Tag: Ian Myers

NORTHUMBRIAN SUMMER PART III

Posted on Posted in Architecture, Black and White Photography, History, Reportage, Scotland, Street Photography, The UK Chronicles, Travel photography, United KingdomTagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , 4 Comments

Edinburgh, Scotland 2025

It was my daughter’s turn to have some Dad time. Before we left France, I asked both children to think about what they wanted to do the most in the UK. Both of them said they wanted to go to Scotland—Edinburgh in particular. The Lourdes trip when I took them both had drained the coffers…

Killian had been.
Virginie had been.
Kate had never been.

It was my daughter’s turn to have me all for herself.

When I told them,
Killian nodded. “That’s fair.”
Virginie smiled. “We’ll do something together.”
And just like that, it was settled.
This day would be hers.
Just her. Just me.
Edinburgh, at last.

It would be a long day. I wanted to give her a full day—to let the city work its magic… We couldn’t visit everything, but for the first time I thought of Princes Street, and the Royal Mile, and Greyfriars Kirkyard. She’s fifteen—shopping first, history later—yet I’d offer her the quiet places anyway.

I just wanted her to feel the city, not just the shops.

We could always come back.

And next time, she’d walk these streets not because I brought her,
but because she chose to.

We walked along Princes Street looking at the chainstores, even daring to go into H&M but soon left once we realised that you have to be skinny to dress there. We moved on to M&S and had our second breakfast. The bacon roll she had on the train was “interesting” but hardly filling. I saw outfits that I thought she might like but was told, non!

I was on the lookout for a tweed spectacle case but despite looking in numerous tweed shops, I only saw the same things over and over again. I was disappointed, but Kate wasn’t! She saw a beautiful tartan étole that called out to her…

How could I refuse her? It would be perfect for winter and the wool was so soft.

We crossed the bridge next to the National Gallery,
Festival posters peeling in the wind.

Then she stopped—a shadowed shop glowing with silver.
The same one where Killian chose his claddagh six years ago.
“Like Killian’s,” she said, tapping the glass.
Not a question. A claim.

Inside, the air smelled of wool and old metal.
She ran her finger over the trays—
Past the ornate knots, straight to the simplest ring.
“This one,” she told the jeweler. “Like my brother’s.”

I watched her try it on, heart facing outward.
Right hand. My heart is free. (I didn’t need to say it.)
“For remembering,” she whispered.
Not “growing up.”
Just: This is mine now too.

Edinburgh breathed around us—
alive, urgent, temporary.

NORTHUMBRIAN SUMMER PART II

Posted on Posted in Black and White Photography, Family Life, Landscape Photography, Northumberland, Reportage, The UK Chronicles, Travel photography, United KingdomTagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , 4 Comments

Craster 2025

It was getting close to lunchtime.  I was enjoying this father-son day and dared to ask if we could go out to Craster.  I really wanted a picture of Dunstanbrough Castle,something I had seen in a YouTube video by Thomas Heaton but it wasn’t to be.  Just take the images you can and enjoy the process.

We would visit Craster.  But first food.  Despite the blueberry muffin we had shared earlier, I was going to indulge us in one of my other UK rituals – The Marks and Spencer sandwich.  I have a great fondness for the feeling of being home and returning to my youth.  The French are a wonderful people and make so much top notch food, but you can’t get a decent Cheese sandwich anywhere.  Wonderful cheese, and marvelous bread, but the idea of putting both together, has totally escaped them.  

The French make glorious food. But they’ve never quite grasped the sacred simplicity of a cheese sandwich. Or the sublime elegance of a prawn sandwich—peeled pink shrimp, mayonnaise, in a relatively grainy brown bread full of goodness. A British delicacy, perfected.

So I bought three: the Ploughman’s, the Wensleydale with carrot chutney, the Ultimate Prawn—nothing but the best for my father. And a bottle of sparkling water.

Food fit for a king. Or at least, for a man who’s earned his rest.

Guided first to the car park, and then to the village by my father going against the wisdom of the GPS Sat Nav we had arrived.   We passed the smoke house—thick plumes curling into the breeze, the air thick with oak and salt. The kind of smell that clings to your sensorial memory. I didn’t take a photo. But I inhaled it, sweet as any incense at mass.  Smoking local fish for local people. 

At the end of the street was the Jolly fisherman, who is not a happy angler, but the local pub.  Well, it would be rude not to… We both fought to pay for the pints of Guinness, but I won and we sat down at a table to drink them.  I think we have a duty to support local pubs as they’re closing at a rapid rate of knots in the UK. This “core” of British and Irish society must be kept alive! 

