Down By The Riverside


As a ten or eleven year old in the mid 1960s, I had far more freedom than parents these days would allow their kids. With a couple of school pals, I’d regularly splash most of my pocket money out on a London Transport “Red Rover” ticket, and take a couple of buses from south east London up to the centre of “Town”. For me, the best free show to be had was the National Gallery.

I don’t remember having a favourite painting back then, or even a favourite artist, but there was stuff, like Titian and other Masters, I stood before trying to work out what the heck was going on. Something like the work of John Constable was rather more accessible. I could readily grasp scenes of woodland and rivers, and in my daydreams I used to think myself into them. I was well-satisfied with a book on Constable for my eleventh Christmas. It had literally fallen apart a few years later.

Influences like that, when you’re that age, have a habit of lingering . Maybe they didn’t surface in art at school, because of the guy mentioned early on in this blog , but they were always there or thereabouts when I was out photographing landscapes for my own pleasure. They seem to have resurfaced quite strongly in more recent years. Maybe it’s a “second childhood” thing?

I’ve also concluded that stuff like that is seldom a piece of conscious thought at the moment it strikes. It’s far more subliminal than that – or at least it is with me. It also happens too often to be dismissed as “mere coincidence”. However, I do have moments when, like an itch I can’t seem to scratch, I point the camera at something that reminds me of something else that I can’t quite put my finger on. And just occasionally there is the sheer delight of coming across a scene that immediately hits me like a flashback.

This is a visual thing, so an example might help make these ramblings clearer.

I had a phase a few years back of quite liking mid 20th century American art, including some fairly esoteric artists like the “magic realist” John Rogers Cox. Recently, I saw on social media his 1942 piece “Gray & Gold”. This:


When I’d first seen that, in a book, I was taken by the huge detail in it, perhaps unusual for a painter of that genre. Seeing it posted on Twitter, not that long after I’d been out on the North Downs in Kent this summer, was a strange experience, because while there, I’d shot this:



Now, when I took that photo, nothing, absolutely nothing, in my head said “Hey, this looks just like a John Rogers Cox”. It was the appearance of the Cox work on Twitter that provided the trigger. Coincidence? Subliminal brain activity? Who knows which, or whether those two are actually even different experiences?

I’ve blogged before about my “inner John Constable” occasionally coming to the surface. Being in the right place at the right time might indeed just be coincidence, except that it seems to be a bit more common than might be dismissed in that way. I had been pleased to discover that, in 1803, Constable had sketched battleships on the River Medway at Chatham . During my few years of wanderings that eventually led to my new exhibition “Watching the River Flow”  , I’d often wondered if Constable had ventured any further upstream? There’s no evidence at all that he did, but I’d begun wondering what he’d have made of some of the scenes I’d been photographing?

Psychologists and others recognise part of the human subconscious known as the reticular activating system .  It’s believed to be responsible for heightened awareness and those “deja vu” moments. It’s my best guess for the influence that occasionally shows me views along the Medway that I’d like to think Constable might have painted. Had he ever visited, of course.

That’s where the image at the head of this blog comes in, of course. I shot it on a completely unprepossessing, damp September day a few weeks ago, when I came across the Environment Agency guys tidying up fallen trees on the Medway riverbank near Barming Bridge. As an image, it presented itself pretty much fully formed. I don’t use Photoshop, and a tweak to the saturation of the colour is the most this has had. It was, of course, immediately added to the collection for the exhibition, and you can see it there from 1 to 29 November.

End of extended advert!

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You Don’t Know What You’ve Got ’til It’s Gone…


For reasons I don’t need to go into here, so I won’t, I’ve had a bit of a hard time of it in the last few weeks. Depression is a bastard. Anyhow, I gave myself permission to go out today with a couple of cameras, along “my” stretch of the River Medway not far from home, in the hope that, as so many times before, it would spread its calming influence on me.

Given that I’ve been photographing this area regularly for about five years, it surprised me to find that my records showed it was over six weeks since my last visit to anywhere along the six miles or so that make up “my patch”. I’m usually away from home during much of September, though not this year. As a result, I was seeing familiar sights as I’d never quite viewed them before – summer’s green just fading, but no sign of autumn, nor of autumn’s clear air. Everything felt heavy and impenetrable. The sky was mostly grey, with just occasional character, and the sun was just failing to push through. Had I not felt that I needed this outing, the conditions wouldn’t have tempted me out.

The one thing in the day’s favour was the stillness in that heavy air. Reflections were perfect in the calm, and I made for a spot that must by now have become familiar to readers of this blog. I’ve unashamedly used elements from it on several occasions. One shot taken there is also the principal motif for my upcoming exhibition. Another, from early spring, is the header photo to this current blog. However, I was in for an unexpected shock.

My favourite spot had simply gone. That’s right – gone. It was a little promontory right at water level, prone to becoming a bit overgrown and muddy, occasionally used by anglers and frequently by me. Some work had been undertaken to clear the luxuriance of nettles, hogweed and other nasties away from parts of the river path hereabouts, and I needed to bash a way through a few yards of overgrowth to try to find the tiny path to the spot. Yet suddenly, there was nothing. Just water where it hadn’t been on the last time I visited. It seemed that the area I had grown to love – no more than a few square yards – had been submerged or washed away, even though the river was, if anything, below its normal level.

Only a few weeks ago, I’d been drafting some notes to accompany the photos in my exhibition. I’d lamented not having yet shot this spot with the perfect combination of still water, good sky and one of the local swans in the right place! I’d ended the note with the words “There will be other days…” Well, not now, there won’t.

