(click to enlarge)

These two pretty girls confronted me, as I entered their field near the hamlet of Foolow in Derbyshire one recent afternoon, to photograph the picturesque tree in the background.

They seemed to think I was there to feed them, as they immediately stood directly in front of me, staring  at me fixedly. Within a few minutes, I was surrounded by a herd of about twenty cattle: all immobile, all staring.

As I was raised in rural Ireland, I am accustomed to being around cattle, so I was not cowed (terrible pun intended) by their behaviour.

The least I could do was take their photo. However, as I had only my infrared camera with me, it turned into this rather otherworldly-looking image.

After about five minutes of our standing staring at each other like this, I pushed past them to get to the tree in the background, which was the real object of my attention.

As I kneeled down to get a low angle from which to shoot the tree, the cattle made a close circle around me, standing no more than five or six feet from me, as I set up my gear.

It was unnerving to feel their presence encircling me, their hot breath against the back of my neck as I worked. I had to shoo a few of them away repeatedly to get them out of the frame.

After about fifteen minutes, probably when they realized that I wasn’t going to feed them, they lost interest in me, which allowed me to get an unobstructed view of the tree and to capture the second image.

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That Abandoned Feeling…

I happened upon this abandoned barn while driving alone through the countryside of Derbyshire in June.

I don’t remember where it was: somewhere alongside one of the many roadsides that I traversed in my six-day visit to the Peak District. I spent those days driving alone, aimlessly, following my nose, my instinct, turning left or right as the notion took me, in a trance.

I photographed the barn in infrared at 590nm and processed it as faux colour. Usually, as the final stage of post-processing, I convert such images to black and white but, in this case, I kept it as faux color. I liked the range of yellow tones and flecks of red in the clouds; the colour elements seem to combine to bring out the pathos of the place.

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The Barn at Wildboarclough

The famous barn at Wildboarclough in the Peak District of England (click to enlarge)

For a couple of years now, I’ve been admiring photos of this pretty little stone barn in the Peak District Photography Group on Facebook and hoping to have an opportunity to photograph it myself one day.

That opportunity came during my six-day solo photography tour of the Peak District in June.

The barn sits a few hundred yards on the north side of the A54 road that crosses the high, desolate moorland between Buxton and Macclesfield in east Cheshire, not far from the famous Cat and Fiddle Inn (see location map, below).

On the afternoon when I visited, the sky was dark and gloomy with heavy cloud cover and a blustery wind that threatened to bring rain at any moment.

As the light was flat and uninteresting, I knew that colour photography would produce drab images, so I decided to photograph the barn in infrared. Because infrared photography requires direct sunlight for best results, I was faced with long pauses of thirty minutes or more between exposures, while I waited for the clouds to break and a shaft of sunlight to illuminate the land. This happened only a handful of times during the four hours or so that I was there, allowing me to capture these two images.

The barn shot from the roadside on the A54.

It was a pretty lonely and depressing experience to be up on that bleak, windswept moor on my own for four hours. I would have traipsed off back to my hotel in low spirits had it not been for the fact that, just as I was packing up my gear to leave at about 6 o’clock, a strikingly glamourous female fell runner came bounding over the moorland, accompanied by her dog, a loose-limbed, gangly German shepherd puppy.

Improbably, given the chilly, swirling wind, she was wearing the type of women’s athletic gear that amounts to little more than a bikini, her bare midriff showing off her impressively toned body. I held open a gate to allow her to run through without stopping and, in response, she rewarded me with a cheery smile and shouted “thanks”. I was quite taken aback by the incongruity of encountering such an attractive woman running alone in this bleak, lonely landscape.

Had I been thirty years younger, I might have run after her…


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The Staden Barns

It’s been almost a year since I made any kind of serious attempt at taking a photograph. During that time, neither my head nor my heart has really been in it. In the past few weeks, I have been trying to feel my way back into photography, albeit cautiously.

