Langdale landscape

The landscapes, lights and moods of the area around Elterwater in the Langdale Valley, Cumbria are magical. It’s perhaps my favourite known place in England. I can’t get enough of it. It might not be everyone’s cuppa for a precious week away but I can still never quite get why more people, particularly in the south-east of England where I now live, haven’t ever been to the Lakes. The oft given response that “it rains a lot” now solicits nothing more than a barely audible, disdainful sigh from me. Each to their own.

My latest trip was over the new year period, staying again in Chapel Stile. The ascents over a few days of kind weather included Silver How, Lingmoor and Loughrigg - for those who like a Wainwright or a Birkett. Fairly moderate walks for short winter days. It was just fabulous - every step, breath and glimpse. After each jaunt, the Britannia Inn in Elterwater provided seats and ale, then wine, then whisky. And we had a fine new year’s eve. I’ve got over the sluggish responses to asking for the fire to be re-lit on cold, late December early evenings. We only punctuated that ritual one day with a purposeful lower walk skirting the Langdale Valley side to get to the Old Dungeon Ghyll Hotel. I had not been in the pub for over thirty years. I had been introduced to it and ‘snuff’ on a school walking holiday when I was perhaps ‘shy’ of 18. I remember the teacher’s name but he can remain anonymous here. I forgot to ask if they still sold it. Best avoided unless your sinuses are really bad!

I took hundreds of photographs, always trying to capture what the eyes can see and sense. Often it’s gone in a moment as the light, wind and cloud dance across the fells. But you never quite can because it’s not just about what you can see. So you get, at best, part of it if you’re lucky. You have to imagine the rest when you’re looking through the images back home. Which is why you have to go back. Damp stone walls, rocky paths, rushing streams, stretching fells, brooding crags and lingering mist, mingled with peeps and shafts of sunlight. For the meteorological record, new year’s day brought cloudless blue skies. It’s landscape, weather and life in spades. If you have never been, just go. It might rain. And it might not.

Whitstable in November

I took my daughter for an open day at the University of Kent in Canterbury recently. I had to lose myself for a few hours so I went to Whitstable, about seven miles away, on the coast. It was a first time for me. I’d heard a lot about the place - the bounty of independent shops on its now almost ‘time-forgotten’ high street; its shoreline; harbour; beach huts, galleries and lively pub and music scene. I couldn’t sample the pubs and ale but I had a good stroll up and down the seafront and around the harbour. Oysters are everywhere. Bucket loads. A pity that I am not remotely interested in eating them. I can’t say I don’t like the taste as I’ve never had one. It’s a culinary psychological block. They just don’t look as though they are meant to be swallowed and digested. I get that many like and love them, and would gulp them morning, noon and night instead of Weetabix and everything that follows, swilled down with a fine white Burgundy or the like.  I love the shells and always pick-up a few choice ones. But the innards are not for me. They give me the gastric quivers. So, instead,  it was fish and chips at the yacht club café with a cup of tea. The day started gloomy but over a few hours the flat grey gave way to blue skies and Autumn sunshine.  Here are a few images that capture something of the place over a brief, few hours..

Strolling South Bank

I walked from Tate Britain to Tate Modern in London last week, looking in on a few exhibitions. The walk on the south bank of the river from Lambeth Bridge down to Bankside on a bright, crisp day was just great. The city landscape mixed with a moody sky and low Autumn sun made for an easy palette. St. Paul’s, the cluster of high-rise City buildings and the river’s bridges provided rich pickings, both from ground level and on high from the Tate Modern’s viewing platform.

Back to 'la plage'

I said in April that I'd be back to northern France for more sand, sea and space. I managed four days this time, again staying in Stella-Plage, about half an hour from Boulogne. It's a simple and stunning combination. Big beaches, big skies, big spaces and the sea. The village itself is struggling with a lack of bars and restaurants compared to its neighbours, Le Touquet and Merlimont. But it can't be beaten for its natural coastal splendour.  Here's another batch of images that aim to capture the sea, sky and space, and the easy pleasures of those who spend their time there.

The humble bench (Siciliano)

I always seem to end up taking photos of benches, often on the coast. They provide good foreground. Solid, clean lines to help structure an image. But there's more to it than that. An occupied bench offers a story: a group chatting; a lone person thinking; a couple sat in close comfort; or strangers just sharing time and space. An empty bench invites you and asks who would you want to sit there: friends; a loved one; a lost one; someone to laugh or cry with.  

I was in Cefalù in Sicily this summer and got carried away with the great setting of the town, right on the shoreline. The beach gets crowded, as much with parasols as people. But the molo (cobb) provides more space and gives the best view, with the town's imposing rocky crag - La Rocca - sat behind. And there's a line of benches. A bench needs a good setting; and a good setting needs a bench. Sit back and ponder.

