Tag: Mental Health

Sit Rep IJM

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Disclaimer Alert. This post talks about sensitive subjects but should be read, even by my mother. Not everything in this world is perfect. We don’t all have perfect lives. It’s not all toxic positivity. Listen first to the Deep Dive talking about this article.

Not great to be honest.  Today was not a good day.  Today was particularly shitty.  Well more pissy and shouty, but more about that later.  Let’s get something straight.  Despite what might be said in this article, I love my daughter and wife very much.  I just don’t like them a whole lot.  I can’t fucking stand them to be honnest.

My daughter is turning out to be an entitled little shit that is a typical teenager who thinks the world revolves around her and that we must all bow down and accept every whim and of course respect her and talk to her nicely.

Dad, are you on your meds?

Not effing likely.  Why should I take them just to put up with you?

So not at my best…  It would appear that I have survived blue monday.  But only just.  My “darling wife” is right in the middle of menopause and thinks HRT is only good for giving her cancer.  Intriguing thought to be honest.  At least like that I won’t be getting shouted at any more for being a useless shit show despite all the work I’m doing on myself,  I’m still a waste of air.

Stop doing that thing you keep doing!

Breathing Dear?

Why should I even bother taking the meds?

Because why should I take meds just to put up with you?

Good fucking job I love you.  

Maybe I should just jump under a bus and put them all out of their misery…

Shame I actually like my son.  He’s a good kid.  He took me out to a lovely restaurant for my birthday.  Then we went to a ‘retail outlet’ for me to buy myself a present which is adorable but I need to declutter and have too much shit in my house..  The clutter is doing my head in.

Ah well.  It could be worse.  I could be back at work…  One of my great fears.  At the moment the fashion seems to be to treat your staff sufficiently not too badly for them to be put on leave for depression.  Oops! Well that worked out really well.

Birthday on Monday and if anyone wishes me a happy birthday, I will be screaming at them internally, swearing at them and cursing them, whilst saying “thank you”with the appropriate grace.   

And no—

I don’t want to talk about it.

I don’t want to heal.

I don’t want to find meaning.

I just want it to stop!

For precautionary self censoring reasons, don’t jump under buses. You might damage the bus. You probably won’t but safety first eh! Help lines:
🇨🇭 CH: 143
🇫🇷 FR: 3114
🇬🇧 UK: 999 or 116 123
🇺🇸 US: 988

Notes, January 2026

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Welcome to this strange new world—where nations are treated like commodities, and young people stay silent whenever they don’t feel concerned.

I’m not talking about the clusterfuck that is Trump’s lingering shadow over Venezuela, or the absurd spectacle of U.S. leaders eyeing Greenland like real estate. Nor am I pointing fingers at the eerie quiet from European students and campuses while protests rage in Iran.

Maybe I’m not saying the world is going to hell.

But let’s call a spade a spade: something vital has gone missing.

Any sense of decency—gone.

And what a good job I’m not depressed.

Oh wait.

Shit.

I think back to a year ago—to the China tour—and how I still smell it on my skin. Not literally, maybe. But in the way my pantry fills with new ingredients, in the way I stir-fry now without measuring, just feeling. And the sauces I make…

Google Photos keeps nudging me: “1 year ago today.”

And just like that—I’m back there.

A before and after.

Definitely.

I see the same friends at rehearsals and revel in the memories we made.

I also look to the future. This sick leave has given me space to rest—and I feel the energy slowly returning to this body of mine.

On New Year’s Eve, my son did some “daddy-sitting” for me. I shared the evening with his friends—and for once, I didn’t feel like the spare tire, or a discarded condom in a student halls of a residence.

I felt… present.

The beard is gone, and of course my daughter hates it. At least she didn’t cry this time, like when she was two.

I’ve actually gone out and shot some film: a roll I started during summer holidays and finished in Montaigu, and another I exposed in the cathedral in Nantes over Christmas.

The first photos I’ve taken indoors since the fire.

I’m getting there.

