Capturing the Essence of Nantes: A Street Photography Journey with the Pentax ME Super and Kentmere 100 Film

Dear Reader,

This is less of a tutorial than the last four articles but more a “how I approach the subject” kind of article. You can read about something I seem to do a lot of and have experience of. I’ll be talking about my film photography phase from this summer when my X100F was still dead

Have you ever felt that familiar tug of nostalgia while strolling through a city that reminds you of your hometown? For me, Nantes, with its maritime heritage and busy streets, brings back memories of Hull in East Yorkshire. Those of you from Hull will see the irony in this, wondering how the heck a town can be like Hull, but it has similarities… If you know, you know. It’s a city that feels like home, and it’s just a short 35-minute drive from where I live. Come with me through the streets of Nantes, with the Pentax ME Super and Kentmere 100 film.

Exploring Nantes Through My Lens

Nantes, like Hull, boasts a rich maritime history, or is it the other way round? As I set foot in the city, I can’t help but feel the past staring me in the face. The first thing I do is head to my favourite spot, Parking Feydeau. It’s become somewhat of a ritual for me. I park on the same floor, in the same space — predictability eases one worry when you’re out capturing moments, or as my son says, are you autistic Dad? The cheeky little bugger. No, I’m just me! An old Fuddy-Duddy.

As I step out onto the street, I take my first light reading with my camera. It’s a bit like taking the city’s pulse, getting the vibe for the day. My starting point is usually Quartier Bouffay, near the castle , and the fact that the pub is close by has nothing to do with anything! From there, I seem to find myself in front of the Sainte Croix Church. Sometimes, it’s for confession; other times, it’s just to warm up, both physically, spiritually, and visually.

Just as walking the streets of Nantes is a physical workout, and with a camera it is akin to a visual workout. You’re constantly observing, framing, and capturing scenes as they unfold. Rue des Carmes or the path leading to the Castle are some of my more frequent routes, but I’ve been known to start my journey at Place Royale, especially if a visit to my barber is in order. My beard and length has often been a debate between my mother and I. She prefers the shorter, therefore neat and tidy beard. I seem to like a little more length, going for the Father Christmas look. From there, I can explore the Rue de Calvaire or aim for the Tour de Bretagne. Should I choose Rue Crébillon, it will take me to Place Graslin, and I end up in the very French and very stylish Cours Cambronne. They do do a nice courtyard do the French. Sometimes I will head to Quai Président Wilson, to the Hangar à Bananes, where I go to the HAB Gallérie. The added bonus is that parking is free in this area, and after all as Tesco’s would have us believe, every little helps. Again, the fact that I have an address for a beer and a piece of cake has nothing to do with anything, and I will, of course deny everything!

Moments and Encounters: The Heart of Street Photography

As an older gentleman with a slight limp, courtesy of arthritis, I’ve come to understand the importance of comfortable shoes. Fortunately, I do happen to posess some comfortable shoes, allowing me the extra bit of ease whilst wandering around the streets. I’ve also done the odd reckie of spots where I can sit down— be it for a meal, people-watching, sipping a cup of French expresso that packs one heck of a caffeine punch, or, on rare occasions, enjoying a decent cup of tea, but as we are in France this a much more challenging endevour. The French can just be so French now and again. Ah, tea — that drink that is a hug in a mug.

Navigating the streets of Nantes with a camera in hand and a discerning palate for food has become somewhat of a habit for me. Some of the things I hold dearest to my heart, tea, and cake. In France, we encounter the “droit à l’image,” a set of laws governing the right to one’s image. Some people may feel uncomfortable having their photo taken, and I’ve seen it manifest in numerous shots of people’s backs. However, these unwitting contributors add a recognisable element to the urban landscape, showing human interactions in the city.

I recall an incident when a passerby accused me of taking his picture without permission. I had a 28mm lens, and he was merely an infinitesimal part of the scene I was capturing. Reassuring him, I explained that he was not the focus of the photo, and that I had only noticed him when he started yelling at me. So much of a muchness. It was a lesson in navigating the sometimes touchy waters of street photography in a culture sensitive to “the right to one’s image.” As it turns out, compassion is the universal language, but so is muttering under my breath when out of earshot.

