the morning light continued to change and the village slowly came to life, I packed up my gear feeling quietly content. These simple moments — waking early, capturing the beauty of a place like St Cado, and enjoying solitude — remind me why I keep a camera close. It’s not just about the photos, but about being present and finding peace in the everyday. Saint Cado truly was a gift to the senses, and I’m grateful for the chance to savour it in my own way.

Tea Grommit – A Hug in a Mug

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There comes a point—usually when you’re knee-deep in editing training videos for other people—when you realise you just want to make something purely for yourself. Something small. Something simple. Something that feels like… well, home. And for me, home sometimes comes in the shape of a well-steeped cup of Barry’s Gold.

Tea Grommit is exactly that: a cinematic nod to the most sacred ritual in Irish and British culture—the making of a proper cup of tea. No fancy lattes. No herbal nonsense. Just black tea, milk, and the reverent silence that follows the first sip.

I filmed this short piece alone, using my trusty Fujifilm X-T2—proof that you don’t need the latest gear to make something meaningful. It’s edited with CapCut, but inspired by something altogether older: those black and white French films where very little happens, but everything feels like it matters. A slow pour of water. The whistle of a kettle. The way the steam curls around your hand. It’s dramatic. It’s poetic. And it’s about tea.

There’s a hint of Father Ted’s Mrs Doyle in there too, forever hovering with a tray and a smile, eyes twinkling: “Ah, go on. You’ll have a cup, go on, go on, go on…” Because behind all the humour, there’s truth. A good cup of tea is comfort. Stability. A moment of peace when the world gets noisy. It is, quite literally, a hug in a mug.

I didn’t set out to make a masterpiece. I just wanted to enjoy the process. No client brief, no corporate objectives—just light, shadow, steam, and a fine Irish brew. And I think that’s something worth celebrating: the joy of creating without pressure, and the delight of tea without ceremony.

In the end, Tea Grommit is part homage, part joke, and part sincere love letter to the small rituals that keep us sane. Maybe it’s also a reminder to pause, breathe, and put the kettle on.

So, if you’re feeling overwhelmed or uninspired, my advice is simple: step away from the deadlines, and film something just for yourself. Something warm. Something honest. Something with tea.

Because really—what else can hold a nation together, soothe heartbreak, spark conversation, and fuel late-night editing sessions better than tea?

Exactly.

Now go on. Put the kettle on. Go on, go on, go on now.

Tea – a hug in a mug…

China: The Final Frame – Reflections on a Journey

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The tour is over. The bags are unpacked, and things are settling back into their usual rhythm at home. But even though I’m back, part of me is still in China—still thinking about the streets of Shao Xing, the energy of Shenzhen, or the moments shared with the orchestra. The journey may have ended, but it hasn’t really left me.

Reflecting on the Journey

From the moment I landed in Changsha to the final farewell in Shanghai, this trip was a series of moments—some I expected, and some I didn’t. The hustle and bustle in Shenzhen, the streets of Shao Xing, the quiet hills of Xian Ju, and the meals shared with colleagues between concerts. It wasn’t just about the places. It was about the little things—a gesture of hospitality, that mutual respect between musicians, or just watching the world go by.

This trip wasn’t just about playing concerts, it was about learning and adjusting. It was about connecting with people, understanding their way of life, and how we relate to one another in those brief encounters.

The Photographer Without Film

For the first time in a long while, I didn’t travel with my usual film cameras. The Fujifilm X100F was the only camera I had with me, and while I had mixed feelings about it at first, it became a good fit. There was no hesitating over which shot was worth the price of a roll of film. It was just me, the camera, and the present moment.

Not every moment needed to be captured. I found myself slowing down and soaking things in—sometimes shooting quickly, sometimes just letting the moment pass. It wasn’t about having everything on film; it was about experiencing it fully, even without the lens in front of me.

Respect and Connection

One of the most memorable things about this trip wasn’t the landscapes or the buildings—it was the people. Everywhere I went, I felt a deep respect and sense of community. It wasn’t about being given titles like “Uncle” or anything else. It was just how people engaged, how they saw me as part of something.

The concerts themselves were a reminder of this—the public wasn’t there for rehearsals, but they were there for the concerts, offering energy and appreciation. Music, like photography, is about presence. It’s about sharing a moment with others, and that’s something I’ll never forget.

Coming Home

Returning home after a trip like this always feels a little strange. The familiar feels slightly unfamiliar at first—the quieter streets, the slower pace. But there’s comfort in returning, and yet, it’s hard not to feel that shift in perspective. Things seem different now.

The Final Frame

So, what remains from all of this? The photographs, of course. They’ll hold the moments, the details, the things I might forget over time. But beyond that, it’s not just about the photos. It’s the way travel shifts your perspective and makes you notice the small moments—the ones that don’t always get captured in a frame.

This series was meant to document a tour, but it ended up being more than that. It’s a reflection on the journey itself, on photography, on what it means to truly be somewhere, to connect with others. The tour might be over, but this story isn’t done yet. And whenever the next journey comes, I’ll be ready to pack my bags again.

I have been posting these articles in the WhatsApp group made for the people on the tour, and people’s feedback has been amazing. What came out the most was the feeling of revisiting the tour through the photographs and how that made people feel. And if you make somebody feel something with an image, then you’re off to a good start. The other comment was, “Oh, I didn’t see that!” And that is part of our role as photographers, to record what people don’t see… My reputation as a photographer seems to have surpassed my reputation as a beer drinker, which is good, because I hardly drink a drop anymore. My reputation as a writer seems to be well established too.

So not only am I seen as a hornplayer but also as a photographer, a writer, and a sensitive soul instead of the gruff bear that sits at the back of the orchestra and makes farting sounds with his instrument. Quite the step up really!