Trying to be present in this new crazy world—where our leaders are anything but leaders, and older ways of doing things seem to be shifting beneath our feet.

I don’t know where we’re going.

But we certainly seem to be on our way…

Come along if you like.
I’ll keep the window cracked — just enough to let the light in.

Instagram’s Double-Edged Legacy: A Photographer’s Perspective

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In October 2010, Kevin Systrom and Mike Krieger launched Instagram. With its filters and simple interface, it changed how people shared photos and opened up mobile photography to everyone. It’s been a different story lately.

In the early days, the chronological feed and the filters turned casual snapshots into something people were proud to share, and a real photography community grew up around it. That changed when the algorithm did. Instagram now prioritises whatever gets the most likes, comments and shares, which rewards trends and viral content over anything more considered. Photos increasingly lose out to Reels and short-form video, so photographers get buried regardless of the quality of the work.

Then there’s the influencer problem. Fame on Instagram now has more to do with follower counts than with talent, and that culture of self-promotion and brand deals pushes genuine artistic work further down the feed. It also feeds a fairly unhealthy cycle of comparison for anyone still trying to make honest work.

None of this means photographers are out of options. VERO runs a chronological, ad-free feed built with visual artists in mind. 500px is still a proper home for photography, contests included. Glass is a newer app built specifically around long-form visual storytelling. Ello has always positioned itself as artist-first, without the algorithm or the ads.

Instagram isn’t really a photography platform any more. It’s a video and influencer platform that photography happens to live on. If you want your work seen for what it is rather than how it performs, it might be worth spending more time on one of the alternatives instead.

24-70mm Lens: Unveiling the Beauty of Vendée Coastal Landscapes

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Work had turned into one of those blurs. Emails, a couple of passive-aggressive colleagues, meetings that all sound the same after a while. So a few weeks ago I did the sensible thing: navy chinos, white shirt, new sunglasses, the Panama hat, and drove off to the Vendée coast for the day.

Vendée isn’t the Caribbean, let’s be honest, but it did the job. It also gave me a good excuse to properly test the Canon 6D Mark II with the 24-70mm f/4L, a lens that gets a lot of stick online for being unexciting. By the end of the day I’d more or less come round to it.

First stop was Viellevigne, technically just over the border in Loire-Atlantique rather than the Vendée proper, a town I normally just drive through on the way to somewhere else. With a camera in the car and nowhere to be, I actually looked at it for once. There’s a little church between two old trees I must have passed a thousand times without noticing, so I framed that. Then I switched the lens over to its macro setting and found the hedgerows were full of wildflowers and insects I’d never normally spot. Funny how that works.

Next was the grand canal near Fromentine, though I’m still not convinced “grand” is the right word for it. It’s no Venice. The light was good, though: warm on the old ruined houses along the water, and across the road bridge there’s a row of fishing huts with paint that’s clearly seen a few decades of weather. The 24-70 handled both ends of the job well, wide enough for the whole stretch of canal, close enough for the plants growing out of the stonework.

By afternoon I’d made it to Port de Bec, where the oyster farmers work. Tractors were hauling boats in and out of the water, moorings creaking under the weight, the whole place busy in a way that’s hard to explain if you haven’t seen it. The autofocus kept up fine with everything moving around, which is really all I ask of a lens in that situation.

Last stop, and the best one, was the Passage de Gois: the causeway that goes underwater twice a day with the tide. It’s a great spot for photos, as long as you keep an eye on the water. I nearly didn’t, and came close to losing a sandal to the incoming tide. The contrast between the exposed road and the water creeping in was worth the risk, and the lens coped well with the changing light as the sun dropped.

The photos were only half the point, if I’m honest. Getting off the hamster wheel for a few hours mattered more. Fresh air, the sun on my face, a stretch of coast I mostly ignore because it’s on my doorstep. I came back in a better mood than I left, which was really the whole plan.

