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!
There’s a stock phrase about the journey being more important than the destination. Another one suggests that a journey can transform a man into something new—something he didn’t even suspect. As I look back at the man who left home, went to China on tour, and the one who came home, I can’t help but wonder if there’s truth in both. I’ve previously described China as a “foreign concept,” and now, having returned, it feels far less so. I’ve peeled back a layer of the country and gained a deeper understanding of its culture—musical, culinary, and otherwise.
This tour, too, has been a “parenthesis,” a break from real life, and a chance to be me—not just “Papa” or “husband.” No longer defined by my role in the family or at work, I could just exist as I am, whoever that is. Though I still feel some anxiety about how others perceive me, age has brought a certain self-awareness, self-knowledge, and—perhaps—a bit too much overthinking. For those two weeks, I was simply a guy on a bus, surrounded by French people, walking through new experiences, and discovering everything along the way.
China as a Totally Foreign Concept
Before I left, my idea of China was that of a far-off place, so completely different from anywhere I had lived before. Those ideas were formed in childhood, shaped by the media’s portrayal of this foreign land. I won’t deny it—I was terrified of the whole trip. Researching things online only added to my worries about not being able to read or speak the language. Growing up, I saw China as a Communist regime, almost oppressive like the Soviet Union, and as the enemy we had to defend against. I remember watching the handover of Hong Kong in 1997, feeling my stomach churn as I watched truckloads of PLA soldiers occupy our old colony.
I remember, too, older members of the band, where I wore green for a living, talking about Hong Kong as the dream posting—warm, sunny, and everything a soldier could need. But what was I really afraid of? The unknown. We all knew about China’s state security apparatus, without truly understanding it. The events of Covid only deepened that sense of fear and mystery.
I even worried about something as simple as eating with chopsticks, imagining I’d have to rely on forks or my fingers. Looking back, all of these fears now seem so silly. But they were real before I experienced the country for myself—and especially before I met its people.
The People Who Changed My View
Somehow, I managed to take each day as it came, simply bathing in the new experiences. And, strangely enough, China worked its magic on me. It didn’t just change my view of the place—it changed how I saw the people. They were charming, incredibly friendly, and in a way that made them seem so much more human.
I began to see myself in them, and I realized that, despite our differences, we are more alike than we might think. We all fall in love, become parents with grace, and share the same aspirations for our children—to be happy, to find love, and to repeat the cycle.
I think back to Christmas Day, when I made new friends. The simple “Merry Christmas” was enough to endear me to them. I also reflect on how beer, it seems, transcends barriers of language, creating a connection that only men seem to understand. I’m not trying to exclude women, of course—heaven forbid—but there’s something inherently masculine about it.
My Place in the Orchestra
Another transformation came in terms of my place in the orchestra—or rather, my perception of it. As the 4th horn, a position typically reserved for the least experienced player, I have always resented the remark. But now, I know my role to be the solid foundation of the section, guiding it through the music. At 53, I no longer feel the need to prove anything. I’m here for the music, content to plod along at the bottom. It’s not humility—it’s comfort, and a willingness to let the young bucks enjoy the spotlight.
Being on tour, though, inevitably brings people closer together. Take poor Corentin, who shared a room with me for two weeks. It’s one thing to get along during rehearsals or after a concert, but living in such close quarters really gives you a new perspective on someone. I knew Corentin was a good lad, but during those two weeks, I saw him in a different light. We talked, laughed, and endured the trials of close proximity.
I remember one drive home from a concert when my birth mother FaceTimed me with the news of her cancer diagnosis. Corentin, despite his limited English, understood more than he let on. He listened as I processed the information, and in that moment, we connected in a way that most people don’t. Maybe that’s what brought us even closer.
Sharing a room with him was like being back in the army. We worked hard, played hard, and celebrated with the kind of noises only a group of men could share. If you can fart in front of someone, you’re already on the next level of friendship.
One moment that stood out for me was when I helped Clement, the other horn player. I had offered him some coaching to help him out of his funk. During the concerts, he had some delicate parts, and although I could easily play his passages for him, I didn’t want to embarrass him. So, I didn’t change seats to play his part during the performance. Instead, I stayed where I was, and when it came to his turn, I played my part to the best of my ability. It was subtle but important—I didn’t want to take his place; I just wanted to give him the support he needed without making him feel like he couldn’t do it on his own.
Afterward, Clement spoke very kindly about me to the younger players in the group. He praised me in a way that felt both generous and sincere, and it left me feeling deeply grateful. His words were not just kind—they spoke to a level of respect and camaraderie I hadn’t anticipated. I hadn’t sought recognition; I just wanted to help. But his thoughtful comments—about my support without overshadowing him—meant more than I could have expected. It’s rare to find such generosity of spirit, and I appreciate him for that.