My  mother had tried to phone us but in vain.  Messages and calls couldn’t pierce the pub walls.  I suggested my Dad go outside to try and call my mother just to reassure her.  It still didn’t work.  I tried on my phone, but didn’t have any luck.  We both decided that my mother suspected that I might lead my father astray and take him to a watering hole.  Ooops!

In for a penny, in for a pund! The harbour, the lobster pots, the salt on the breeze—Northumbrian summer in its purest form. You’ll see it in the images below.

NORTHUMBRIAN SUMMER PART 1

Posted on Posted in Alnmouth, Black and White Photography, Family Life, Northumberland, Reportage, Street Photography, The UK Chronicles, Travel photography, United KingdomTagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , 6 Comments

Alnmouth 2025

I came back to Alnmouth not just to see my parents, but because the place has become part of me and maybe in some very small way we had become part of Alnmouth.

Each visit is different. Sometimes I’m chasing “the” image. Sometimes, like this year, I’m just learning how to sit still.  This is the tale of the other part of Summer.  The UK part of Summer.  The Northumberland part of Summer.  Going home to visit my parents, and show them the children.  It was a Tuesday, I know this because I checked the metadata on my phone.  My mother had decreed that she would go with Virginie (my wife) and the children to Morpeth to do some clothes shopping.  I would have a day with my father.  

It was to be a quiet day with a father and his son catching up and putting the world to rights as we often do during our weekly telephone calls.  Which reminds me, I must call on the way home from work.  He often talks about walking around the village and always bumping into people he knows.  A hello here, a hello there…

More than anything it was a day out with my father.  Which is rare, so I decided to take advantage of his company and ever present wisdom.  Whatever was to happen I had my X100F with me to capture everything.

He decided that we were going to go for a walk in the village as he is wont to do.  I wanted to pay my respects to Scotts of Alnmouth as I do every time I come to Alnmouth.  We follow each other on Instagram and always say hello when I’m “in town.”  It costs nothing to say hello and you never know, it might make that person’s day.  It may even make your day!  With an espresso and black currant muffin, I bade farewell to Scotts of Alnmouth for the year telling them “See you next year.”  

Dad just wanted to drop into the village shop to say hello too.  Why?  Because he’s a lovely man and saying hello costs nothing.  Just a small gesture.  Am I repeating myself?  Ah well…  My father had a spot that he wanted to show me.  This spot overlooked the golf course, the beach, and out to sea we could make out Coquet Island and its lighthouse.  

When I was younger,

the idea of sitting on a park bench,

just sitting there,

would have been impossible.

Yet the man I am at 53?

I revel in it.

When you only get back once a year,

you realise you might have only weeks left

with your father.

And those moments—

silent, shared, ordinary—

become sacred.

There’s no need to talk.

Even when we do.

Just being next to this man is enough.

I see myself in him too.

The way we walk.

What we pause to see.

Just those small things.

My future? 

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

Posted on Posted in Black and White Photography, Catholic, Family Life, France, Landscape Photography, Reportage, Travel photographyTagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , 3 Comments

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.

China – Shenzhen Day 3

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A Day Off in Shenzhen – Rest, Reflection, and Culture

https://ijmphotography.net/2025/11/14/致我在中国的读者们：一封感谢信a-letter-of-gratitude-to-my-readers-in-china亲爱/

After a late night chat (you know how it goes on tour – what happens, stays on tour), I decided to treat myself to the luxury of a lie-in. And it was just what I needed. This felt like our mini-break during the tour – a sort of weekend off. It was well deserved. Life on tour can be demanding, and the emotional investment involved can really take its toll. Corentin and I both got up at the same time, and he was off to join the others in the big city. As for me, I was having a day to myself with my little companion – the X100F. Just the two of us.

So, what was the plan for the day? Well, I was hoping to visit a spa for a massage to sort out my legs. I’m not exactly fond of pain, but thought it would do me good. I have arthritis in my right knee, and although the weight loss has relieved much of the pain, my left knee has been compensating, and my left calf was starting to feel like it was on the brink of tearing. Not ideal. I had found a few places on TripAdvisor, one of which had a rather dubious reputation – apparently, not only offering massages but also “happy endings.” Definitely not for me. I did find a more refined option with a solid reputation for wellness. Perfect. All I had to do now was find it.

