Thank you for being here. If you’re reading this, you’ve been following my work for a while — and that means more to me than I can easily say.
I wanted to share something with you before anyone else.
Over the past months I’ve been quietly building a small print shop — seven photographs that have stayed with me long after the shutter closed. A path in Huizhou. A canal in Shaoxing. A Vespa in the Quartier Bouffay. A tiny wooden shed in Northumberland that stopped me in my tracks.
Each print comes with the story behind it — because a photograph without its story is only half the picture.
If one of them speaks to you — I’d be genuinely honoured to have it on your wall.
Thank you for six years of reading, liking, commenting, and quietly being there.
Let’s Connect: Mentorship, Prints & Collaborations
A brief and practical note.
After six years of writing here, I’m formalising something that has been happening informally for a while — people getting in touch to ask about prints, about learning, about working together. Which is lovely, and I’d like to make it easier.
So here’s where things stand:
Mentorship — I’m happy to work with photographers who want to develop their practice, whether that’s film, digital, or somewhere in between. One-to-one, remote or in person if you’re near the Vendée. We work on what you actually need, not a fixed curriculum.
Prints — A selection of black-and-white work from the Nantes series and elsewhere is available as archival prints. If something on the blog has caught your eye, get in touch and we’ll talk.
Collaborations — Photo walks, workshops, joint projects — I’m open to conversations. No guarantees, but I’m listening.
Article suggestions — If there’s something you’d like me to write about, say so. Reader questions have produced some of my better pieces.
The best way to reach me is ian@ijmphotography.net. I aim to reply within a couple of days. French is fine too — n’hésitez pas.
That’s it really. No agenda beyond making good work and occasionally sharing it with people who care about the same things.
Continuing on from my last article about shooting in sub-par lighting, I’ll introduce my next roll of film—RPX 400 from Rollei. I usually like this film. This roll also marked the first time I really tried to use the Tone Curve tool in Lightroom. I’m still getting used to it. But I thought that with RPX 400, I might be able to make some ordinary prints somewhat less ordinary.
After forty years of doing this, you’d think I’d have it all figured out. You’d think I’d have a fixed workflow, a set of rules, a way of knowing exactly what the result will be. But this roll reminded me otherwise. There’s always something new to learn, or something old to look at differently. And I’ve started to wonder if there’s something honest in admitting that, rather than pretending the process is ever truly finished.
Pont Caffino on a February afternoon is exactly that kind of place. I’d never visited before, though I’d heard about it from other photographers. The sky was uniform. The light was flat. Nothing was going to jump out and grab me. So I loaded the Rollei, walked down to the river, and started looking.
The River
The water level was low—noticeably so. I knew this because not long before, I’d been at the Maine in St Hilaire de Loulay where the river had broken its banks completely. You couldn’t even see the weir there, just water spreading across the landscape. Here at Pont Caffino, the opposite was true. More of the granite banks showed through. More of the weir structure was exposed. The river looked different, and I found myself photographing it differently.
River surface with bridge in distance
When the light is flat, water becomes less about reflection and more about texture. You notice the foam patterns, the subtle ripples, the way debris catches on submerged rocks. RPX 400 handled this beautifully—there’s a softness to the water that feels accurate to how it looked that day, not how I wished it looked.
Water Level Gauges
The gauges became an unexpected focal point. They’re functional objects, not particularly beautiful on their own, but they tell the story of this place better than any dramatic landscape could. The reflection of the numbers in the still water added a compositional echo I didn’t plan but gladly kept.
Weir Structure
Where the water quickened over the weir, I had to be careful with exposure. Film handles highlights more forgivingly than digital, but I still metered conservatively. The fallen branch caught my eye—it’s the kind of detail you miss when you’re looking for the big shot, but it adds a diagonal line that pulls the frame together.
On editing the water: The challenge here was separation. When both sky and water are grey, they tend to merge into one another. I used subtle dodging to lift the highlights on the water’s surface, just enough to ensure the reflections didn’t disappear. Nothing dramatic. Just enough to guide the eye.