As for the 24-70mm, it earned its keep. Wide landscapes, macro details, a moving target at Port de Bec, it handled all of it without complaint. Next time someone tells me it’s a boring lens, I’ll just show them the album from this trip and let the pictures argue back.

Until the next one.

The Photographer Behind the Lens

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Embarking on a photography outing is filled with anticipation, decision-making, and a blend of personal passion and professional discipline. Anything can go wrong, but maybe that’s not the right way to put it. Perhaps I should rather say, expect the unexpected and be ready to adapt. As I prepare for each little jaunt, I face a range of choices that shape the outcome of my photographic endeavours.

Selecting the Right Gear:

The first step in my preparation involves choosing the right camera for the occasion. Factors such as, “Does it still work?” for my film cameras, or “have I charged enough batteries?” for my digital cameras, enter into consideration. My energy levels and the allure of film versus digital play a crucial role in this decision-making process. For example, “Do I have the energy to develop and scan my negatives, or can I face hours of photo editing?” For me at least, it’s not just about the gear, but about the experience it brings. Those of you who have used film will know exactly what I mean. It is a totally different experience to using digital cameras. The words “faffing” and “about” spring to mind. What is my goal in going out today? Is it just to see what happens, or do I “have” to get results?

Navigating Weather and Mental Health:

Weather forecasts and mental well-being become significant considerations as I plan my outing. I, like most people, have an aversion to being rained upon. Even though I might not melt, I don’t want rain getting into the electronics in modern cameras. The allure of capturing the perfect shot often outweighs the discomfort. Yet, there are moments when self-care takes precedence, telling me to just stay in. Sometimes, staying in and getting my ironing done provides as much satisfaction as going out, allowing me to look so dapper on my next outing. The joy of unlimited cups of tea might just make staying in on a rainy day all the more appealing.

Packing the Essentials:

A well-equipped photography bag is essential for any outing. From spare batteries to a flask of tea for comfort, each item serves a purpose in ensuring a successful day of shooting. The contents of my bag reflect not only my photographic needs but also my personal preferences and creature comforts. However, the weight of the equipment is a crucial consideration, especially for street photography where mobility is key. As a more rotund gentleman of 52 years, this has become more and more important. Basically, you can take it with you, but you have to carry it. The X100F and a couple of spare batteries weigh next to nothing, but a Mamiya, or DSLR with a couple of nice zoom lenses suddenly makes you feel less young and daring. Don’t get me started on tripods. Yes, you might need one (in fact, you do) if you want to be doing long exposure photography, but imagine lugging one up a mountain. Okay, don’t. It’s not worth it. So ask yourself what do you really need, and will one of your children carry it for you? And how much will it cost you to make it worth their while?

The Lens Palette:

Crafting Perspectives: Different lenses allow me to achieve different results. If I use my 16-35 lens, I will get wide vistas in town and have a certain level of “artistic distortion.” If I use the 24-70, I have quite a good range of focal lengths, and also a macro feature on the lens. If I use my fisheye lens, I can get all “arty farty.” With a 35mm lens, I am perfect for street photography, and it’s the lens I use the most. The nifty fifty allows me to have a more human-eye view of the world.

The Digital Dilemma:

When it comes to the choice between film and digital photography, authenticity often clashes with practicality. While the allure of film photography appeals to my desire for authenticity, and it does look exceptionally cool, and you can enter “smug mode” knowing that you are arguably better than those who only know about digital photography (yes, snob value does exist!), the energy and time required for development and scanning can be daunting. On the other hand, digital photography offers convenience, allowing for instant image transfer and easy post-processing in software like Lightroom. The decision ultimately hinges on the balance between artistic vision and practical considerations, and can I really be bothered? I know, you have just lost respect for me as an artist, but the struggle is real.

Professionalism Meets Passion:

For professional assignments, meticulous preparation is paramount. From checking equipment to selecting the perfect lenses for the job, every detail contributes to achieving the desired outcome. I noticed this during my musical studies when the goal is to get a paying gig and deserving the pay. You have to get results and your reputation depends on those results. But, even in the midst of professional obligations, the passion for photography remains at the heart of every endeavor. Top tip of the the day. Always have a back-up plan. No planning survives initial contact with the enemy. You’re on your own and have to improvise. What can go wrong, will go wrong, so prepare for this.