Another way I combine photography and life in Nantes is through my visits to the local barber. Whenever I’m in the chair, I discreetly document the atmosphere of the shop. The photos I take are subsequently given to my barber, forming a visual record of his small business — it’s good to be good, and it’s my small way of supporting local businesses. As is drinking tea and eating cake. Nothing to do with my tummy, and nothing like Whinnie the Pooh…

The Pentax ME Super and Kentmere 100 Film: A Street Photographer’s Dream Team

Why do I choose the Pentax ME Super for my street photography outings? Well, it’s a matter of practicality and style. First and foremost, it’s compact — a small camera, and in my pocket another lens and a couple of rolls of film. In the world of street photography, less is often more. It’s a “Keep It Simple, Stupid” approach, and I am a great fan of simple.

But it’s not just about size as in many domains; it’s also about subtlety. A massive DSLR with a conspicuous zoom lens can be intimidating, both for the photographer and the subjects. With the ME Super and prime lens, I “zoom with my feet.” This set-up forces me to engage more intimately with my surroundings especially with the 50mm lens, and the result is a more authentic perspective of the city. Plus, let’s face it — the ME Super is just a really cool looking camera and its vintage appearance just oozes kudos and style. It makes me feel like a true photographer, even though I’m merely an observer of the city.

Now, let’s talk about the Kentmere 100 film. It’s practical and easy to find. This film stock is budget-friendly, a nicer way of saying cheap (Fomapan is another cheaper film stock too), which, if you have seen the prices of Kodak film, is a very convincing argument, yet it reminds me of more renowned Ilford films. One year, I decided to exclusively use HP5+, a faster film. Switching to Kentmere 100 or any other 100 ASA film gives me a finer grain, and I can still expose at F2 and 1/2000th of a second for that silky depth of field that just makes everyone go weak at the knees in “good” light. Bokeh whores I’m talking to you!

Street photographers often aspire to capture the kind of timeless black and white aesthetic seen in the works of Doisneau, Cartier-Bresson, or Vivian Maier. While we may never fully replicate their images, using black and white film, allows us a head start on our digital brothers. I’ve always been drawn to this style of documentary photography. Street photography, for me, isn’t just about street portraiture; it’s about observing the street and documenting it in a classic way — classic, much like myself, or should I say, old-fashioned? Whatever it may be, it’s certainly not modern and up-to-date, just like Yours Truly, but that’s fine too! We all have our place.

Tips for Aspiring Street Photographers

Now, for those of you who aspire to explore street photography, let me share some tips. Remember the phrase from the cover of “The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy”: DON’T PANIC! When you’re working with a film camera, such as the Pentax ME Super with its 36 exposures, don’t expect to get 36 keepers. However, consider each photo that doesn’t quite hit the mark as a valuable visual note.

These notes help you study your subjects and how the scene changes with shifting light. Practise, after all, makes perfect. Don’t think that any photographer publishes all their shots; in fact, I curate and edit my photos carefully before sharing them on my Instagram feed. It’s all part of the learning process, using each “less than perfect” shot to refine your craft. And each photograph is a journey towards the ultimate photograph.

Dont forget those comfortable shoes, which, as I mentioned earlier, are essential. You’ll be walking and standing a lot, so prioritise comfort. Again, reduce your kit to the minimum. The less weight you have to carry, the fewer excuses you’ll have to sit down and maybe have a cup of tea and a piece of cake. But keep that option open, you never know…

I photograph to find out what something will look like photographed.
Garry Winogrand

Conclusion: Capturing the Essence

In conclusion, street photography is about capturing the essence of the city, and with the Pentax ME Super and Kentmere 100 film, I document the life, culture, and people of Nantes. It’s a city with a rich past and a vibrant present, and through my lens, I’ve sought to capture moments that reflect its unique character.

