Content Note: This post discusses depression and emotional exhaustion. Please read with care.
That was the old Royal Family rule—stoic, impenetrable, forever above it all.
I, alas, am not royalty. I’m an overthinker with a camera and a blog, and I owe you nothing… but I’d like to offer a little explanation anyway. Call it common courtesy. Or perhaps just the need to name what’s been happening.
So here’s the situation report from IJM Photography.
I haven’t written in a month for two reasons. First: the season. If you’ve followed this space for a while, you know I’ve long wrestled with melancholy—especially as the days shorten. This year, it hit harder than usual. I made it through November, but only just. By December, I was physically and mentally exhausted.
Second: my health. After a conversation with my manager and HR, I was referred to the médecin du travail. She diagnosed me with dépression aiguë—acute depression (not the cute, Hello Kitty kind)—and noted a heart murmur. Frankly, I was relieved to have a name for what I’d been carrying.
She ordered me to go straight home—not back to work—and to see my GP the next day. She mentioned my brain chemistry was “in a bit of a mess.” Which, in its odd way, reminded me of three things:
— I have a brain
— I have a heart
— and I am profoundly tired
Not broken. Just worn thin.
I was referred to the local Centre Médico-Psychologique. There, I broke another unspoken rule: when the nurse asked how I was, I didn’t say, “Fine, thanks.” I told the truth—calmly, factually, without blame—about the weight I’d been under since returning to work after my accident, and how even the resilience I’d inherited from past generations suddenly felt out of reach.
To my surprise, a session with a psychiatrist opened up right away. He was kind, thoughtful. We talked about identity, belonging, and the quiet strain of straddling cultures. He said I carry “the mindset of an immigrant”—and that perhaps I’ve become more French than I realize. He suggested working on communication with my spouse, and that a trip back to the UK might help me reconnect with myself.
He might be right. If funds were no object, I’d book the ticket tomorrow.
For now, I’m taking things one day at a time. Resting. Recharging. And slowly returning—to my camera, to my words, to myself.
We’re still in Edinburgh. We’re walking down the Royal Mile. It’s festival season. There are plenty of shows to watch, and the one we saw first was by Max Von Trapp. Not to be confused with the Sound of Music Von Trapps, but a comic magician. One of my favourite kinds. The jokes and tricks rolled fast, as did my laughter.. Kate laughs at all the jokes, even the more adult-focused ones, just like Killian did when we visited the festival when he was that age.
Saint Giles was our next stop. As you know, I’m Catholic, not Protestant. As we wandered through the national Cathedral of Scotland, I was struck not only by the beautiful organ music, but by the lack of the familiar Stations of the Cross, the statues. The centre of attention was not the Lord and the sacrifice of the Mass, but the preacher’s pulpit. I felt this lack and prayed my daily Rosary, head bowed in prayer.
I joined Kate outside, slightly perturbed by the experience.
Lunch was a kebab. Simple and delicious. Kate loved it.
It was time to move on to see Greyfriars Bobby, a wee brown dog, famous for his loyalty. The legend is such that the people of Edinburgh raised a statue to honour him, and people rub his nose either for luck or as a sign of affection. I went into the Greyfriars Pub for some Guinness, reflecting on my own dog Molly, now 16, who greets me every morning as if I’m her favourite person and gets all excited when I get home from work. I can see why wee Bobby was a legendary dog, and why he inspired so many people.
We wandered through the graveyard looking at the tombs of the citizens of Edinburgh from the past. And we found a certain Thomas Riddell who JK Rowling used in her books. Kate acquiesced and allowed me to take her photo in front of it.
We ventured towards the Covenanters’ section of the graveyard, supposedly the most haunted section. I felt nothing and saw nothing, but Kate started to have a headache. We paid our respects and decided to find Bobby’s grave at the entrance. Kate noticed the sticks put on his grave, as you might leave a favourite dog toy. She just had to go and find him a suitable stick. Bless that dog. Teaching us a valuable lesson in pure love years after his death.