Last month, I spent six days driving alone through the Peak District of England, exploring the area and looking for subjects to photograph.

Among the most elegant subjects I discovered were these two old stone barns, called the Staden Barns, outside the town of Hartington in Derbyshire.

Straddling a narrow country lane lined by dry stone walls, it took a lot of searching and a long, arduous hike to locate these beautiful barns. I finally found them high in the hills south-east of the town. They were worth both the search and the hike.

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Saint Vincent

Saint Vincent is one of the lesser visited of the Windward Islands in the southern Caribbean, mainly because its beaches are black, formed from volcanic lava, not the white sand beaches that attract so many tourists to neighbouring islands.

A “Vincy”, as the locals call themselves, told me, “The further you go from the volcano, the whiter the beaches.”

The volcano is La Soufriere, whose periodic eruptions, the most recent of which happened in 1979, have shaped the island’s history and economy as far back as the 17th century.

While the white sand beaches of Barbados, 110 miles to the east, attract a million tourists each year, Saint Vincent attracts only a fifth of that number.

The upside of this fact is that, driving around the island’s coast recently, I stumbled across many deserted beaches, some of which, like the one in the second image, are unreachable from the road and look as if no-one has ever walked on them.

Even in the coastal towns that I passed through, all I would see were a few local children playing on the beach or jumping off concrete piers into the water.

By contrast with the pristine beauty of the remote beaches, the urban beaches were strewn with litter. It seems that, without the need to please tourists, the locals feel no motivation to keep their beaches clean.

Heading northwest out of the capital, Kingstown, I drove as far as I could up the west coast until the paved road ran out at a small town called Richmond.

After turning around and heading back down the same coast (there are no roads crossing the island, either north-south or east-west), I passed through Kingstown again, then drove north all the way up the east coast until the road again ran out at a remote northern hamlet called Fancy.

There was nothing fancy about it.

In the small, westcoast town of Layou (next image), the beach is dominated by a huge, rusted barge. I initially assumed that this behemoth had been abandoned there but subsequently learned that it is occasionally pulled out to sea by a tugboat, hauling rock, hewn from the island’s mountainous interior, to construction sites on neighbouring islands.

And so it was up and down the island’s west and east coasts: pristine, unreachable beaches, interspersed with small towns whose beaches were littered with trash or the detritus of basic industry.

On the west coast, the town names are French (Barrouaille, Chateaubelair) while, on the east coast, English names (Argyle, Georgetown) dominate, testimony to the number of times the island has changed hands between French and British occupiers from the early 17th century until the late 20th century.


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Walking the Streets of Buenos Aires

I spent a recent Saturday afternoon walking the streets of Buenos Aires with my friend Steve and our guide Amelia, a locally-based photographer whom we had hired for the day to show us around the city and help us find places worth photographing.

In this my first visit to Buenos Aires, I have to say I really liked the city. It reminded me of Paris when I first visited there as a young man in the mid-1970s, when Paris was still beautiful.

Buenos Aires is a European city stuck way down at the bottom of the South Atlantic Ocean. So many aspects of the city reminded me of old Europe. The architecture is French, the cafe society Italian.  The people are stylish and well-dressed and spend their time seeing and being seen.

Just like the French.

And the Italians.

Life in the city is chaotic, helter-skelter and not always elegant. The sideways are covered in dog shit – just like Paris! – because the Argentinians are too haughty to stoop to pick up their own dogs’ mess.

Street markets are a common facet of city life. People selling clothes, kitchen utensils and roasted peanuts, the warm, reddish smell of which seemed to envelope my head and induce olfactory orgasms on every street corner.

While I excluded people from the photos I took, as is my preference, there are lots of traces of human activity in all these photos.

Like seemingly all South Americans, the Argentinians love their cars and they are everywhere. While most are sleek and stylish, I found a few quirkier ones that said a lot about their owners: an old black Peugeot, parked on its own under an awning on a vacant lot, and a bright green Citroen 2CV, which looked incongruous parked beneath the imposing columns of the Faculty of Engineering of the University of Buenos Aires.