Each click of the shutter is a testament to the enduring appeal of film photography and its ability to capture moments that transcend time. It’s a classic approach in a modern world, much like my beloved Nantes itself. I mean, it’s not Hull, but not many places can rival Hull. If you know, you know.

So, Dear Reader, whether you’re a seasoned street photographer or just beginning your photographic journey, I encourage you to explore the streets of your own city or a new one. Embrace the art of observation, document its nuances, and don’t be afraid to capture this essence of the world around you. It’s a journey that rewards both the observer and the observed.

Thank you for joining me on this photographic adventure. I invite you to share your own street photography experiences and engage in a conversation about this beautiful art form. Until next time, keep clicking and exploring.

And how did you spend your summer?

Posted on Aug 25, 2022Aug 27, 2022 Posted in Alnmouth, family life, France, Reportage, United KingdomTagged adopted, adoption, Alnmouth, auntie, aunty, birth mother, Brexit, brother, Chinese food, cousin, covid, curry, england, family, father, France, god, heat, heimat, home, hot, Hull, mother, Northumberland, northumbria, Otterburn, photography, sister, summer, Sunday roast, tory, UK, United Kingdom, WorkLeave a comment

Everyone seems to ask that question after the summer holidays when we take leave from our daily toils and worries, and maybe for a week or two, we can create our own little paradise on earth. Some make it to a hotel next to the ocean and enjoy the sun’s warmth on their skin, whereas others will find a boat and spend time in the ocean trying to stay cool. Others will drive all over making that Grand Tour that the Victorians made. Others will be at work keeping the country going. Others will be fighting fires in the Gironde because of somebody’s carelessness in this heat wave, which I wouldn’t really call a wave but rather a smack around the face, with the heat taking away our comfort, our sleep, our water, our rivers, and our gardens.

Whatever your summer, I hope you could find moments of cool, in the figurative and literal senses. What can I tell you about my summer? In four days, I go back to work to start the humdrum of my daily life, and in these remaining four days of freedom, I seem to look back over the previous three weeks wondering where it all went!

It went off to the UK, that’s where it went. I haven’t been back home since 2019 and it was about bloody time that I got back to my roots. Living without roots or being able to feel rooted somewhere that one calls home is an idea that only immigrants can really get their heads around. They left their homes, sometimes forced by evil and unfortunate circumstances, and for others, it was for love and freely entered into. I was lucky to be in the latter category. But it’s still amazing to get back home.

With modern technology, I can call my parents on the phone when I want to, and do so a few times a week. I can hear their voices, but it’s not the same as taking them in my arms and hugging them and really showing them how much I love them. Only when in their presence can I do that. And as none of us is getting any younger, one has the morbid thought, will this be the last time I see them? I tend not to dwell on this rather disturbing question, but one still asks it.

I found a country where everyone speaks the same language as me and where my wife and daughter seemed to cope with what I do every day (ie speaking a foreign language) and maybe it gave them the chance to walk around in my shoes for a while, as Atticus Finch once said in a book a long time ago.

I found a country that had gone through Brexit, Covid, and yet further Tory government and it looked more or less the same. Tired, pissed off, but still exquisite to my eyes. And most of all, it was home. The Germans talk about this concept of Heimat, home, but not quite. It’s more akin to a motherland, or a place where you are rooted. Some could argue that after nearly 30 years in France, France should be my Heimat, and although I am very grateful to have been “welcomed” to France, it certainly isn’t home, despite all the best intentions.

Anyway! I saw my parents in Alnmouth and surprisingly took some photos. They haven’t all been edited yet, as I have to sort and edit them, which will be a hefty job. We didn’t really go wandering like we have in the past, but just tried to relax in the comparative cool of Northumbria. I wandered around the village and even was as bold enough as to go into Alnwick and let my daughter discover Superdrug’s cosmetics counter! Ah well, it was going to happen one day.