The Cliff Face
The granite cliffs that frame the Maine valley are dramatic even in bad light. They’re also popular with climbers, which adds a human element I hadn’t planned to capture but couldn’t ignore.
Climber on Granite Close-up
I haven’t shot rock faces like these on HP5+ before. The nearest I got to that was shooting in the Pyrenees mountains—different stone, different light, different everything. So I didn’t have a direct comparison to fall back on. What I noticed with RPX 400 is how it renders texture without aggression. Every crack and lichen patch comes through, but without the bite that HP5+ might have given. For this particular day, that suited the mood better.
Climbing Scene Wider
Seeing the climber and belayer together reminded me that landscapes aren’t empty. They’re used. They’re lived in. The rope creates a diagonal line through the frame, and suddenly there’s narrative—someone is trusting someone else, and both are trusting the rock.
On editing the cliffs: This is where dodging and burning did the most work. Flat light makes rock faces look two-dimensional, like cardboard cutouts. I spent time burning in the crevices and dodging the raised surfaces, essentially repainting the light that wasn’t there when I pressed the shutter. It’s not about creating drama that didn’t exist. It’s about revealing the dimension that the light flattened.
Details
I’ve learned to slow down on days like this. When the big vistas aren’t cooperating, the small things start to speak.
Catkins/Branches
The catkins hanging from bare branches aren’t dramatic. They’re not even particularly interesting as a subject. But they caught the light in a way that felt worth capturing. The shallow depth of field creates a dreamy quality, and the grain—more noticeable here than in the landscapes—adds character rather than detracting from it.
Water Edge Vegetation
Mechanical Detail
The mechanical detail—the lock gate mechanism, I think—was almost accidental. I was walking back from the viewpoint and noticed the bolts, the geared rack, the weathered metal. It’s the industrial counterpoint to all the natural elements. Sometimes you just stop and shoot because something looks like it has a story.
On editing the details: I was careful not to over-sharpen these. The natural grain of RPX 400 provided enough texture without needing digital enhancement. If anything, I pulled back on clarity rather than adding it. These images work because they’re soft, not in spite of it.
The Town & Viewing Platform
For the full perspective, I drove up to Château-Thébaud’s belvedere, “Le Porte-Vue.” It’s a striking piece of architecture—Corten steel extending 23 meters out at 45 meters above the river, designed by Emmanuel Ritz and inaugurated in 2020.
Walkway to Viewpoint
Walking out onto the platform, you feel the height. The steel underfoot, the railing at your side, the valley opening up below. There’s a figure in this shot—could be another photographer, could be anyone taking in the view. It adds scale and reminds you that you’re not alone in these places.
Le Porte-Vue Architecture
Framed View Through Steel
The Corten steel handled the flat light better than I expected. The weathered texture gave the film something to hold onto, and the geometric lines contrast nicely with the organic landscape beyond. The framed view through the steel structure became one of my favourite shots—it acknowledges that you’re looking from somewhere, not just capturing a scene.
River Valley Overview
This is the establishing shot. The full Maine valley from above, all the elements visible at once. You can see the weir, the cliffs, the tree line. After seeing the Maine at St Hilaire de Loulay with water everywhere, this view felt almost spare. The lower levels exposed more of the structure than I’d imagined possible. It’s the image that ties everything together.
Church Steeple
Village Street
The village itself grounds the landscape. The church steeple adds a human landmark to the valley. The quiet street with its leading lines and the number “28” on the wall—these are accidental details that add authenticity. This isn’t a pristine wilderness. It’s a place where people live.
On editing the architecture: I focused on straightening lines and ensuring the steel texture didn’t look too smooth. The flat sky was retained intentionally. I could have blown it out or added artificial clouds, but that would have been dishonest. This is the light I had. This is the day I experienced.
On Making It Less Ordinary
Looking down at the river from Le Porte-Vue, I thought about what I was actually trying to do.