I even found a pickup truck, parked in front of what looked like a disused cinema.

Buenos Aires is a very walkable city. We were out and about from 8:00 in the morning until gone 3:00 in the afternoon and, other than talking a taxi from the port area to downtown, walked everywhere.

Most of the time, I felt perfectly safe. There was only only one unpleasant incident when a group of guys sprayed some foul-smelling liquid on us, after we had walked past them on the street. At first, I thought we had been hit by pigeons overhead but it seems that was not the case. As we stopped to clean off our clothes and backpacks, the guys hovered around us, apparently hoping that we would put a bag down for a moment, at which point they planned to grab it and run off. Happily, we didn’t fall for their scheme but the incident did leave an unpleasant aftertaste, not to mention that we stank for the remainder of the day from whatever they sprayed on us.

As you may have read on the “About” page of this website, I like to try to show the familiar in an unfamiliar way in my photos and that was certainly what I was doing while walking the streets of Buenos Aires. I’d like to think I achieved it with the lead image of a dog sitting in front of a metal statue, with the shadow of bare, winter tree falling over both figures. This is just the kind of quirky vignette of daily life that I love to find. But, while I don’t usually do touristy photos, I broke my own rule just to be able to show you what a pretty city Buenos Aires really is.

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“Wings of Fancy”

A week ago, my photography friend Linda kindly invited me to go with her to the “Wings of Fancy” butterfly exhibit at Brookside Gardens in Wheaton, Maryland.

For two hours from 8:00am until 10:00am, when the public was admitted, about a dozen photographers were left alone inside a large, flower-filled conservatory with hundreds, maybe thousands, of butterflies: a rare privilege.

While the butterflies were undoubtedly beautiful and enchanting to watch, as they flitted from flower to bush, they were maddeningly difficult to photograph because of their constant, erratic motion.

As a slow-working, methodical landscape photographer, I simply don’t have the speed of reaction to make the many decisions and adjustments to my camera controls that are necessary to capture great photographs of fast-moving butterflies.

Unsure of what to do, I first hit upon the strategy of stalking individual butterflies around the conservatory from one plant to another, hoping to catch one in a perfect pose on a pretty flower. At first, I stalked an orange one, hoping it might land on a blue flower, willing it to enter the perfect colour theory composition that I envisaged in my head. That didn’t work.

Next, I decided to kneel by an individual flower, focus my camera on it and wait for an unsuspecting creature to land on it. I must have wasted a good 15 minutes on this ill-judged approach.

Finally, Linda took pity on me and pointed out that the best approach, and the one being employed by all the other photographers in the room, was to prowl around the various flowers and bushes, carefully examining them for a butterfly that had come to rest. This approach worked better than the others.

The next set of decisions I was faced with had to do with lens choice and whether to shoot on a tripod or hand-held. My camera is always on a tripod. I hate hand-holding my camera because it makes precise control over composition nearly impossible. So, I started off shooting with a 70-200mm lens on tripod-mounted camera but it quickly because apparent that this approach slowed me down so much I was unable to keep up with such fast-moving subjects. I then switched to a 105mm macro lens and hand-holding the camera, which at least enabled me to keep up with and get closer to a few subjects, though it did, predictably, lead to a whole host of other technical challenges.

Despite the newness of this photographic challenge, I stuck resolutely to my established method of using my camera in Manual mode, selecting aperture, shutter speed and ISO settings myself and adjusting them for each shot, as I judged necessary. The hardest choice in every case was that of the aperture. What little I know about butterfly photography tells me that a successful image demands perfect sharpness in the head and throughout the wings. To achieve this, I was working mostly in the f8 to f11 range but, with the subject’s wings in constant motion, even that wasn’t enough to guarantee sharpness in many cases because of motion blur.

Over the course of two hours, I shot about 150 images, of which fewer than 10 are usable.