Mapping Out the Journey:

Finally, planning the route to my destination adds an element of anticipation to the journey. Do I have to drive for miles, and will there be a loo somewhere on the way? How will I be able to acquire snacks? Are there any small producers that might need a client? I mean I don’t always think about food, but when you live in a country known for the quality of its produce, and where it is almost a duty to consume on the good stuff, it kind of is… Anyway, make sure you look at where you’re going on a map. And if you’re visiting a historic site or attraction then check the opening times. It has happened before. You turn up to a place and it’s closed, so I went a saw my plan B… The path ahead is filled with possibilities and opportunities for creative exploration.

In conclusion

The art of preparation is an integral part of the photographer’s journey. Balancing personal passion with professional commitment, each outing offers a chance to immerse yourself in the beauty of the world through the lens of a camera, whether it’s under the open sky or amidst the comforting hum of domesticity.

Finding Balance: Photography and Personal Wellness

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Photography is one of the best ways I know to switch off. When I’m behind the camera, I stop overthinking and just look at what’s in front of me, which is its own kind of relief from the noise of daily life.

It doesn’t always produce a good photo. That’s fine. The time spent actually looking at something is worth it regardless of what ends up in the final frame.

If you’re feeling overwhelmed, picking up a camera and going for a walk is cheap therapy. It’s helped me more than once.

Ian James Myers: A Candid Exploration of Life, Humor, and Cultural Observations

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I did something daft the other week. I fed ChatGPT a stack of my own blog posts and asked it to tell me who I am. Not in a therapy sense, more out of curiosity: what does a machine make of a couple of years of rambling about cameras, French bureaucracy and my own bad moods. What came back was three paragraphs of the kind of praise you’d get from a wedding speech written by someone who’s never actually met the groom.

Apparently I’m “a unique blend of wit, introspection, and cultural curiosity.” Apparently my writing “invites readers into my world” and “reflects the complexities of my mind.” It called my grouchiness “self-professed” and said my life has been “anything but conventional.” All true enough, in the way a horoscope is true enough. None of it sounded like me. It read like someone had skimmed a summary of a man and never sat in a room with him.

So here’s the real version, since you lot deserve better than a chatbot’s book report.

I’m 52. I grew up in the UK and I’ve lived in the Vendée since 2019, before that near Nantes, so I’ve had a good long stretch of being the Englishman who doesn’t quite get it, and the Englishman who gets it a bit too well. French bureaucracy still makes me want to put my head through a wall. French bread has ruined every other bread on earth for me. Both things are true at once, and that’s more or less what living here has taught me.

I moan about birthdays. I moan about getting older, my knees, and the French obsession with paperwork in triplicate. I’ve written about mental health here more than once, not because I’ve got it figured out but because pretending I have would be a worse lie than just admitting I don’t. If a post of mine has ever made you feel less alone in whatever you’re carrying, that matters more to me than any of it sounding polished.

I’m grouchy. I’ll own that one, no “self-professed” required. But I’m also genuinely grateful for the people who turn up here, comment, tell me I’m wrong about something, or just read quietly and never say a word. Thousands of you have clicked through over the years and I still don’t fully understand why, but I’m glad you do.

What the AI got right, in its clumsy way, is that I don’t hide much. The bad days, the arguments with myself over whether a photo’s any good, the culture-shock gripes, they’re all here on the blog because that’s more interesting to me than a highlight reel would be. What it got wrong is the tone. I’m not a beacon of anything. I’m a bloke with a camera and a horn and a house in the Vendée, still working out what I think about most things, still willing to say so out loud.