This was my first time at Pont Caffino, and I wasn’t sure what to expect. RPX 400 felt right for this quieter, more exposed version of the valley. But the film alone wasn’t enough. The scans came back flat—accurate, but lacking the dimension I remembered from being there. That’s where the work began.
In Lightroom, I used the Tone Curve to add a gentle S-shape, nothing aggressive. Just enough to add punch without crushing the blacks. I lifted the deepest shadows slightly to preserve the atmosphere. And then I spent time dodging and burning—manually painting light into the highlights of wet granite, holding back exposure in the shadows of riverbanks, guiding the viewer’s eye through texture and tone.
I’ve only started using the Tone Curve with this roll of film. I’m still getting used to it. But I’ve found it offers basic yet subtle controls, as does the dodging and burning. It’s easy to feel like this is cheating. Like you’re admitting the photograph wasn’t good enough straight from the scan. But I’ve started to think of it differently. Dodging and burning isn’t about fixing mistakes. It’s about translation. It’s about taking what you saw and felt and finding a way to communicate that to someone who wasn’t there.
There’s a danger in thinking you know everything. Usually, that’s when you stop seeing. When you assume the light will behave, or the film will respond the way it did last time, you miss what’s actually in front of you. I’d rather be the one still figuring out the Tone Curve after forty years than the one who thinks there’s nothing left to learn.
The result isn’t dramatic. It’s not the kind of image that stops you scrolling. But it felt honest—a quiet enhancement rather than a transformation. And on a grey February day at Pont Caffino, that’s exactly what I was after.
Technical Note
Film
Rollei RPX 400
ISO
Shot at 400
Camera
Nikon FE
Lens
50mm f/1.8 Nikkor
Development
Ilfosil 3 (1:9)
Scanning
Plustek OpticFilm 8100
Lightroom Adjustments:
Tone Curve: Gentle S-curve, highlights lifted slightly, shadows preserved (First serious use of this tool for me)
Local Adjustments: Radial filters for dodging/burning on rock textures and water surfaces
Grain: No reduction applied
Sharpening: Minimal, applied selectively on details
Thanks for reading. If you’ve shot RPX 400 in similar conditions, I’d love to hear how you approached it.
Maybe I’m a little stubborn, just maybe, but I’m insisting on using my Nikon FE and for my health I have to get out. I had some Tri-X that needed using, and some HP5+ left over, so time to use it. And it does my mental health good too—getting out of the house despite the horrible light and rain.
“They” always say to go out in good light and use golden hour. We haven’t been blessed with good weather lately (understatement of the year contender 2026), and I always say just go out anyway and do it.
I shot two rolls that afternoon—72 frames total. Tri-X and HP5+, both at box speed. No pushing. I developed them in Fomadon LQN because it handles flat light cleanly: shadows stay defined, grain doesn’t get muddy even when the sky gives you nothing. When I scanned them, about half were ok enough to keep—36 frames that worked. Of those, maybe half a dozen were real keepers. That’s how it goes. Not every frame needs to be a masterpiece. Some just need to exist.
In Lightroom I only used the curves tool to pull a bit of separation between the wet stone and the grey sky. I wasn’t trying to manufacture contrast that wasn’t there. The rain had already done part of the work: cobblestones held texture because the light was even, puddles on the stairs created accidental reflections, and the streets were empty enough that I didn’t have to wait for tourists to clear the frame.
I won’t pretend I enjoyed standing in the damp. My shoes got wet. My hands were cold. But I needed to leave the house, and the camera gave me a reason to do it. The film was a deadline. The weather was irrelevant.
As you can see in the following photos, the light wasn’t fabulous, so we adapt. There are still interesting things to be seen.
Shot on Nikon FE with 50mm f/1.8. Kodak Tri-X 400 and Ilford HP5+ rated at box speed, developed in Fomadon LQN. Edited in Lightroom: curves adjusted for shadow separation only.
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.
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.
IJM Photography 