I can’t wait to get back to landscape photography.


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Longwood Lilies

Last weekend, I was so enthused by seeing a magnificent image of a water lily taken by John Barclay at Longwood Gardens in Kennett Square, Pennsylvania, that I jumped in my car at 6:30 on Monday morning and made the two-hour, 120-mile drive to Longwood to photograph the lilies myself.

Of course, I should have realized that, when an amateur photographer tries to emulate the work of a top professional, it is bound to end in disappointment.

As John lives close to Longwood Gardens, he was able to pick an overcast day with light drizzle to create his images, so that the lilies were covered in a light coating of tiny raindrops and their colours were saturated and luscious: perfect flower photography weather.

By contrast, when I rolled up a Longwood, despite a “partly cloudy” weather forecast, I was met by bright sunshine with not a cloud in the sky and a blustery wind that constantly shook the delicate blossoms: possibly the worst conditions for flower photography.

It is often said that local photographers, those who live closest to a given location, always capture the best images of a given subject because they can pick when to shoot it: the time of day, time of year, weather conditions. I suppose my two-hour drive up to Pennsylvania illustrated that truth.

From when the Gardens opened at 9:00am, I spent most of the first two hours sitting indoors hoping that some clouds might roll in. Eventually, at around 11:00am, some scattered clouds crossed over the gardens and, with a lot of patience and by carefully picking my moment when to trip the shutter, I was able to capture a few images when the lilies were still and in shade.

After spending three hours at Longwood and arriving home at four in the afternoon, these five images were the only ones I managed to salvage from a long, tiring day.

Next time, I’ll think twice before thinking that I can easily replicate the work of a professional photographer who lives on Longwood’s doorstep.


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Kenilworth Aquatic Gardens 2017

This morning, I made my annual summer visit to Kenilworth Aquatic Gardens in northeast Washington, D.C.

The gardens are an extraordinary place, a haven of unmatched beauty in the middle of one the roughest neighbourhoods in Washington. Outside the gardens, the low, redbrick houses are dilapidated, the streets strewn with discarded beer cans and plastic bags. It’s not the sort of place where most of the DC area photographers I know would normally venture but, each July, we make the trek up to the northeast corner of the city to photograph the thousands of lotuses that briefly bloom in Kenilworth’s extensive lotus ponds.

Flower photography was my first love when I took up digital photography seriously about seven years ago. Although I have been doing mostly travel photography lately, it is always a pleasurable feeling to return to my first love.

Every time I try my hand at flower photography, I contemplate the words of two of the greatest exponents of the art: Joshua Taylor Jr. and Mike Moats. Josh always says that there are only two times to photograph a flower: when it’s at its pristine best or when it’s withered and atrophied. And, if you’re attempting the former, you have to look for the most perfect specimen in the garden, the one flower that seems to jump out at you and shout, “Hey! Photograph me!”

Mike’s advice is to look for what he calls the “Lady Gaga flower”, the one that’s weird and flamboyant and doesn’t look like any of the others. I didn’t find any Lady Gaga flowers this morning but I did spot a few lotuses that were at their peak, so I followed Josh’s advice.

The principal challenge of photographing the lotuses at Kenilworth is finding order in the midst of chaos. It takes patience to spot pleasing compositions when the lotus beds are teaming with flowers in different stages of bud, bloom or decay; plus, of course, the green foliage that supports the flowers is massive and often impedes clean compositions. In the above image, I noticed that the way the light was reflecting off the outer rim of the pad was creating a circle of light, so I positioned the lotus bulb in the centre of the light circle as a way of framing the subject. This is the classic “frame within a frame” compositional device, so beloved by photographers.

Other than that, the compositions I found this morning were mostly simple portraits of the flowers. I’m fine with that. In flower photography, it takes a while a re-train the eye, once you’ve been away from it for a while, to seek out more complex compositions. I may go back to Kenilworth next weekend and challenge myself to do so.