Was it eye-opening, having a machine mark my homework? Not really. Was it funny? Yes, in places. Am I letting ChatGPT write about me again? Probably not, or at least not without editing out every third adjective first. If you know me, or you’ve been reading a while, tell me in the comments whether any of it sounded like me. Be honest, that’s what the comments are there for.

Farewell, my beloved X100F

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It is with great sadness that I must announce the unfortunate fate of my beloved X100F – its ISO dial has broken and will require repair. To those who don’t understand the attachment to a camera, it may seem trivial, but it’s like losing your favorite cup from which you drink your morning tea. The feeling of loss and instability is truly disarming. The X100F has been my faithful companion, capturing countless cherished moments.

I visited the camera shop to check if it was a simple setting issue, but alas, it wasn’t. In September, I will send it to Fuji for repair, no matter the cost. I am determined to bring it back to life.

While I grieve the temporary loss of my X100F, I find solace in other photographic tools at my disposal. My trusty XT2 and Canon 6D Mark II, along with various lenses, are there to fill the void. But it won’t be the same; the X100F had a unique charm that cannot be easily replaced.

I believe there might be a lesson in all this. Perhaps it’s a subtle nudge from the universe to slow down and appreciate the art of photography in its purest form, to revisit the world of film and embrace its magic.

During this challenging time, I gratefully welcome any moral support. Meanwhile, I’ve been diving into the world of film photography, scanning old negatives, and maybe even writing reviews on vintage cameras. It’s my way of coping with the “X100F PTSD.”

While I await the return of my dear companion, I want to share some of my favorite shots taken with the X100F. It has been a source of inspiration and creativity, and its memory will live on through the photographs captured with its lens.

Farewell for now, my dear X100F. Until we meet again.

Happy Not Dead Yet Day

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When does Happy Birthday become Happy Not Dead Yet Day?  Is there a cut-off age for birthdays, or should men become like women and become just 21 again?  Are birthdays just for children?    Why am I talking about this anyway?  Today is the anniversary of my birth.  I was born on this day in 1972, 51 years ago.  When this article will be published my birthday will have passed so don’t try finding my date of birth.  Some people love their birthdays and enjoy them and just go for it.  I, surprise, surprise, am not one of those dreadful people.  Noooo, I am just in a foul mood, and despite receiving happy birthday wishes with good grace, I remain, under my breath, just an angry old man.  What is wrong with me?!

It could be because my birthday isn’t even being celebrated on the day itself.  Well, it is but it isn’t.  I expressed the wish for a beer and pizza night.  So, of course, I’m the one who has to go out and get the effing pizzas and get the beer.  I’m not even allowed to choose the effing film, because I am a sucker for a Rom-Com, and my family members aren’t so we won’t be watching one.  My daughter chose a birthday cake, a chocolate cake, which I am rather partial to, but it has that sickly sweet icing on it and is a unicorn rainbow cake.  She’s basically taking the piss out of me.  This isn’t me being paranoid since she actually admitted everything!  I’m even more pissed off with myself as I should be grateful instead of being selfish.  Damn you conscience!!!

I don’t like being the centre of attention and feel very uneasy about it.  If any bugger sings happy birthday to me, I just want the ground to swallow me up.

There were actually people last year for my fiftieth who actually came around for a party!  The utter gall of it!  Apparently “they,” say you have to be made a fuss of and receive presents.  It was awful.  You have to sit there pretending to have a good time.  The thing was a disaster and I still have a wine stain on my favourite shirt!

I told my son last night how I generally love my fellow man, and he promptly replied with the word bollocks!   You hate people!  I don’t necessarily hate them, and I do like them, far away, and on my own terms, i.e. not in my house wishing me a happy birthday!

How can I be like this??  I have no idea.  I remember my childhood birthdays with great affection, and I can’t blame booze for giving me just partial recollections.  My mother always went the extra mile, and I remember various styled chocolate cakes with great affection.  Even when I was at boarding school birthdays were fun.  I would get some cards, and Thornton toffees from my grandmother, and Matron would come round asking me if I wanted a chocolate cake or fruit cake?  I generally asked if I could have a chocolate cake, and at the end of supper, the cake would be brought out of the kitchen and divided up amongst the whole school which was a great way to do things. 