I had some time with my father as we drove towards Otterburn to get some landscape photos. It was lovely just sharing with him how I take my photos and seeing this part of me that few people see. We ate with my parents and enjoyed curries, Chinese food, and the tastiest of Sunday roasts. My daughter, that intriguing and sometimes frightening creature, discovered more of her father’s country and just how special it is.

As some of you may know, I am adopted and have been since three weeks after my birth. The story of all that, Dear Reader, is understandably only for those concerned, and during our time in Alnmouth, I had the good fortune to see my birth mother and my half-sister for the day. Afternoon tea and we even had crumpets with salted butter and jam, and tea. Coffee is fine, but tea in the UK takes you to what heaven must feel like!

On our way back south towards France, we stopped off to see my birth mother again. It felt so intimate being able to visit her in her own home. My half-brother’s daughters were there to meet not only me but probably more Kate, their half-cousin who by definition is exotic because she is French! They have, of course, received an open invitation to come over whenever they like. We even saw my Aunty Margie, whom I hadn’t seen for over 5 years.

Then down to Hull to see my father’s side of the family. My cousin Nick and his wife, Maria, received us like kings and I will be ever grateful to him for organising the family reunion where 23 of us gathered in his immaculate back garden. A couple of beers were drunk that day. The following day it was off to see Aunty Mon, and Kate was delighted to see me being scolded as I answered a question for her. Nobody messes around with Aunty Mon! We met up with Nick and Maria in the next village for a pub lunch, with the traditional and nigh quasi obligatory roast dinner! Those two pints of Yorkshire bitter just helped wash down the meal in the most tasteful way.

Sadly, we had to continue our voyage down South and ended up in Dover, where the next day, we were to catch our ferry back to France. We met up with my wife’s cousin for dinner in our hotel, and they discussed everything about family, from gossip to scandal, to the next generation who will carry the family name.

We arrived home and found my newly single son at home and Molly, the dog who have both been sorely missed.

As I read the article, there is one word that seems to stand out, and that word is family. These holidays had nothing to do with visiting tourist sights. It did, however, have everything to do about renewing connections to those most important in our lives after Covid had separated us for so long. That is what the holidays meant to me. I became rooted in my country, my culture, and my family. That doesn’t mean that I didn’t want to see old friends, but everyone knows that family has to come first. It’s what gives us our sense of being and belonging. It is the visible form of our roots on God’s Earth, however warm that earth might feel during an exceptionally warm summer.

May God bless you and your families, bring you together, heal the eventual discords, and give you too a feeling of being grounded after so long.

CYSO City Youth Symphony Orchestra (Hull)

Posted on May 21, 2021May 21, 2021 Posted in MusicTagged 1980's, City Youth Symphony Orchestra, dog, dog walking France, dogwalking, Garry Oglesby, Geoffry Heald Smith, holiday, holidays, horn, Hull, Hull City hall, Ian James Myers, Ian Myers, ijmphotography, inspiration, inspirational, Music, musician, nostalgia, orchestra, photographer, symphonic, teacher, wind band, windbandLeave a comment

Right, this post might be a little introspective and even border on the nostalgic. Mother, you have been warned, read on at your own peril.

This week has been a good one. In fact, it’s been a really good one. Last weekend I was on holiday and it seems to have been nothing less than a Godsend! For those of you who know nothing of me outside photography, you will now learn that I work in a factory in France that makes doors. Yes, I work in a French Doors factory, even if that corny gag might get me shot at dawn. Every Summer we would get four weeks holiday during August. The whole factory just shut down for the month. For those of you who have just got over the initial shock from that statement I will continue. We’ll pick the others up later on. We shut down for the month of August as do our clients, and the majority of country. Now we only get three weeks. Ah well… August is probably one of the best times to visit Paris. They’re all on holiday and visiting their families in the provinces or following the latest holiday trend darling!

That was the status quo and we all know it and it was good. But, little did we know, Covid was just around the corner getting ready to bitch slap us all. As a result of the first lockdown, the management thought, well, we need to work the first week of August “to be there for our clients” and the remaining week would be taken at a later date. That later date was last week, for the week of the Ascension. For those of you who aren’t Catholic or even Christian, the Ascension is when Jesus went back to heaven and said “I’ll be back,” but not “Hasta la vista Baby.” That was somebody else.

