There are places in the world where time feels different — where the air is thick with memory, hope, and something quieter than silence. Lourdes is one of those places. This is the story of my pilgrimage there with my son Killian — and of the moment that changed us both.
Lourdes 2025
I look back on our trip to Lourdes with great affection and know that I will be going back with Killian one day. Lourdes is one of the most significant sites when it comes to Marian apparitions — and was where the dogma of the Immaculate Conception was confirmed. Our Lady made several apparitions to Bernadette Soubirous, and the grotto remains exactly as it was, as does the spring she once dug by hand, along with the sacred alcove where Mother Mary actually appeared.
This time we didn’t manage to go to the baths, but I did attend Mass and go to confession.
Was it a pilgrimage for both of us? In some way, yes. Killian’s faith path and my own may be at different places, but we couldn’t help but feel changed.
Little did I know that while I was waiting inside to go to confession, an African nun had come up to Killian and had started talking to him.
When I was confessing my many sins, the priest guided me, taught me, and reminded me of some of the key elements of the faith — and the importance of looking after myself. He was completely right about everything. It was a moving experience — I left that confessional a new man, newly reconciled with God. I said my penance and went to find the boy.
For those of us who went to Catholic schools, we know all about the power of nuns — and you listen to them. She spoke to him not only with authority, but with profound wisdom, deep kindness, and the kind of love only an African mother can carry in her voice. He later told me how much she had marked him. When I came out of confession, she was still talking to him — and boy, was he listening.
Was it just a nun — or was it Our Lady speaking to him the way Jesus speaks through the words of the priest during Mass? I don’t know. But what I do know is that what that nun said to him had moved him more than any lecture from his father ever could. She was such a happy woman, and her laugh was infectious. She truly had the joy of serving Christ.
Lourdes is a place of hope, healing, and searching — a place where we often find God through Mary.
Killian had not only been a constant companion to me, helping me and laughing with me, but I believe God had spoken to that boy through that nun and set something in motion. Is he still fighting his demons? Yes. But there was a glimmer of hope in the darkness — one that won’t leave him untouched.
I didn’t question him further. Some moments are too sacred to dissect. And every soul walks its own path to God.
We had spontaneously gone to Mass the day Pope Leo was elected, and there was a joyful energy in the sanctuary. Habemus Papam. It was a special day.
Not because of the ceremony, or the news, or even the setting — but because, in that moment, I knew: God had not stopped speaking.
Sometimes, He speaks through a stranger. Sometimes, through a mother’s voice. And sometimes, through a son who learns to listen again.
A photo doesn’t just show you what’s in front of the camera. It shows you something about whoever’s holding it too. What you point it at, what you wait around for, how you frame the thing, all of that gives you away eventually, whether you meant it to or not.
The selfie question
Take the selfie, probably the most modern version of self-expression going. For some people it’s genuine. For a lot of people it’s a carefully staged little performance for Instagram, hashtag lifestyle, hashtag ootd, hashtag me-myself-and-I. I’m not knocking it exactly, but it does make you wonder how much of it is really self-expression and how much is just performance.
That’s not really what I mean when I talk about photography reflecting who you are, though. Photography’s the one art form where you get to look through the exact same hole I looked through when I pressed the shutter. You’re seeing what I saw, in that instant, and depending on how I’ve edited it afterwards you might catch a bit of whatever was going on in my head at the time too.
Picture two people either side of a coin held up between them. One’s looking at the head, the other’s looking at the tail. Neither of them is wrong, they’re just seeing half the thing. A photograph works a bit like that. What you take from it depends on where you’re standing, and more than that, on everything you’re carrying with you before you even looked at it.
What a photo says about me, whether I like it or not
There’s a shot I took at one of the anti-government demonstrations in Nantes a while back. Someone looking at that could reasonably assume I’ve got strong feelings about French politics. Truth is I was about as neutral as it’s possible to be, I was there for the photograph, not the cause. But the viewer fills that gap in with their own assumptions, and there’s not much I can do about that once the shutter’s gone. I do the same thing looking at other people’s work, so I can hardly complain.
Then there’s the question of why I press the shutter at that exact split second and not a second before or after. Cartier-Bresson had a whole theory about the decisive moment. Mine’s less elegant: I try to clear the frame of anything distracting, get my subject exactly where I want them, or just wait until they walk into the right spot. Means I miss plenty of shots. That’s fine, it’s part of the deal. Has it turned me into some miserable perfectionist? No, thankfully. Do I still push for that extra bit of effort anyway? Yes. Not for me particularly, more for whoever ends up looking at the photo afterwards. Call it professional pride if you like. If you’re going to bother doing something at all, you might as well try and do it properly.