Blazing June, Windsor Great Park

A mid-morning dog walk in the area of Windsor Great Park closest to my home. An easy couple of hours ambling about in the sunshine. Just looking around. At the trees, the grasses, wild flowers, the sky. Just great. An area of meadow was being cut back by a lone tractor. A few walkers, runners and riders completed the blazing June scene. Enough said.

Bolton Town

I go back 'home' to Bolton a half dozen times or so a year to see family. I grew up from the age of nine on the north-eastern edge of town, close to the West Pennine Moors. It's a sweet spot and, on a bright day, a bit of heaven. On wet days you think a lot about things you might do on a bright day. You don't want to be unprepared.  I left in instalments: college; first proper job; marriage and buying a home. All somewhere else. Despite the regular visits and a lifelong sense of 'connection', I have largely lost touch with the town's reality beyond our locality and its surrounds. On my latest trip I had a few more days, so went on a wander around to see the town centre again, up close and personal. A great few hours.

The Bolton I knew as a boy and younger adult was bright and busy, even boastful, despite the wider economic malaises of the 70s and 80s. It was a jewel. It punched above its weight. Smart, fine spaces and architecture, and lots of shops and people. It's still strong looking and very attractive. But so many of the shops have now gone. Some large and once mighty; others small and once solid. The number of empty premises is striking. Of course, many towns have closed-down shops, boarded-up and waiting. But too many of them can unravel the fabric and viability of town centres as people stay away and spending increasingly flies elsewhere. There are many reasons: incomes; spending online and out-of-town, or in re-born Manchester and thriving Bury; prohibitive rents and leases; and past planning and development decisions. It may get worse as the once regal M&S asks 'should we stay or should we go'.  But it might also get better. There are some good things happening and in the pipeline. Areas of the town have recently been improved and last year a £1 billion 'masterplan' to re-develop the town centre was announced. There's too much empty space for retail to be king again in an Amazon age. The future has to be different to the past. Getting more people back into the town centre, to live, work or play, is crucial to stopping the 'emptying' process. More residential, more open spaces, not just new shops and cafes that then leave others empty. A virtuous cycle can potentially kick-in and, who knows, the shops and others will come again. Bolton's plan starts with the re-development of the old bus station, sat derelict since last year when a new bus terminal was opened. This will include a large number of new homes right in the centre of town. The broader plans are certainly ambitious. I hope these photos on a sunny afternoon show the beauty and brilliance of Bolton alongside some of its present realities. 

When you need some space

Lytham St. Annes sits on the Lancashire coast, a few miles south of mighty, ballsy Blackpool. I was there with my mum for an afternoon on a glorious day last week. It was a real scorcher. There was a scattering of people and a lot of sand. I think I saw the sea. It was that far out, the glistening in the distance might have been a mirage in the desert sand. I think I saw Peter O'Toole on a camel at one point. The pier sits on dry land for much of the time, rarely getting its feet wet. Just an occasional paddle. The end of the pier is no longer at the end of the pier. Or perhaps the end of the pier is beyond the end of the pier. A section sits isolated fifty or so metres from the main surviving structure. It makes for a fine sight. I do like a good pier, past its prime and clinging on, majestic in age and stance. If you just need a bit of space, the beach provides it in buckets and spades. You can look and wander and wonder, at least for a hour or two. Be aware, it's considered rude to sit within ten metres of someone else.

A Right Royal Caper

There's lots of presence and preparation in Windsor, Berkshire at the moment ahead of Saturday's royal wedding. The town will be impenetrable, a no-go zone, on the day and, in any case, I'll be watching the cup final. So I've been wandering about taking photos of the streets over the past few days. People, both locals and visitors, are ambling, shopping, eating and drinking. Normal stuff but with the addition of numerous police, media crews, vehicles, cordons and barriers.  A lively mix of coming and going, and a growing sense of readiness. The American TV presenters stand out a country mile. Over buffed and 'over here', to adapt a wartime phrase. The police do a fine line in friendly chat while being heavily armed. If you like men and women in uniform, come on down. I did wonder whether I should be taking 'shots' of them, crouching down with a small black device in fading light. But it all seems good humoured enough. Well, it is a wedding. Let's hope there's a nice 'spread' for the armies of people involved in the event. It's not my usual stuff but I thought I'd share a few photos on here. I'll update the post if I get in amongst it again. Come on Man U. 

A few more shots taken on Friday. A Windsor 'ramblas' down the Long Walk, around the castle and town, the day before the big event. Lots of people, coIour and life. I opted to watch the wedding on the tele. 'Didn't they do well!'  But alas not Man U.