Anyway, back to the subject in hand. I have had my week’s holiday and it was very lovely. Just what I needed. This last week has been just as good. The time at work has flown by, and yes I’m up to date on everything. What has changed? I have started walking my son’s dog. 1, because I can. 2. Because I think she enjoys it, and seeing her getting all excited when she sees me putting on my shoes is a real ego boost. We get into the car and I drive off to our local forest where we walk and take in Mother Nature. Well kind of, because it’s a managed forest and the trees were planted mostly by man, but who cares, it gets me outside. The dog is called Molly, and she’s a cross between a Spaniel and a Teckel, which means she loves sniffing everything and following trails.

I used to identify uniquely as a “cat person” and today I am deciding to do my “coming out” as bi-petual. I like both cats and dogs. Yes another horrifying shock for my poor parents. I’m really getting into this dog walking thing. We have a few circuits that we enjoy. The Forêt de Grasla, the Mare aux Canards, which, when I first heard my daughter talking about going first sounded like to my deaf ears Maracena, which I always thought was in Brazil, and behind the village in the vines.

The number of paces that I do a day has gone up from 7000 to a peak of 16000 yesterday. Could this be a sneaky way of that dog telling me that I’m fat, that I shouldn’t eat as much, that I should give her some of my food instead, and move my booty? Who cares? It seems to be doing me good!

Where was I? Ah yes. Those of you who have eagle eyes, and who read the titles of my articles will be wondering what do France, dogs, holidays, and fat people have to do with a Youth Orchestra, or Hull even? And you’d be right. You might argue that the title was nothing more than pure click bait, and you will want to assassinate me on Twitter. I’m not on Twitter, so unlucky you!

So music… Some of you who only know me with a camera in my hand and do not read all my posts, might not know that I lead a double life. I dabble a bit in music. Another contender for Understatement of the Year 2021. I’ll try and go through as quickly as I can prepare the terrain for the main bit of this article and not the waffle at the beginning and my mind wandering and wondering.

When I was 6 years old I saw the guards parading on Horseguards Parade in London, and declared that one day I would do that. I was in awe of the music, and I was hooked. I started learning the horn at boarding school, and when boarding school was no longer the best place for me, I came home to Hull (the last word in the title). You see, I’m getting there…

Well just a couple of days ago I was added to a Facebook Group by an old teacher of mine. The Group is called “City of Hull Youth Symphony Orchestra (CYSO) Memories” which is for those of us fortunate enough to have played in the orchestra or one the City Youth Ensembles, and who went through the musical education system in Hull. You end up seeing some familiar names spring up as do the flowers in the hedgerows on the way to work. Recollections of concerts, and above all the hard work that went into them. The work that non-musicians don’t get too see. People talking about the well known character, GHS. Geoffrey Heald Smith who managed to achieve legend status in many ways, not all good, but for music he was amazing. He had this passion for music that he was able to “distil” in us. The individual instrument teachers would come into your school and give you lesson whilst you were at school. I have heard him described as a bully, an amazing musician, a legend, a source of fear, a drunk, a teacher, a conductor, an inspiration, a man of his time. Take your pick, he was all of the above and more, and had a great impact on a whole generation of musicians in my home city. He made an orchestra out of the teachers and would visit the schools to play for the pupils and try and get us interested in music. These were like a breath of fresh air for me, but depending on his sobriety of lack thereof, things could be “difficult”.

When I was 11 I was in a new school in Hull after three years of boarding school. My main preoccupations were, avoiding getting my head kicked in, avoiding being bullied, being accepted, and living through the general shitstorm that was going on around me. 1984. Crap year for the miners, but not just the miners. I was fed up of everything and let’s say that my early tutorage from my new horn teacher wasn’t going the way I wanted it to go. Luckily, that changed. I was about to give up, and my mother was distraught. She called in GHS to speak some sense into me and to convince me to carry on. He came to the school and we sat down and talked. I seem to remember him telling me that sure, I could give up, and another child would take my instrument and my place, or I could continue and be part of something bigger than myself. Those 15 minutes changed my life, and I will be forever grateful to the man.

