Walthamstow Central rail station, February 2009, when a cold snap shut down most of London for a couple of days.
At the Gorges de Pennafort, Provence, we made camp (unwittingly) in the path of some huge but otherwise harmless ants. Relaxing in the company of these creatures is impossible — their industriousness is of truly biblical proportions:
Continue reading “Go to the ant…”
To our boys in SA. You are supported…
Pride 2006 took place on the day following England’s unfortunate defeat, and whether the flags were being waved ironically or in a spirit of consolation can only be inferred from facial expressions…
This image was shot using a Nikon D200 and an 18-200mm VR lens. Look hard enough and you’ll see some weird distortion on the image. If I didn’t think there was something weirdly cool about it, I’d photoshop it out.
View of the terracotta-tiled roofs of the city from the belfort, or medieval belfry, Bruges.
Bruges is a strangely sinister little town, with deep houses and twitching net curtains.
As the sun sets, shadows lengthen and night begins to fall, a strong sense of the gothic creeps across the town.
As a child, I was terrified of spiders. Photographing them has helped with this, and even though I’ll probably never get to the point where I’d let a tarantula take a walk across my face, I can comfortably catch one with a glass and piece of card and liberate it in the back yard, rather than yelling for help.
This photo was taken on a bridge in Bruges, the spider silhouetted against a distant traffic light.
For those of you who watch Heroes, Ventimiglia will be an Italo-American, all-flying, all-teleporting, multi-purpose dreamboat called Milo, who sports a razor-sharp jaw and flawless skin. For the rest of you, it’s a one-horse town on the Franco-Italian border that, at some point in history, lost its horse.
Friday morning and early afternoon are best spent ambling through the town’s weekly market, which sprawls along the promenade, its myriad stalls selling wares that range from good quality, inexpensive and delicious food: cheeses, oils, olives, and dried meats; to outrageously naff designer rip-offs; handbags, belts, sunglasses, bling, blang, best ignored – you could end up arrested for selling contraband at the French border.
Trains return to France infrequently after 3pm, and we found ourselves stranded until 11pm after an evening spent trudging around in search of a decent restaurant by the bay (on a Friday night!)
My mother and I were reduced, for nearly two hours, to sipping (delicious) red wine, in near silence, at a tiny café opposite the town’s cinema. Near silence, for those of you who know my mother, is rare, but we were rendered speechless by the tangible sense of inertia that seemed to hang, like dustsheets in an abandoned house, softly over the town.
So watch Heroes, stick to Milo, and give the town a miss.
The Échaudé takes its name from the French and means, literally, “scalded”. Hurled briefly into boiling water before being chucked into a hot oven, this Easter speciality (hence the awful pun) hales from the Middle Ages, in whose times unlucky humans were wont to suffer a similar fate.
These were baked and photographed at La Capeline, Place Centrale, Vieux Nice, but can be found in most ancient Provençal towns, of which there are many.