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La Recoleta Cemetery

On a recent trip to Buenos Aires, I had the good fortune to spend two afternoons in the imposing La Recoleta Cemetery, the final resting place of Argentina’s great and good for the past two centuries, since it opened in 1822.

Interred here are almost all of the legendary figures of Argentina’s past, most notably Eva Peron. Her tomb, in the Duarte family mausoleum, is surprisingly modest. While many of the tombs have open panels or glass panes, allowing one to look inside and see the coffins, Eva’s tomb is sealed. Indeed, she is buried two floors below ground level, fifteen feet down, under two heavy slabs of marble, in order to forestall the possibility that some unreformed Peronist might exhume her remains and, with them, her still-powerful political legacy.

Far more than a cemetery, La Recoleta is an architectural marvel, containing some 6,400 elaborate mausoleums, monuments and statues. Some of the mausoleums are as large as churches, while others resemble Gothic chapels or Roman statuary. It is no surprise, therefore, that CNN lists La Recoleta as one of the ten most beautiful cemeteries in the world.

Resting here are the remains of several Presidents, high-ranking military officers, sportsmen, artists, musicians, poets, scientists, two Nobel laureates and an illegitimate granddaughter of Napoleon Bonaparte, Isabel Walewski Colonna. There is even an Irishman: William “Guillermo” Brown, born in Foxford, County Mayo in 1777, founded the Argentine Navy and was its first Admiral. He fought in the Argentine War of Independence in 1810-1818 and is still revered as a national hero. His mausoleum is made of the melted-down bronze of canons from ships he once commanded and painted green in honour of his country of birth.

Another notable occupant is Luis Angel Firpo (1894 – 1960), nicknamed The Wild Bull of the Pampas, a professional boxer who became the first South American ever to fight for the world heavyweight title. He fought the great American world champion Jack Dempsey in New York in 1923. Firpo was knocked down seven times in the first round alone but, in the second, he trapped Dempsey on the ropes and hit him with a punch so powerful that it knocked the champion clean out of the ring. While millions of South Americans, huddled around their radios, had already begun celebrating their first world heavyweight champion, Dempsey climbed back into the ring and knocked Firpo out in the same round. Boxing historians have described Dempsey versus Firpo as the greatest fight in the sport’s history. Today, Firpo stands tall, handsome and unbowed in La Recoleta, his boxer’s boots neatly laced up, his open dressing gown exposing his muscular chest; the sporting hero of an entire continent.

Each grave in La Recoleta is adorned by plaques, made of bronze, stone or slate, inscribed with the homage of loved ones, former colleagues, employees or simply devotees of the heroes buried within. One of the most touching, written by a wife to her late husband who died in 1914, read, “Luis, my love. Thank you for having loved me so. May Almighty God put light and peace in your repose.” (I have translated the inscription from the Spanish.) She joined her husband in his tomb in 1923.

The intricacy of the decoration of many of the mausoleums is evidence to the extraordinary level of craftsmanship that went into their construction. Now that decades or, in some cases, centuries have passed since they were completed, many of the fixtures have rusted. To a photographer, this just adds to their charm, of course.

Although I spent a total of about six hours in La Recoleta over the course of two visits, I felt that I had only scratched the surface of what it offers the photographer. Indeed, I took relatively few photos, as I spent most of my time in awe-filled study of the inscriptions on the plaques, so intrigued was I by the life stories of the cemetery’s many accomplished inhabitants: men who led armies into victorious battles, conquering huge swathes of territory and building a nation in the process; a woman who, without ever holding political office, inspired a powerful nation by sheer force of her charisma.

It was a humbling experience to stand there surrounded by the remains of people who achieved so much in their lives, by so many heroes, by people whose achievements in their lifetimes live on centuries after their passing. While my first impression of the mausoleums was that they were excessive, upon reflection and having researched the lives of several of their inhabitants, I concluded that they are entirely appropriate to memorialize people who achieved so much in their brief time on earth.


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