I would continue with my teacher, and I would like to thank Mr Oglesby for his patience, and his dedication to turning me into a horn player. I joined the system and as I learnt my craft, I moved from training orchestra, to junior orchestra, and the junior wind band. I passed my Grade V and became eligible to try and audition for the City Youth Orchestra. It was a very good school for me as a musician and helped install a discipline that I carry with me to this day. Practice, practice, practice. No passengers allowed, somebody can always take your place. Of course, egos were made and broken. I remember one concert where the principal trumpet was replaced by a pro, as he hadn’t turned up for enough rehearsals. It was no nonsense, and you learned not to talk or fidget during rehearsals. The City youth Concerts took place in the City Hall, which was one of those Concert halls from the beginning of the century, built in 1909, and as a child was very awe-inspiring. It was massive to me, and I remember being told to sell tickets for each concert, as we had to fill the place. It has a capacity of 1200 seats!

During my days in the orchestra, symphony orchestra, which became the concert orchestra, the symphonic wind band, and the Swing band, in the late 80’s I would be in the music centre about 5 days a week, be it for Aural and music theory training, orchestra or ensemble rehearsals. There was so much talent in those orchestras that as an unsure and awkward teenager trying to deal with my childhood, I felt so inadequate. There were people that would go on to become professional teachers, musicians, orchestrators, who all just seemed to ooze talent. I was probably that weird kid who played the horn, that meant well, but was on the periphery. Sure, I had mates that I would talk with but was by no means as talented as some. They are, however, whom I think of when I think about my musical youth.

I remember concerts, tours, getting up to no good in Switzerland but managing to be OK despite my turbulent youth. There were rites of passage, which contributed to make me the musician I am today. I no longer live in Hull, as all the French photography may indicate, and I now live over here in France and have done since 1994. That’ll teach me! I remember my first rehearsals in the local orchestra in Noisy Le Sec, and the professional horn players who would teach us and guide us, said they knew that I was English in the way that I approached music. I did it without an ego, and knew my role in the section and was a section member and not and frustrated soloist. I knew that I was there to serve the music, and not for the music to serve me. I was also a lot more disciplined that my French counterparts, who are always talking, fidgeting etc, but are not as bad as the Italians are. Even my present musical director seems to see me as the pillar on which the horn section can rely on. I’m still not a fan of being principal horn and generally play second horn. My favourite position will always be 4^th horn which is the bass of the section, the motor, and gives a base on which to carry the other three.

So…. Off to Paris tomorrow with my son for an epic Ian and Killian day. I might even take a camera along and get some photos.

Humber Street

Posted on Aug 4, 2019Jan 31, 2020 Posted in Architecture, Art, street photography, Travel photography, United Kingdom, Urban, YorkshireTagged 16-35mm lens, architechture, bars, blue hour, boats, cafes, Canon, Canon 6d Mark II, colour photography, dusk, east yorkshire, england, Food, going out, golden hour, Hull, hull marina, Humber, Humber street, Ian Myers, ijmphotography, marina, photography, pub, pubs, river, street art, the Deep, yachts9 Comments

In 1987, my father bought me my first SLR. Notice the D is missing. So, I did say SLR and not DSLR. It was a Praktica MTL3 and it is now retired (polite way of saying Kaput) and sitting on a shelf in my son’s room. It took film. And the first roll of film that I shot with it was down Humber Street

In 1987, Humber Street was the fruit market of Hull, and I’m not making an unpolitically correct joke about sensitive men looking to do sensitive things with other sensitive men. No. That would be wrong and very un-enlightened of me. No, they did that in other places dotted around the city.