I nearly forgot to talk about my girls from my days in Cholet. It was Eléonore that suggested that I join the orchestra, and I’m so glad she did. I was about to leave my horn in its box and let it gather dust somewhere in my house where people wouldn’t trip over it. She has been a very good friend to me over the last 13 years, and I think she’s wonderful. Then of course I mustn’t forget Titaua and Mathilde. And they certainly didn’t forget to tall every one about my “kilt” days, where as fed up of being English, I would let people know that one can be from the UK without necessarily being English. My first adoptive father was Scottish, and his brother, Uncle Joe, was Professor Regis at Edinburgh University. People came up to them saying that Ian wasn’t like how they had imagined him, and was actually a decent chap and all-round good egg! Then Eléonore just reminded them that “they” didn’t know me the way she did…
During the tour, as you’ve seen, I took some photos—some of them very odd. But I wasn’t the only one sharing them in the infamous WhatsApp group. For the first time, people saw a different side of me—the artist, not just the beer-loving horn player. I even started sharing my blog posts in the group, and maybe I’ve earned a reputation as the writer. Who would’ve thought? A beer-drinking horn player who takes decent photos and has a way with words—still knows how to play, though.
Anything Else?
I think my approach to food has also shifted. I’ve always liked the idea of sitting around a big table with friends, and during the tour, I was reminded of that. The variety of dishes was astounding, and I saw some players more comfortable with what they knew, while others bravely ate silk worm chrysalids. Me? I just enjoyed whatever was put in front of me, from chicken and duck feet to tortoise.
I found myself stepping away from desserts, my sweet tooth growing calmer. Eating the Chinese way—deliberately, mindfully—was a revelation. Much like film photography, it slowed me down and made me more aware. I ate less, but I appreciated the variety. I even tried to emulate that at home—though, I didn’t put chillies in my dishes.
I’ve also become more accepting of my body. Despite still feeling like I have a long way to go, I’ve made peace with the body I’ve got. Corentin’s lack of judgment helped, and I’ve learned to be more at ease with the frame that carries me around.
How to Conclude?
What’s clear is that this journey, this “parenthesis,” hasn’t just been a break from the familiar—it’s been a period of quiet transformation. The familiar parts of myself have had space to evolve. And perhaps that’s the true beauty of any journey—not the destination, but the unfolding of a self you might not have fully known. In a way, I’ve returned not quite the same man who left. But then again, perhaps that’s the essence of travel: it allows us to become more fully who we truly are, even as we discover the world around us.
As the journey ended, I found myself thinking less about the places I’ve seen and more about the moments shared—those small, unexpected connections that shape an experience just as much as the landscapes we pass through. Travel isn’t only about what we take away from it; it’s also about what we bring to those we meet along the way.
Perhaps that’s what lingers most—the idea that stepping beyond our usual paths isn’t just an act of discovery but a quiet exchange. We put ourselves out there, not just as observers but as participants, leaving behind something of ourselves in the process. And in return, we find that the world, in all its vastness, feels just a little more connected.
What could be a more contemporary expression of self than the modern selfie? For some, it represents a genuine connection, while for others, it becomes a carefully curated fantasy shared on Instagram in pursuit of self-importance—think #lifestyle, #ootd, or #memyselfandI. These representations can evoke mixed feelings about the authenticity of self-expression.
However, this is not how I view photography as a reflection of self. Photography is the only art form that allows the viewer to look through the lens just as I did when I pressed the shutter button. You see exactly what I saw in that moment, and, depending on how I edited the photo, you may catch a glimpse of the emotions swirling in my mind at that time.
Consider two people facing each other, a coin held up between them. One sees the heads side, while the other sees the tails. Each perspective offers only a partial view of the whole object, much like how each photograph can convey different meanings and emotions depending on the viewer’s interpretation. This highlights the importance of taking in the entire picture. But it’s not just this perspective that changes the way each individual looks at the coin, but all the personality and life experience that the person brings.
So, what about the expression of my identity and worldview? You might detect my state of mind through the subject matter of the photograph. If you see one of my photos taken during the anti-government demonstrations in Nantes, you might draw conclusions about my political leanings, when in reality, I was completely neutral about the situation. Here, the viewer adds their own interpretation to what they see, imagining this world and identifying with the picture in a way that is relevant to them. I think we all are guilty of that. My worldview, too, may show through—an insight into the world around me and how I choose to see and document it, since you are witnessing a moment in time as I saw it.