A spot of south Devon

I spent a few days in south Devon recently, around and about Paignton, Brixham,  Salcombe and Hope. A great stretch of coast - rocky shores and sandy coves below green clifftops, between coastal towns and villages. A highlight for me was Brixham. I was there as a toddler in the mid-1960s, staying at the holiday camp. My only memories are the family photos. Blue seas, deck chairs, men in white vests, and my gran's leg in plaster. I called my mum from the harbour. "You'll never guess where I am?" She immediately told me to keep my eyes 'peeled' for her engagement ring, which had been lost somewhere on the grassy clifftop above the town. It was a familiar family story but I'd forgotten it had happened in Brixham. The harbour is busy and full. Some seventy fishing boats operate from here and it reckons to be the biggest in England in value terms. Another highlight was Hope Cove, a small village around the headland from Salcombe  It's split into Inner Hope and Outer Hope, which I like as a distinction of both its space and more general being. It's a lovely spot. I managed a few sunset photos there after watching Man U beat City 3-2 in a bar overlooking the cove and waves. It was one of those 'it doesn't get much better than this' moments. The south-west coastal path provided some of the best open views. The sun came out for the trek from East Portlemouth - across the water from Salcombe - to Gara Rock. A brief bit of tee-shirt weather in April watching the waves hitting the rocks. It doesn't get much better than that.

Thirty minutes on a beach

I managed a brief walk on the beach at Stella Plage in northern France on Easter Saturday morning after a quick stopover before heading off to visit family in Chartres. After a brief gander, my daughters retreated to the car demanding I was quick. This is one of the best stretches of uninterrupted sand I know. Just sky, sea, beach and dunes. They all blend into great scenes. On this day the clouds seemed to mimic the waves and tumble into the sea. Even the German war bunkers daubed in more recent graffiti become part of, and add to, the landscape as the sand slowly consumes them. It was short and sweet apart from the stroppy phone call to complain how long I'd been. I'll be back in the summer for more. 

Dead Wood Standing

The trees define Windsor Great Park more than anything else. Some are dead, lying shattered in whole or part after storms. The hurricane storm of October 1987 hit the park badly as it did many places. An estimated 15 million trees fell in Britain. Some remain fallen in the park, slowly rotting and home to new life. But it's the dead trees still standing that always catch my eye. They are majestic. Solid and still. Natural statues that look spectacular against the sky when the sun is lowering. Their uncluttered branches twist and turn. Rooted in life but now reaching for something else. I photographed them a few years ago but, looking back, the shots weren't right. Here's the latest effort taken earlier in March before the snow. If you look closely, the fourth (colour) and seventh (b/w) have a snapped branch that hasn't yet made it to the ground. Instead it's lodged precariously on the branch below, wobbly, out-of-synch, in temporary residence. I like the odd form of it. 

White Windsor

A white and grey March day in Windsor Great Park and around the castle after the second bout of snow this month. The park is always magical and the trees are a favourite in all seasons. After trudging through mud over recent weeks, I couldn't resist going out early after Saturday night's snowfall. Snowy scenes are picturesque but on a dull day there can be a lack of colour and contrast. So composition has to do more of the work while using black and white deals with the lack of natural colour. 

The castle on the other hand is a different matter for me. I've lived in the town for over two decades but never photographed it before other than the odd snaps years ago when family visited. It hasn't interested me that much or perhaps I had a block. Too big; too grand; too familiar; and just too photographed.  It's impressive as a royal fortress and palace - so it should be - but not easy to photograph interestingly. That's been niggling me a bit of late. So with the extra ingredient of the snow to play with, I took a detour from the park and gave it a go. Just a few shots from the high street side. I'll have another wander around later in the Spring when the sun's out. I might even venture inside. 

Beasts in the park

A winter walk in Windsor Great Park on Saturday, I came across these beasts in oak. I made the schoolboy error of having very little battery left in the camera but I managed a few shots. The 'Stag' looks heroic; the fallen 'Octopus' is menacing; and the 'Gruffalo' seems bemused. I'll try to get back there soon fully-charged. 

Brighton's West Pier

I took a few more shots of Brighton's West Pier in February 2018. It was even more evocative to be in Brighton as I was there to see Paul Weller  - a first for me despite nearly forty years of listening. His music keeps moving on but this beast of ironwork is slowly dying. It visibly creeks and groans in silence, and gives a bit more of itself to each winter storm. Yet it is splendid and stunning, sitting detached and isolated from the shore and seemingly proud of its independence and retirement. It's been closed since 1975 and was ravaged by fire in 2003. More of the structure has collapsed of late and what remains looks more vulnerable. But this ageing and deteriorating statue will stand a while yet. You almost get the sense it will go at a time of its own choosing. I will be back to see it again, and perhaps Paul Weller.