Have I actually changed, though?
I’m honestly not sure my subject matter’s moved on as much as I have. Am I still taking roughly the same photos I always did? Probably, yeah. But I’ve picked up plenty along the way, mostly off YouTube if I’m honest. Forty-odd years since I started, and I’m still learning new things every year, more in the last ten than most of the decades before that. I know more about film now, how to shoot it and develop it properly, and I’ve got a lot better at editing. Worth mentioning I trained in desktop publishing back in 2003, of all things. Twenty-odd years ago, Photoshop, Illustrator, QuarkXpress, the works. Feels like a different life.
New gear and different lenses got me properly into wide angle for a while, enough to get it out of my system, or so I thought at the time. I’ll probably go back to it again at some point, knowing me. Either way it changed how I look at a scene, and I know how to use the distortion now instead of fighting it. It gives a photo a different kind of impact, something a bit more unusual than the standard view, and it’s occasionally the thing that makes a client notice a shot.
Confidence has come the boring way, just from doing it over and over. Getting out with the camera is still the only trick that actually works. Some people might say I lean too much on gear. Maybe. But I’ve put the hours in too, and at some point that earns you a bit of trust in your own eye.
Do I take the same photos now as I did in 1987? In some ways, yes, because whatever’s essentially me still comes through in the picture. Back then I was purely obsessed with nailing the exposure, and I didn’t have a fraction of the technique or the visual references I’ve got now. I was also fifteen. I’m over fifty now. The core of it hasn’t moved much. Everything around it has, same as it would for anyone after thirty-odd years.
Thirty years in France
Something people might not know: I’ve lived in France longer than I lived in the UK. Has that got into my photography somewhere? Maybe. Probably, actually.
France gave the world Cartier-Bresson and Doisneau, and their street work still gets me every time, that deceptive simplicity that looks effortless and clearly wasn’t. I’d be lying if I said that hasn’t rubbed off on me. It’s there in how I look at Nantes, walking around with a camera, feeling like they’re somewhere just behind my shoulder. Subject matter shifts country to country too. The UK and France don’t hand you the same photos at all.
Doesn’t stop there either. I’ve picked up just as much from photographers online. Sean Tucker, Thomas Heaton, James Popsys, Mango Street, Peter McKinnon, and Jamie Windsor, that lot have all left a mark one way or another. Not a single Frenchman on that list, which says more about me than about French YouTubers. I speak French all day at work and everywhere outside my front door. By the time I’m home I want my own language back. That’s a me thing, not a them thing.
So does the camera show who I am? Some of it, probably more than I control. My photos say something about how careful I am, or I’m not, about being fair to what’s in front of me, about which places pull at me, Nantes streets, French light, and about which photographers I’ve let get under my skin. I don’t think that adds up to some tidy answer about identity. It’s more that every roll I shoot is a little bit of evidence, and I’m not always the one who gets to read it. Maybe that’s the interesting part. I’ll let you decide what mine says about me.
I have been writing for this blog since 2019, and it seems I am still here, sharing my thoughts on photography and its role in my life. Photography, alongside music, appears to be one of the few things I do quite well. Another talent, it seems, is writing, as evidenced by the fact that just over 13,200 of you have viewed this site over 51,000 times since I started this project. I’m not saying this to show off, since for a British subject of His Majesty King Charles III, it is formally forbidden to blow one’s own trumpet—a social faux pas—and, were I to be completely honest, the behaviour of a cad!
However, when somebody else does it, those social cues are no longer applicable. Sir Foxy Foxalot — aka Fox Reviews Rock for those in the know — does the same kind of thing as I do. His expertise lies in Rock Music and Heavy Metal, genres I might not be very knowledgeable about. However, learning something new is always a voyage of discovery. We have been following each other for some months now, gradually learning about our different worlds and coming to appreciate each other’s forays into the blogosphere.
Recently, he sent out a message asking for volunteers to be interviewed by him and answer some questions on Rock and Heavy Metal. Being the decent chap and all-around good egg that I try to be, I said that despite my ignorance, I would be delighted to participate.