But why press the shutter button at a particular moment and not 1 second before, or 1 second after? Cartier Bresson talked about capturing the decisive moment. I try and make sure that I have no distracting elements. I try and get my subject right where I want them, or wait for them to cross the scene at a certain spot. Does this mean that I miss shots? Yes, but it’s all part of the game! Have I become a self-hating perfectionist? Fortunately, no. But do I try and make that extra effort? Definitely. I owe it to myself, but to the viewer of the resulting photo. Some might talk about a certain professional conscience, but if you’re going to do something, then try and do your best?
Personal Growth
This is a tricky subject, as I’m not entirely certain that my subject matter has evolved as I have. Am I still taking the same old photos as I used to? Possibly. Yet there are new techniques I’ve picked up along my learning journey. I may have started learning about photography over 40 years ago, but I’ve never stopped. In the last ten years alone, I’ve learnt so much, often with YouTube as my teacher. I’ve expanded my knowledge of film—how to use it and develop it—and I’ve learnt more about editing. I might just mention that I trained in “Desktop Publishing” back in 2003. Twenty years ago… time flies! Lots of Photoshop, Illustrator, and QuarkXpress.
New equipment and different lenses have allowed me to explore wide-angle photography and, as they say, “get it out of my system.” But is it really out, or have I simply explored it enough to satisfy my curiosity for the time being? I will, no doubt, revisit it again. This exploration has clearly shaped the way I view a scene, and I now know how to use the distortion it offers as another stylistic string to my bow. Wide angles enable me to alter how the subject is seen, making a more significant impact on the viewer, who experiences something distinctly out of the ordinary. It’s a small but meaningful addition to my work that could offer that extra something to a potential client.
I’ve grown more confident in my photography over time through consistency and practice. Getting out there with your camera is, without a doubt, the way to go. Some might accuse me of relying on gear, but I feel that I’ve genuinely put the hours in to master certain aspects of this craft and to have a certain self confidence in my abilities as a photographer.
Do I take the same photos that I did back in 1987 and now? In certain ways, yes. Because my personality shines through the photograph. However back in 1987 I was concerned just about nailing the exposure, and didn’t have the knowledge and photographic culture that I do today in 2024. I was also a 15 year old back in 1987, and am now over 50. The essential part of who I am remains, but my life experience has changed me, as it would anyone over 35 years.
Cultural Context
You might not know this about me, but I have lived in France for the last thirty years. More time than I lived at “home” in the UK. Has that affected my photography in any way? Maaaaybe…
France is the home of Cartier Bresson, and Doisneau, and their wonderfully crafted street photography. Yes, I have explored their work and have been amazed by it, and amazed by the simplicity in certain shots of theirs, but a deceptive simplicity that takes so much time to emulate. So yes, I have been influenced by French culture. It forms the way I look at the world around me, especially when in the streets of Nantes and I feel their influence accompanying me as I wander around the streets. It’s also the subject matter that changes from country to country. Just look at the difference between my two countries, the UK and France.
But it doesn’t stop there. I have been influenced by photographers that I see on the Internet. Names like Sean Tucker, Thomas Heaton, James Popsys, Mango Street, Peter McKinnon, and Jamie Windsor spring to mind and their videos have certainly been a huge influence on me. And there’s not even one Frenchman in that short list… It’s not that I reject French youtubers, but when at work I have to make the effort to speak French, when I am outside my house I have to make the effort to speak French, aso when at home I prefer to keep things in my mother tongue. It’s a me problem, and not a them problem.
Conclusion: The Lens of Self-Reflection
Photography, at its core, is about more than just taking pictures; it’s about capturing fragments of identity and moments of personal evolution. While the images we create may reflect the world around us, they also tell the story of how we see ourselves and the ever-changing lens through which we view the world.
What I’ve come to realise is that photography isn’t just a technical pursuit or a series of compositions—it’s a mirror. Through it, I’ve discovered not only the nuances of the world but the nuances within myself. From the early days of worrying over exposure to now, when the process feels more like a conversation with the scene, I have grown not just as a photographer, but as an individual.
Yet, this growth is never complete. Photography, like life, is a journey with no clear destination. The influences, the techniques, and even the subjects will continue to shift as I evolve. What remains constant is the intention: to connect, to reflect, and to capture not just an image, but a piece of time that speaks to who I am, and who I am becoming.
In the end, photography is an act of constant reinvention. Each shutter press is an opportunity to redefine the self and understand the world a little better, one image at a time.