As I left the hotel, I bumped into Jennifer Courcier, our soloist and guest star. She still has an amazing voice – if you caught last week’s concert post, you would have heard it. If not, well, go have a listen now. I’ll wait…

Starbucks and Cultural Contradictions

Good, wasn’t it? Doesn’t she sing beautifully? Jennifer mentioned she was heading to the beach but first needed a coffee fix. Starbucks was nearby, so off we went for a caffeine hit. Now, whenever I hear the word “Starbucks,” the phrase “basic bitch” comes to mind. I never know what to order, so, with a bit of help, I discovered that “ordinary” coffee is actually a double espresso. My anxiety was starting to rise as I tried to make the choice, but I finally settled on the “Yunnan” blend. The Chinese barista prepared it with such care that I almost felt like royalty. Things were already looking up.

We sat on the terrace and chatted. I’d been mentoring one of my younger horn players to help him out of a funk. He had recently switched mouthpieces to improve his upper range but went back to his old one. Classic horn player existential crisis. If you know, you know. Jennifer had witnessed one of my coaching sessions and seemed quite impressed by the process. Maybe I did know a thing or two about teaching after all.

The coffee was excellent, and so was the company. We chatted some more, staying off the topic of music. Who wants to talk shop when you can get to know the real person? It humanises them, and Jennifer shared the story of how she became a professional singer, her journey to this point. We eventually parted ways, and I popped back into Starbucks to buy a couple of mugs for the children. One less thing to argue about back home.

Solo Adventure – Exploring the City

I managed to find the metro on my own and bought my little green ticket. The attendant asked where I was going and showed me the map. I couldn’t make sense of it, so out came my phone to zoom in on the stop I needed. I suddenly felt very old, yet thoroughly modern.

On the train, I just watched people, even managed to get a photo or two. My destination? Window to the World – a theme park where you can see replicas of monuments from around the world. I wasn’t going to pay for the full experience, as I’ve already seen many of the real monuments during my travels, but it seemed like good material for photography.

I’ve mentioned before the cultural differences between France and China, but this next observation took me by surprise. Let me introduce you to our characters: Chinese girlfriend and Chinese boyfriend. Chinese girlfriend is the picture of elegance, effortlessly fashionable, her makeup and hair flawless. Chinese boyfriend, by definition, is the photographer, capturing every moment to make his girlfriend look like a top model. She strikes a pose, usually demure and poised, while he stands there, holding the handbag, looking less than graceful. After a few snaps, she sends him back to retake the shot, and they repeat the process at every new location.

I could understand the desire to control one’s image, especially in a location that might seem exotic for a Chinese person, just as a pagoda in Europe feels exotic for us. In some ways, I must seem a bit exotic to them, too. Later, I learned that some people had been taking photos of me without approaching. It might have been a respect thing, as I was a bit older than them.

I wandered around, watching society unwind on a Sunday outing. It felt good to be alive. But then, it was time to head to my massage.

The Google Maps Mishap

I knew the spa wasn’t far away, but that’s where I made the mistake of trusting Google Maps in China. Let’s just say it’s not the most reliable way to get around here. It led me in the wrong direction, and before I knew it, I was walking the streets, getting increasingly lost. But in moments like these, you often find unexpected shots because you’re paying attention to everything, frantically trying to orient yourself. I eventually found my way thanks to a kind gentleman at a hotel who pointed me in the right direction. I was back on track.

The Deep Tissue Experience

Arriving at the spa, I was greeted by dimmed lighting, tea, and a comfortable chair to relax in. I chose a deep tissue massage that would last an hour – pure self-care. I was told there was a short wait, so I took the opportunity to edit some of my photos from earlier in the day. I was offered more tea by the receptionist, who made sure I felt well taken care of.

When it was my turn, I was shown to the massage room and instructed to change into the disposable undies and bathrobe. Let’s just say, as a bigger guy, I was given their largest robe, and it was definitely on the small side. The little lady who came in to perform the massage had no hesitation in digging her elbows into my back with surprising force. She asked if the pressure was okay, and honestly, it felt like her elbows were massaging so deep that they had gone right through me. The pressure was definitely intense, and despite whincing a little, I said the pressure was fine, lying through my back teeth. She worked through my back, shoulders, and calves, and though at times it felt a “little” too much, I could feel the benefits immediately. They don’t call it deep tissue for nothing!

Recharging and Reflection

After the massage, I was feeling thoroughly relaxed, though not quite “recharged” yet. It would take a couple of days before I truly felt the benefits, but it was already worth it. I was pampered with more tea, biscuits, and nuts – twice! I couldn’t fault the service.