Even when I came back into the state school system, you would get the bumps which never really hurt, and one would have to pretend to struggle and just take it, but it was a laugh.  Now it would be classed as bullying and possibly assault!  How times have changed!

So, thank you to all who have wished me a happy birthday. Thank you for not picking me up by my hands and feet and not kicking me!  Thank you for taking a moment to have a thought for me on my special day.  I really do love you all!

Dear Reader

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Françaises, Français, Belges, Belges, Mon président, Mon chien, Monsieur l’avocat le plus bas d’Inter, mesdames et messieurs les jurés, public chéri mon amour.  The manner in which that French genius Pierre Desproges greeted his audience in the infamous radio show Le Tribunal des Flagrants Délires.

It was something I heard repeated on Rire et Chansons when I used to listen to French Radio trying to learn how to become more French than the French in the vain idea that I had to learn all about French culture to be accepted by them.  Now I realise my erreur!  All I had to do to be like them was to talk French incorrectly, smoke, drink wine, feel as if I am the light of the world, and judge people.  A damning indictment possibly, but how true!

Am I here to slag off the French once again?  Not really, but it’s always something so satisfying…  They think they know everything, and yet…  But I’m just going to leave that there today and not develop, because it is not the done thing, however fun it might be!

The quote by Pierre Desproges is quite revealing in the way he addresses his public, chéri, mon amour.  Do I write for others uniquely, or is it part of my therapy and a means to expedite my inner daemons?  Do I write only to leave a trace on this world before I die?  Is this my legacy for my children?  As a writer, not that I class myself as a “writer” in the way a French intellectual might, I do write the articles on this blog, and I hope, in some small way, to either amuse you, to help you pass some time in public transport and depending on my subject of choice, help you realise that there might just be a different way of looking at the world.  Possibly. Who knows?  Who really cares?  You, Dear Reader I hope, in some small way.  Sharing is caring, after all.

According to the statistics that I get back since I started this weird and wonderful project, there have been 8 826 of you that have visited my site.  There have been 33 994 views of my pages.  The French have viewed my site 17 810 times, followed by the British with 5029, and our Colonials across the pond with 4157 views.  This amazes me firstly, because I write in English for the French apparently, and they seem to lap it up, and secondly by the views from my home country, the United Kingdom.  Thanks Mum and Dad!!  As I look over the history of IJM Photography, I would like to thank the guy in Ireland who often has a look in.  Buy that man a pint of Guinness!

Not a map of the British Empire despite the pink…

When I see all the countries in pink on this map, I keep telling myself that this is not the British empire but people from the countries who have taken a moment and have visited this blog.   I still find this amazing.  I’m just one person, among 7bn on this planet. It’s as if I have had over 8 thousand people visit my home and have a look inside my mind.

The most popular article was about the X100F camera that has a place in my heart and camera bag. 586 views that one!!  In 2019, it was an article about Humber Street with 169 views.  In 2020, Don’t Panic with 112 views. 2021 with the X100F article, and this year 2022, it was the Parisian Nights Part I. Please have a look through the archives and maybe discover things you never knew existed!

When I declared to my mother that I was going to start a website, she declared it would never last.  For once, you were wrong mother, and I apologise for this exception to the rule.  I tend to have no filter concerning what I write about and how I write it, which can lead to interesting insights into the functioning of my dysfunctional brain. I’ll let the head shrinkers have a field day with that one.  You get me, a rather large English-Irish gentleman, and my heart goes into each page and word that I write for myself and for you, Dear Reader.  Thank you for being part of this strange adventure.

Hepple for Photos not Gin

Posted on Posted in Landscape Photography, Northumberland, Travel photography, United KingdomTagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , 3 Comments

Hepple. Even just saying it gives me a certain sensation of pleasure. Heh-pull. It just rolls of the tongue, and the pull sound at the end is tension that is let out and offers some relief. A bit like a fart, but less smelly. Amis de la poésie, bonsoir!