When I first started out in photography, I would go and get my film developed by the photographer on Newland Avenue near where I lived, and the photographer would do what people called a contact sheet. Basically, the film was cut into strips, placed into a special frame to keep the negatives as flat as possible, and exposed directly onto a sheet of photographic paper. These “thumbnails” allowed us to see the photos of the outing in one place and we could decide which ones might be worthy of developing.
We have this digital contact sheet in Lightroom where we import our photos and decide which ones are worthy of being developed. It’s the same idea, just with different tools.
But what does this have to do with storytelling? Think of the contact sheet as the beginning of the story-crafting process. Just like a narrative needs a beginning, middle, and end, so too does our selection of images. With a contact sheet, we gain a bird’s-eye view of an outing—seeing not only the individual shots but how they relate to each other. Choosing which moments to develop isn’t just about technical quality; it’s about deciding which parts of the experience best tell the story.
This principle guides me when choosing photos to share here on the blog. Whether it’s capturing moments with my friend JD, the barber, or snapping a shot of my lunch before I dive in, each image plays a role in the day’s story, hoping that I don’t forget to take the photo of my dessert before eating it. Otherwise you just get a photo of the plate with some traces of cake or just some crumbs.
But lets’s get back to the idea of story telling with an arc that covers the outing. When I set out for the day, I begin with a few warm-up shots to set the scene. If I have a plan, great—but often I don’t. Instead, I focus on capturing the ambiance of my surroundings, whether it’s a café, church, or pub. Each photo builds on the last, creating a narrative of my day’s journey.
For events, especially when I’m hired to photograph, I’ll start by discussing the plan with my client. I want to know what’s important to capture, any specific conditions at the venue—lighting, mobility restrictions, etc.—and what moments they consider essential. Having this list of must-capture moments, like the classic Kodak moments that we talked about in the last article, helps me stay focused and give me structure.
For the sake of arguments, I have a wedding to photograph, and I know that I will be taking shots of the bride before the ceremony. I know that I have to be at the venue before the happy couple arrives. I’d better get a shot of the rings before they appear on the couples’ fingers, etc. I’ll want environmental portraits of the guests, etc. This planning ahead allows me to be more serene during the day itself.
Just married
Not every story requires a series of images; sometimes, a single photograph can capture an entire narrative. Think of it as a self-contained story, a moment that holds not only what’s visible but also what’s implied—emotion, context, and sometimes, a sense of mystery.
For example, take a photograph of a lone, empty café table in the soft morning light, a half-full cup of coffee, and an open notebook on the table. This image can suggest solitude, introspection, or perhaps the moment right after someone has left. The viewer might wonder: Who was sitting here? Why did they leave? What were they writing? This photograph tells a story, inviting the viewer to step in and imagine the rest.
A single image can evoke different responses based on the viewer’s own experiences and emotions. In many ways, it’s a conversation between the photographer and the viewer. We as photographers might set the scene, choose the light, and capture the moment, but it’s the viewer who fills in the blanks, completing the story in their mind.
This approach also applies when photographing people. A portrait of a person lost in thought, gazing out of a window, can evoke curiosity about what’s on their mind, where they might be going, or what they’re experiencing at that moment. In these cases, the single image captures more than just a face or place; it holds an emotional narrative that transcends words.
Am I sure about this cake?
Storytelling in photography isn’t just about taking pictures; it’s about deciding which moments matter and capturing them in a way that communicates more than what’s on the surface. Whether we’re crafting a narrative through a series of images or capturing an entire story in a single frame, each photo we take says something about how we see the world and what we want to share with others.
Next time you’re out with your camera, think about the story you’re building, whether it’s a quiet day at a café or a bustling event. What do you want your viewers to see, to feel, to wonder about? In some ways, we’re all storytellers—stringing together moments, big or small, to create something meaningful.
So, go on—look through your images as if they were frames in a film, each one a piece of a larger story. You might find that your perspective shifts, and that’s when photography becomes more than just a hobby; it becomes a way of understanding and connecting with the world.
Good afternoon, Dear Reader. I’m writing this article thinking of you and wondering what to show you next in this ongoing series. The clue is in the title: Canon AE1 Street Photography in the streets of Nantes.
I know you have the eyes of a hawk who never miss a trick because your vision is so sharp. You might even have scrolled down to the photos already, and your eagle eyes will have noticed that this isn’t the usual area I visit on these outings. And, of course, you’d be right!
Yes, I still parked in the Feydeau car park but crossed the road to the south, heading along Baco-Lu, past the Tour Lu (sans “t”), towards the St Felix Canal, and then back into town… Some of the places no longer exist or have changed hands, but you would still recognise them even today.