We ventured back out onto the streets of Edinburgh, leaving the relative tranquility of the graveyard behind us. This was about to be the reason she wanted to come to Edinburgh in the first place: a cocktail bar. But not any ordinary cocktail bar. The Geek Bar, decorated every four months into a new theme. The theme she wanted was from a video game that she plays with Killian. Oh no—they’d changed everything… It was now all about Stranger Things on Netflix—something I had heard by name but knew nothing else about.
Liquor? Maybe quicker, but it’s not something I’m a great fan of. The lady took our order and explained the concept. I felt as if I was in Starbucks for the first time. She asked which flavours I liked, and with her expert help, I made up my mind. The drink was obviously dangerous—too smooth, too sweet—and I couldn’t feel the alcohol. Neither could Kate, who was only allowed a mocktail. I have to be a responsible parent after all. The second round was just as deadly, and I was beginning to feel very happy. I wonder why…
So maybe, at the end of all this, the real magic isn’t in the tricks or the drinks or even the famous city. It’s just—being there. Following your children into their weird, wonderful universes, and watching them set the place on fire with laughter. And really, what’s better than that?
This is the final chapter from our trip to Brittany. Now, where were we? Ah yes—the party in my pants. Not the fun kind. Not the sexy kind. The kind caused by just one “not so good” mussel. I had paid my tribute to the seafood god. And of course, as any self-respecting Frenchman would, we started thinking about lunch. How very continental!
Marina has a flat just opposite where Gisèle, my mother in law, lives, and had made the very kind offer of feeding us that lunchtime. Virginie, my wife, was asked if she wanted oysters for lunch. No she didn’t, Maman. Did I want oysters? Thinking back to my uncomfortable tribute to the seafood god, not for me, Gisèle. Oh I must have eaten a mussel that wasn’t bon… Possibly Gisèle…
Gisèle still opened all the oysters she had and laid them out on a platter. We would take said oysters with the leftovers from yesterday’s mammoth family lunch. Yes of course I could take this, and that, and t’other….
The plan of the day: eat with Marina, Vincent, Raymond and Sylvie, and then go and see my father in law in hospital before heading home.
We ate with Marina and the others, and it was a lovely meal and we were made to feel so welcome. Champagne to celebrate the 14th of July. Ah well, I took one for the team and had a glass. I wouldn’t be driving anyway. My wife would be driving since I don’t know how to drive, and when I do, I drive like an old man. My mother seems to like me driving like an old man, so there, Virginie!
The meal and company were both delicious, but like all good things had to come to an end. We were going to the hospital to visit my father in law.
The poor chap hasn’t been well for some time, and has battled through cancer, botched operations, and old age. This was the man I had met 32 years ago. He was the Pasha. The main man. The man. He was the archetype of a French male. A man that I had grown to love and respect over the three decades. Not always easy but what is?
We wandered through the hospital, and we eventually found Monsieur Jacob in his bed watching Arte, and films starring Jean-Paul Belmondo. He was in pain but so happy to see us. He looked nostalgic when watching the film, similar to the way I do when listening to the music of my youth. However, he was no longer the man I had once known. He had lost his right leg, and actually started to look old. He looked like a shell of the man I had first met all those years ago. His hands, once so strong they could crush a walnut, now trembled slightly under the thin hospital sheet. Virginie held her father’s hand with such love and his eyes were telling her how much he loved her. She told him about the trip to the UK to see my parents this summer, and about the children. How Killian was back home, how Kate was changing schools, and how everything was good at home in Vendée.
We didn’t want to tire him more than necessary, and he had a date with Belmondo. He hugged his daughter, then took my arm and kissed it. Time moves on whether we like it or not. He might no longer be the Pasha, but he’s still the man!
I’ve been going to Bamborourgh since I was a little boy. Fifty years later, it still affects me in a way that not many places do. Growing up, there was a painting of the castle in my mother’s bathroom, and ever since I learned photography, I’ve wanted to capture my own photo of the place. Patience, my dear boy, patience…
The last time I was there, I was with my wife and daughter. We explored the castle—a gurt big affair that overlooks the coast and the Farne Islands. This time, I was with my son. It’s all about passing on the experiences we’ve had to future generations. To be honest, this whole trip was about creating memories for the children and spending quality time with them. Ever wary of spending too much, we decided to visit just the village and the beach.