Now don’t get me wrong, I love Alnmouth but I like to get out into the country when I visit my parents. You drive into Alnwick, and then through the town past the TA base going up towards Rothbury and the on to Otterburn where the Army likes to play soldiers with live ammo and you are warned not to go onto the land otherwise you might go boom. Going boom is not a nice thing to do and should he avoided at all costs unless you really do want to go out with a bang.

You go past Cragside which as a family we have visited before, in the sun and the rain. It was one Summer and it was raining all bloody week and my mother said we should go out to Cragside and have fun going through the maze on the hills around the very stately home. It was a great idea, except for the fact that it had been raining like a cow taking a piss, and the whole place was waterlogged and we were all wearing crocs (other more suitable footwear from other brands do exist) and that other footwear would have been most welcome. We arrived back at my parents house soaked and a little pissed off. Oh the joys of family holidays during the British summer.

I digress. Je diverge, et parfois je dis bite!

Anyway, you go past Cragside and you will eventually end up at Hepple. I tend to go through the village and park up on the verge after the bridge. You can’t miss it, and if you do miss it the you are on the wrong road.

I have this stupid idea in my head that if I watch enough YouTube and try and learn ever more about photography from the various videos watched, and learn to leave my comfort zone and try new things, then I might discover something new and find out something that I might not even suspect possible. Yes it was one of those kinds of days… I should have known.

I was in the car with my camera and my father for this trip out. For some reason or other, fate had thrown us together and I had missed having sandwiches for lunch at parent’s house and still can’t remember how and why my father was in my car. Well, I wasn’t going to miss the opportunity to spend some quality time with one of my favourite people. So we had driven off to Hepple. I promise I will get to the end of this story. Maybe not straight away, but maybe by the end of this article.

Parked up. Ready to shoot. Camera out. Lens on camera. And then I just jave to work the scene and try and get compositions and pictures together. Now one video suggested using a telephoto lens for landscape photography. I wasn’t sure about this but tried it anyway just in case. While I was out of the car taking photos my father would be quietly listening to car radio holding one of the lenses as I was doing my thing. Bless him. That man has the patience of a saint. Either that or he enjoyed seeing me doing my thing. It was sharing with him one of the ways I seem to spend a lot of time.

It’s moments like that, that will stick in my memory forever in a way that going to the kitchen to get salt for my wife will be forgotten once I arrive in the kitchen. Not that I don’t want to to get salt for my wife, I just seen to forget very quickly.

So I started of by using my wide-angle lens and the thought, why the hell not, I’ll get the 70-300mm out of the bag and see what I can do with it. A wide angled lens will give you a very wide angle of view and offer up some wonderful distortion. Hence the name wide angled lens. The originality of that name still blows my mind! A telephoto lens however will give you the impression that everything has been drawn in and the background seems to be just being the foreground. It compresses the view… However they still say telephoto lens and not compressor lens. Go figure.

In the photos from this outing I think you’ll be able to see which photos were taken with which pens and of you click on each photos you can see the type of lens used in the description.

It’s one of my happy places and one that I keep going back to. They must think it weird that every summer a French car pulls up and this fat dude gets out with a camera and starts taking photos then gets back into said French car and drives off with souvenirs in his head that will keep him going until he comes back. It was just brilliant being able to just take in the scenery and enjoy being there with my Dad. Definitely a keeper that memory. It was just happiness. Happiness is being out with your Dad taking pictures and just being two men in a car driving across the Northumbrian countryside. These little instances of happiness that just seem to carry you through. Thanks Dad.

Rest and Recuperation

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Rest and recuperation, or R and R for those who know, is so underrated in these modern times where being busy is seen as being a virtue and shows how very productive you are, and yet it is vital and something we so badly need.  Yes, I’m talking to you burnt out millennials who are just seeking validation by being so into your careers to replace the love you didn’t get from your baby boomer parents.   You’re still not as screwed up as Generation X who are experts in coping with mental health. When we were kids, we just didn’t talk about it and it has led to a generation of very “interesting” people.