I think that with these photographs, I’m getting closer to what some might call “proper” or “traditional” street photography. The images have a certain gritty quality to them, including the people in the shots. This was something I was actively aiming for. Maybe it’s the grain—something I don’t get with the X100F—that helped bring this about. Or could it be the people, whose presence seems to reveal the stories behind them? Whatever it is, I felt that this was a very good day.
I think I may have shared with you that I’m going to China this Christmas on tour with the orchestra I play for. I’m still undecided about which camera to take and wondering if I should bring a film camera along. With the X100F, I’ve become so accustomed to the 35mm lens, while my film cameras only have 50mm lenses to work with. Reviewing these older images may help me make up my mind. It’s going to be an epic trip, and I want to be sure of the kinds of images I’ll be able to capture.
As much as I’d love the flexibility to hop in the car and retake a shot if needed, this trip to China will be different. I’ll need to trust my choices and embrace the moment as it unfolds—something that feels both exciting and a little daunting. But that’s the beauty of photography, isn’t it? The challenge of capturing fleeting moments, knowing they might never come around again. So, whatever I decide, I know the experience will be unforgettable.
While the anticipation of the China photos may be killing you, I know you’ll be patient, whatever I decide to use. Rest assured, those photos will capture the spirit of the trip. Only two and a half weeks before I start my travels…
“They” say that if you leave your child to the Jesuits for seven years, then that child will belong to the Jesuits for life. I am not a Jesuit, but I was heavily influenced by the Benedictines when I went away to prep school in 1980. Mummy, Daddy, let me reassure you, this isn’t about Gilling—some things are better left in the past. This article will instead focus on a different Benedictine site, one that I visited much later in life: l’Abbaye de la Grainetière, a peaceful monastery here in the Vendée.
The Abbey of Notre-Dame de La Grainetière, on the outskirts of the town of Les Herbiers in Vendée (France), encompasses nearly nine centuries of tumultuous history. For over 50 years, numerous restoration works have been undertaken. These efforts allowed for the re-establishment of a community of monks at the end of 1978, nearly 200 years after the abbey was abandoned by the monks, shortly after the Revolution of 1789. Classified as a historical monument since 1946, many volunteers are working to continue the legacy of La Grainetière.
To those of you unfamiliar with the ins and outs of the Catholic Church, the role of monks is to live in community, and their main duty is to pray for us in the wider community. The monks elect a Father Abbot, who is responsible for running the monastery. In centuries gone by, the Abbot would wield a huge amount of influence, but this power has been reined in over time and is less evident outside the monastic community.
When I visited l’Abbaye de la Grainetière, I couldn’t help but reflect on how different this Benedictine monastery felt from my school days. The quiet prayer, the stillness—it offered a kind of peace that I hadn’t experienced for a long time, and a life that was once very appealing to me.
The monks follow the Rule of Saint Benedict, a foundational guide for monastic life that addresses not only prayer, but also how to live both within and beyond the monastery walls. Though written for monks, many of its teachings have been adopted by the laity seeking a structured, spiritually focused life.
I could almost say I envy them the simplicity of monastic life compared to the complexities of modern society and family life—juggling careers, responsibilities, and the endless distractions of today’s world. While I don’t regret the joys and vibrancy that come with having a family—something perhaps lacking in monastic life—it’s hard not to admire the stillness and purpose that a simpler existence can offer. We all have different vocations in life. Mine was to be a father.
As I packed away my camera and left the grounds of l’Abbaye de la Grainetière, I found myself still pondering the contrast between the quiet, ordered life of the monks and the complexity of my own. In some ways, visiting the abbey felt like opening a door to a simpler time, a place where life seemed more focused and more deliberate. Yet, as much as I admire the peace found within those ancient walls, my own path has led me elsewhere—to the joys, challenges, and unpredictability of family life.
In the end, it’s not a question of envy or regret, but rather a reminder that we all find our peace in different ways. For the monks of l’Abbaye de la Grainetière, it lies in prayer and solitude. For me, it’s found in the laughter of my children, the shared moments with loved ones, and yes, even in the rush and noise of everyday life. Each vocation, after all, carries its own kind of grace.
Perhaps that’s what lingers with me most from my visit to the abbey—not just the tranquillity of the place, but the realisation that we each have our own rhythm, our own way of navigating the world, and there is beauty in all of it.
Post Scriptum:
The photos were taken with a Canon AE1, and its FD mount 50mm F1.8 lens, using Ilford HP5 + black and white film.
IJM Photography 