Exploring the Beach: A Walk through the Dunes
To get to the beach, you have to go through the dunes, following the paths, because wandering around the dunes willy-nilly is not the done thing—conservation of the local flora and fauna and all that. The castle towers above the beach, giving a sense of protection. By the time we got there, the beach was fairly full of people, dog walkers, and their dogs, all just enjoying the summer. A British, Northumbrian summer, but summer nonetheless.
I don’t know if you know, but I have a gammy knee and arthritis. I’ve also been taking collagen every day, and although it seems to be doing me good, it’s a bit early to see real effects. Killian was very kind, looking after me and making sure I was keeping up. He’s a good man, and it’s nice spending time with him. After walking on the beach for a while and letting me take my pictures, we found a log to sit on before heading back into the village.
A Stroll Back to the Village: Nostalgia and New Discoveries
As we headed back to the car, we came up the side of the castle and walked along the cricket ground. Dogs and their walkers were still out in force, with the owners throwing balls for the aforementioned dogs. All of a sudden, I missed Molly, our dog, and thought how much she would have loved coming with us, but she’s an old girl, and it wouldn’t have been feasible.
I thought about going up to the church to pay my respects to the local heroine, Grace Darling, who was the Lighthouse Keeper’s daughter in the 19th century. During an epic storm in 1838, a ship was wrecked on the Farne Islands, and Grace and her father went out in a rowing boat to pick up the survivors, as it was considered too rough a sea for the Seahouses lifeboat. They saved 9 out of the 62 passengers and had to shelter in the lighthouse for a further 3 days until the storm calmed down.
A Pub Lunch at The Lord Crewe: A Culinary Interlude
I didn’t manage to get that far. Killian, much like myself, has a weakness for pub lunches. And look, a pub! The Lord Crewe! One of those posh pubs that tries to hit above its station… We went straight to the bar and tried to order two pints of Guinness, while letting them know that we wanted to eat too. “Oh, in that case, just go up to the restaurant, and they’ll deal with you…” I was ready to leave the place and go somewhere else, but Killian was hungry, so we didn’t. However, we did enjoy being rude about the two barmen in French.
Killian decided on fish and chips, or “cod fillet with a beer batter”, and I went for the prawn cocktail. As you can see in the picture, even as Frenchmen, we couldn’t fault the presentation of the dishes. The taste was pretty good too! Eating a meal like that just takes you back to a place of joy and nostalgia. It takes you back to a place of calm and reflection. It takes you back to a place where everything is just the way it should be. It almost helped us forget the two barmen. Almost…
A rather delicious and impeccably presented prawn cocktail..
Continuing the Adventure: More Pints and Ice Cream
We paid and left, still joking at the barmen’s expense. We continued up the road and found the other pub. Ah well, another pint of Guinness. We never got to the church, but that was fine, as I already had the photos I wanted. The beach, the castle, and the dog walkers. We headed back towards the car and had that ice cream that we had noticed while walking up to pub number two. What a sound decision. It was very good ice cream and helped us forget the two rude barmen from the other place… Almost…
Capturing Bamburgh: A Photographer’s Reflections
Anyway, back to the car, and back to Lesbury to go and see the girls. I had the photograph I wanted. I wanted the castle, on top of its hill overlooking the beach and the dunes. The other photos were just a bonus. Yes, I went to a place for just one photo, but it was a photo I had been eager to get for some time. The next time I might just have to go at sunset to get the good light…
Photography Insights: Challenges and Techniques
Let’s conclude by talking about the photography from the day. The main technical difficulty was my camera’s metering of the scenes. I had to really expose for my highlights to compensate for the bright sky and the reflection of this light on the sand. I was actually worried about not being able to retrieve the information in the shadows. Luckily, Lightroom was a champion with photo editing and showed itself to be a top-notch app. For me, Bamburgh is all about the castle. It’s about the castle and the sea. It’s about the castle, the sea, the sand, and the dunes. If you can capture all that, then you’re well on your way to getting some pretty good photos.
IJM Photography 