Despite my limited knowledge of the genre, I did spend three years working with the famous and infamous Christophe “Bobonne” Bonnin, who taught me all I know. He introduced me to a certain Tennessee Bourbon, a favourite of the late Lemmy, bass player and singer of Motorhead, and an all-round legend. Lemmy has a memorial at Hellfest in the quaint village of Clisson, which becomes the centre of all things Metal once a year. I even learned that he had a custom-made case for his bass, with compartments for said Bourbon, his bass, and a packet of cigarettes. Despite the much-vaunted medicinal properties of the aforementioned Bourbon, don’t overdo it, chaps!Let me tell you more about the man behind Fox Reviews Rock. Like me, he has dedicated himself to writing about his passion, and despite having been at it for a relatively short time, he has acquired quite the following. His output is impressive, and he maintains a very high standard. He has also had the great intelligence to surround himself with an excellent writing team. His articles, though about a subject I know little about, are always a good read. I also enjoy the structure of his blog. Check out his weekly schedule here. What more can I say, except get your pretty self to his site and check him out. It’s quite the blossoming project, run by those who are passionate about their subject. Tell him I said hi!
PS. Here is the link to the article they wrote about me. Go and visit it right now. Off you go. No messing around. You’ll like it!
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.
It would appear to be that time of year when everyone greets each other with the quasi obligatory Bonne Année. Usually followed by some generic wish such as Santé, Bonheur, and even Prospérité. Some have even dared to reduce it too Bonne et Heureuse… But let’s not talk about them.
A Message of Hope and Peace
I wish you a very Happy New Year. I wish you what you need to get through 2024, and what you need to affront the difficulties that you may face. But most of all, I wish you Peace. I wish you the peace that is said when Jesus said Peace be with you, or Shalom, or As-salamu alaykum. That inner Peace that we receive from our creator. This peace will bring you much more joy than mere health, happiness, and success. I think it goes much further than this “worldly” greeting.
Finding Peace in Solitude and Family
Over the Christmas period I have been on holiday, and have managed to find some of this more deeper notion of peace. I greatly appreciate my colleagues, but it was lovely just being with my family. And like with the Covid lockdowns, it gave me space, and rest, but most importantly, it gave me time. Time to be with my wife and children. Time to just be in their presence and feel the joy that they give out.
The Joy of Ironing and Shoe Shining
It also gave me time to complete my ironing and get that pile “done”. There were things that had been waiting so patiently. Even my cotton handkerchiefs which are a joy to iron. Humanity seems to fall into two groups, no, not male and female, but those who iron and those who don’t. I am in the former and my wife is in the latter. I met my wife back in 1992 and I used to wear green for a living. That poor girl once tried ironing my uniform, and I was stupid, foolish, a bit rash, a complete eejit, and declared don’t touch things that you know nothing about. I had been taught to iron firstly by my mother and became adept at ironing cotton hankies. We all have to start somewhere. My training continued with those gentlemen who wear green for a living and therefore have to be immaculately dressed at every hour of the day or night. They would explain how to iron everything from A to Z and then we would do the same. We were then expected to execute the same task to the same high standard. I still have nightmares about tramlines. If you know, you know. And if you don’t know, then that’s one less traumatic event to have to share with your therapist. Needless to say, my Dear wife has not ironed since 1992, and that task has fallen to me. I learnt my lesson and now keep my mouth shut. I also learnt how to shine shoes, taught by those same men in green. So I took the time to go through every single pair in the house, shining them and making them like new and being complimented by my wife who had the impression of having new shoes. Some could be repaired but the repair costs would have been more than the shoes were worth. Those loved shoes are now in a better place.
A Rejuvenating Holiday with Loved Ones
Time, time, and more time. You wondrous thing. The kitchen needed attention, and is now looking loved as well as lived in. My children cooked the Christmas Eve meal for us and they did themselves proud. I said that I was available if needed and they only asked me to do a tartare sauce. So I did.
Grateful for Family and Faith
Time, time again. On Christmas Day I always put my foot down and insist they come to church with me. So, they were spared Midnight mass, Dawn Mass, and even morning mass, but they were with me for the evening mass. I’ve talked about this before, but again, this is so important to me and it always feels wonderful. Happy New Year Dear Reader, I wish you Peace for 2024, and may your God bless you.
Not every photo I take is meant for a portfolio or a blog post. Some are just notes to myself — a way of remembering how I saw something, without much thought for whether it’s any good.
This one’s a black and white shot of my son in a lift, and it wasn’t planned. It happens to land close to the rule of thirds, but that’s luck rather than intent. The detail I actually like is my own reflection in the mirror behind him — I hadn’t noticed it until I looked at the photo properly afterwards, and now it’s the part I keep coming back to.
I don’t think there’s a grand lesson in it. It’s a small, ordinary moment: my son’s expression somewhere between curiosity and mild boredom, me half-visible in a mirror I forgot was there. But it’s stuck with me more than plenty of photos I’ve actually planned out, which is probably the point of taking these kinds of notes in the first place — they catch something the planned shots don’t.
The following photos, or should I say visual notes, were taken over two September Saturdays with my Fujifilm X100F. Nothing more calculated than that.