Next, I popped into a shopping mall near the hotel, hoping to find a silk tie for my outfit. Dark jeans, nice shirt, and sports jacket – I looked quite dashing, if I do say so myself. But the price of the ties wasn’t going to work for me, I’m fine with a little luxury now and again, but everything within reason…

A Humorous End to the Day

I took the tube back to the hotel, but of course, I foolishly tried to use Google Maps again to navigate. That was a mistake. I ended up lost. As my phone battery started running low, I sent a WhatsApp message to Corentin, who suggested I take a taxi and sent me the address in Chinese. I was perfectly safe, but definitely lost. Eventually, I hailed a cab, showed the driver the address, and thanked him for saving me. When I told him how awful Google Maps was in China, he just smiled. The fare wasn’t much, but the relief of getting back to the hotel was priceless.

As the great man himself once said, “All’s well that ends well.”

China – Operation Shenzhen Nights

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It had been a relaxing day. I’d emptied my mind by wandering around Shenzhen, taking colour photos for my wife, editing them on the go with Lightroom CC on my phone—all the power of Lightroom, neatly packaged for mobile. The afternoon had been just as easy-going. I could get used to this.

Corentin, Monsieur Lover Lover, and Paul “the Duck Tongue” Trouillet had decided that, since we weren’t performing that night, we’d head out for a bit of fun. Thus, Operation Shenzhen Nights was born. They’d planned everything down to the last detail. The walk to the tube station was about a kilometre, and even with my gammy knee, it was doable.

So, off we went—a whole group of us—to the Shenzhen tube. Along the way, we passed bustling restaurants where people were already seated for dinner. We walked by a pet shop where people were cuddling kittens. At least, I hoped it was just a pet shop and not a restaurant! The kittens were adorable.

The Saturday night energy was in full swing, with people out for meals or simply strolling. We were about to do much the same.

First, the journey into town. Entering the tube station, I was relieved to see all the signs in both Chinese and English—a lifesaver, as my Chinese still needs work. Passing through a baggage and body scanner was certainly out of the ordinary, but I quickly got over it. People often talk about personal freedoms in China, but it didn’t faze me in the least.

We bought our tickets—or more accurately, small green plastic disks that you scan to access the platform. Then came the stairs, and that’s when my gammy knee started to let itself be heared. Fortunately, there was a lift, which would have been a shame not to use. When the train arrived, I managed to grab a seat, camera ready to snap photos of the metro ride.

About an hour later, we reached our destination, where Operation Shenzhen Nights would truly begin.

Corentin, always as eager as a five-year-old at the zoo, practically bounced with excitement. His enthusiasm was infectious, and I tried to keep up, though one day I’ll have to explain the “pace of the slowest man” rule to him.

As we exited the tube, we were greeted by a sea of lights, red lanterns swaying overhead in celebration of Chinese New Year, and professional TikTok setups. These weren’t just quick phone clips—this was full-scale production, complete with lighting and sound. I still don’t quite get TikTok, but they sure seem to.

Paul and Corentin were already eager to dive into the street food, and it wouldn’t be the first stop of the evening. Skewers with all kinds of “supposedly” edible things lined the stalls. I was fine with chicken and octopus but drew the line at scorpions and crickets. Maybe next time I’ll embrace my more adventurous side.

The place was packed, with street restaurants everywhere. Out of the corner of my eye, I spotted a shop selling mineral water and bought a litre. I felt much better after hydrating. I knew it would mean a bathroom hunt later, but I threw caution to the wind. “Bugger it,” I thought. Some risks are worth taking.

The night was buzzing with energy—smells, sounds, and lights everywhere. Red lanterns swayed overhead, casting a warm glow as the city geared up for Chinese New Year. 

Paul and Corentin thrived in the chaos, eagerly planning their next round of snacks while some of the group veered off to McDonald’s for a quick bite. As we waited, we soaked in the atmosphere. When the others rejoined us, I was already with my camera taking shots of a city that seemed to be in perpetual motion. Operation Shenzhen Nights was rich with everything that mattered—good company, questionable snacks, and memories destined to linger long after the evening faded. 

We continued walking, and the boys ended up finding tofu in sauce, which they let me taste. I must learn how to cook tofu like that at home. But again, I drew the line at eating durian. “It can have a rather pungent smell,” he said, going for the understatement of the year.

As we left the main drag, the goal was to find a watering hole. And we did! More beer, and a last chance to have a bit to eat. I kept it simple with my food choices, but one of the group tried roasted silk worm chrysalids. Definitely interesting, but it turned out to be one of the less than tasty things of the evening.

The youngsters wanted to go to a nightclub, an idea which wasn’t really for me at nearly 53 years old. I’m not a fan of nightclubs and haven’t set foot in one since the early ‘90s. Still not a fan 30 years later. The elders of the group headed out for a beer, and the more adventurous of them had rice wine—or rather, rice alcohol. I ended up chatting to one of them until half past six in the morning. He had things to get off his chest, and I entered Uncle Ian mode.