Anyway.  Rest and Recuperation. The clue is in the name.  For those who don’t know me, I’ll bring you up to date.  I suffer from Arthritis in my right knee and have been limping for what seems like forever, and it hurts like buggery.  I gradually have got into CBD oil in a big way and enjoy the relief it gives me, but it’s just enough to keep me vertical.  I know I’m rambling, but I want to give you a little context, or even a large context, for the rest of this article.  I also live in France and we enjoy quite a few public holidays, a majority of them being religious holidays, which I always found a tad strange for such a fiercely secular country where “laïcité” is the national religion!  So the 1st of November is All Saints’ Day, where the French will go to the cemeteries to put chrysanthemums on the gravesides of the dead, and remember what the people were like and reflect on their own personal histories.  Note to self, if I ever get flowers for my mother in law, it might be wise to get anything but Chysantemums…  I might be sending the wrong message otherwise.  In the UK, they’re a flower like any other but here they’re just for dead people.  Halloween isn’t as big over here as it is In Ireland, the UK, or the US, but Gen Z have worked out the trick or treat thing and are well into it!  So it might decide to stay after all.  In the John Mc Byrne pub, they had a right old knees up and were all dressed up!  I decided to decline.  I was resting.

Now we’re getting to the crux of this article.  As of Thursday, I have been suffering from a cold.  That’s bollocks, I’ve been dying of Man-Flu.   My nose turned into a water fountain, and for two days the tap was open and I felt awful.  Thank you brothers for your solidarity and good wishes.  But I was able to get into the car and get to work and therefore not dead, and able to work, even off my head.  Fortunately, I wasn’t working on Friday afternoon, so, was free.  My wife had left on Thursday morning to go and see her mother, minus the chrysanthemums, and would only be coming back on Sunday.  Feeling like death I thought the best thing was just to go to bed and stay there for as long as possible.  Fortune shone on me again, and there was no Friday night OHC rehearsal (insert plug here for our concert “the Planets” on the 14th of November, tickets still available here, and don’t forget the comfy seats…)  I had my dog sleeping next to me in her basket on my bedroom floor.  I would go down from time to let her do her two p’s.  Pees and poops. 

I had a call from my son asking if he could come home with a couple of friends for a soirée.  I agreed on the basis that there would be no noise and they would leave the living room (which was to become the drinking room) spotless the next day.  The friends would kip on the pull out sofa in the living room.  At least nobody would have to drive.  I drifted between sleep, going to the loo in the middle of the night, and then back to sleep.  I had a Vicks vapour stick, and by then my nose was leaking less and was staying relatively dry.  I took the dog down at 10 am to let her do her business and saw two of my son’s friends asleep on my sofa and I could not get into the kitchen.  The huge sofa bed takes up quite a lot of space.  It’s always delicate when people are staying over…

I went back down at 3pm feeling a little peckish, but they were still out for the count.  There was only one thing to do.  Get in the car, and go to MacDonalds to get my lunch.  I got back and saw my son coming out of his room looking somewhat delicate, he asked where I had been and explained why, and he just said, oh yeah and went back into his room.  I must have gone back to sleep because when I woke up they had taken the dog with them but the living room was spotless!  #DadGoals!

My wife and daughter arrived on Sunday at what seemed like mid-afternoon, and so it passed.  The house was no longer quiet.  I still rested though.  My daughter went out with some of her friends in the quest for sweets, and my wife filled up a whole bowl with sweets for children coming ringing at the door.  I was shouted at for eating some of those sweets but the return to childhood was immediate.  Emotion and food isn’t necessarily a bad thing.  Monday came around and I was worried about going to work, and not feeling up to it.

Monday came and went, and on Monday evening that I wasn’t limping and hadn’t taken any CBD.  Maybe Rest and Recuperation go together