I used to shoot my film, get it developed at a place on Newland Ave, where I got the camera, and the guy would present me with a contact sheet and critique my photos. For those of you who were born after this analogical age, a contact sheet is where you lay out the negatives on a sheet of photographic paper, and expose the paper, and develop it, and get a whole load of thumbnail images that you can look at and decide which were worth printing. Yes, just like the thumbnails you get on the gallery on your phone, except it might have taken a little longer…

There was one image that pleased me immensely of a cat sitting quietly on a box of fruit wondering what the hell I was up to. That was then.

Skip forward a few years, just a few mind you, because I’m not an old git yet. No sonny Jim, I’m just a git! The area came into it’s own in 2017 when Hull was declared City Of Culture. People were proud of their city again and there were whisperers whispering, “Come to ‘Ull, it’s not shite anymore!”

The ‘gentrification’ of the area started with bars, and even Art Galleries! Then of course came the Humber Street Sesh, showing some amazing local musical talent. This year’s Street Sesh was last night, so you’ve missed it!

At the bottom is the Minerva. Minerva is of course the wise old owl in Greek mythology. It is also a pub which always has such a special place in people’s hearts. They do good food and good beer, and good gin, so the wife was more than happy.

The two nights before these photos, I had met up with and old friend from my school days who was kind enough not to mention all the silly shit that I used to get up to in my youth. The next night was a school reunion with people I hadn’t seen since 1985 and 1988 for the lads. Tales were told that I will not repeat here including stories about a pogo stick, and how I once said “merde” to my French teacher and left the room throwing my French books into the bin on the way out. They told my French wife, “Well he always was a bit European….”

Well now, you’ve kept reading up to now so I suppose I should tell you about these photos. They were taken on the Sunday night when I needed some “me” time to deal with the overwhelming overload of nostalgia. I was out with the Canon 6D Mark II, and the 16-35mm lens. Hope you like them.

Did I go on for too long?

Beverley Minster, East Yorkshire

Posted on Jul 19, 2019Jul 20, 2019 Posted in Architecture, United Kingdom, YorkshireTagged Beverley, Canon 6d Mark II, church, east yorkshire, england, Hull, Ian Myers, ijmphotography, minster, photographer, photography6 Comments

You might just have noticed that I didn’t publish anything last Wednesday. And even if you didn’t not notice, I still didn’t publish anything last Wednesday. I had just had some time off work and had just got back from an amazing visit to Hull to meet up with some old friends that I was at school with, and hadn’t seen since school. The next couple of articles will feature photos from that visit.

Soooooo… We travelled up from the Vendée, to catch the ferry at Zeebrugge, in Belgium. We usually set off quite early but this time it was a bit silly kind of early. No it wasn’t, it was the downright obscene kind of early! That kind of early that you only do when it’s summer and really hot during the day, and you want to drive at least a couple of hundred kilometres without passing out from the heat.

Needless to say, we were “on time.” Not the first in the queue, but not far off. Anyway, the sail over was really good. The food and drink were great and we actually got a good night’s sleep. So fresh eyed and bushy tailed as only fresh eyed and bushy tailed little bunnies can be, we arrived in Hull. Yes Hull is what I consider as home… You can take the boy out of Hull, but not the Hull out of the boy. I still get emotional when I listen to the Housemartins. Which is why, as soon as we got off the boat and had to wait for the hotel room, we went off to Beverley.

There were two places I wanted to visit. The Minster and St Mary’s Church. I’m not forcing religion down your throats, but as I said in the article about the St Nicolas Basilica in Nantes, these buildings were designed by men in which to connect with God, and everything in them leads man to God. Even if you’re not a believer, you can tell that this is no ordinary building. I’m always amazed by the architecture and how the builders managed to construct such edifices and what technology the must have used.

I love the intricacy in the stone work, or in the wood carvings, or the paint on the organ pipes, but what really moves me are the memorials to the dead of the World Wars, and the Colours (battle honours) of the regiments that no longer exist but had men that fought and died together as brothers. In some of these photos you can what remains of these “flags” and how it is so important not to forget those that went before us.