I had a friend who frequently commented “Nothing’s for ever”, and at times it’s been a strangely consoling personal philosophy. It’s going to add just a touch of something (not even sure what yet) to my exhibition to know that this will make some of the images literally unrepeatable. In one sense, that always happens, because you can never recreate the moment you pressed the shutter, etc. Being literally unable to stand at the spot you used adds another dimension. It was such a great point to shoot from. Joni Mitchell’s words, from “Big Yellow Taxi” seem quite apt for this blog’s title.

All is going well, by the way, for my exhibition in November. I’ve taken delivery of fliers and posters for the show, printing is all finished, and framing is about to begin.

Here’s the flier. I hope you can pay a visit:



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A Picture Of You


Not much of a “landscape” theme to this blog this time, but I hope you like it.

A few years ago, when I think I had a reputation for ceaselessly hopping from one project to another, it would have amazed us all if I’d ever taken on anything you would regard as “long term”. Life was just too short!

Well, life is just as short, and there’s no one more surprised than me to find that I’ve now photographed Maidstone Parkrun on more than 60 occasions, and contributed 15,000 photos to the Maidstone Parkrun photo archive. Yes, there’s not a spare zero in that. The total really is more than fifteen thousand.

The origins of my relationship with Parkrun already goes back quite a way. I blogged about it here.  I didn’t need it to last long from a running perspective, but I turned my hand to photographing the event most Saturday mornings. I quickly found that the course and the people made it a very satisfying part of my photographic week. As a photographer, it’s been a chance to experiment and occasionally try out new kit and techniques. You’ll only find the successful ones on display, of course!

There’s huge potential in photographing something like 300 people running on an out-and-back route. For a start, I can shoot all of them twice if I’m so minded. One of my photographic preferences, when I’m not doing landscape work, is for quite tightly cropped shots. Slowly, I realised that I was gathering quite a nice collection of what I started calling “Parkrun Portraits”. Each week I seem to be adding a few to that particular archive. More even than that, I’ve begun to realise that there are parts of the Maidstone Parkrun route where light and background occasionally allow some portraiture in the classic “chiaroscuro” tradition! (I kid myself perhaps, though not a huge amount.)

I mentioned to someone recently that I was thinking about what to do with these photos, and received one of those compliments that hit me right out of the blue. “Ooh yes!” Sarah said. “Some of the ladies have started putting waterproof eyeliner and stuff on, so that they can look their best in your photos!” Bless you all. Fellas – what are you going to do to keep up?

Well, I’ve started taking soundings on where to go next with this stuff, and I’m very open to ideas. Everything I’ve done for Parkrun to date has been for free. There’s exhibition and sales potential in the portraits. These sort of things cost money, especially as, say, quality framed versions. The market for each photo might be quite limited too, I realise. However, it strikes me that in a world obsessed with stars and celebrities, we need to be showing more positive images of ordinary people of all ages, doing sport.

Do feel free to add a comment below if you have a reaction to this, or any ideas. And watch out for more. This is an itch I really do feel I need to scratch.

And yes, I’m easily old enough to recall the 1962 Joe Brown song from which this blog’s title is taken. Here’s a nice 2003 version .



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Red, Red Wine

Landscape from Radicofani 2

I like my wine.

I don’t drink a lot of it, but what I do drink is carefully chosen. A fair bit of my current collection at home (around 60 bottles) reflects places I’ve been to over the past few years. It’s predominantly red wine, though not exclusively. I don’t have room at home (or the money) to have a proper wine cellar. Like much in the house, where the wines are kept occasionally gets a bit disordered. I’m not organised enough to keep a proper wine book, so I try to keep in memory the stuff that needs drinking soon. However, as I found very recently, my memory’s clearly not what it was.

Winding the clock back nearly ten years would find us enjoying Christmas 2006 at the Palazzo Contucci, in the delightful Tuscan town of Montepulciano. It maybe wasn’t quite as grand as that might sound, but the Palazzo is right on Montepulciano’s Piazza Grande . It’s the only building there offering a self-contained apartment looking out of the piazza. It was also inexpensive and available, when as usual, we left our booking a bit late. I’ve included a photo here of the interior of our simple but elegant apartment, and a panorama of the Piazza Grande. Ours is the building with the red and white notice on the wall, to the right of shot.

Piazza Grande Montepulciano

Contucci 1

We travelled miles around Tuscany on that trip. I was still shooting film, and lugging a medium format Bronica and tripod with me, so I don’t perhaps have as many photos from then as would be the case if I went back nowadays. The main shot above is an intentionally “arty” shot of the landscape near Montepulciano early one frosty, but technicolour morning. One of the great things about visiting Tuscany at Christmas is that sunrise is at about 8am. Dawn starts are really quite painless, even allowing for the photographer’s head still pounding from the previous evening’s indulgences.

Our apartment had surprisingly poor cooking facilities – ok for Italian-style breakfasts, but in no way capable of managing a proper meal. We ate in the evening in a couple of great restaurants, even given that there were only about three in the town reliably open at that time of year. However, our adopted hang-out was the Caffe Poliziano in the main street of Montepulciano. It’s famed for its coffee and cakes, but does a good line in evening meals too. There are photos of it on Trip Advisor etc, but it doesn’t have its own web site, and we were there in the days before smartphones could capture every experience. Its daytime menu still includes “ciocalato calde con marajuana”. Presumably not quite the “wacky baccy” sort!

We visited it on Christmas Day and New Year’s Eve during our ten day stay, partly because anywhere else had been booked up long in advance by locals. As a parting gift we were given a bottle of Poliziano Vino Rosso 2003 for Chrismas and a 2005 for New Year. The wine had been our choice at nearly every meal we had there, and the family running the place were proud of its quality. The bottles were smothered in jackets and other laundry in our suitcases when we flew home. They mercifully arrived intact, having shared the journey with several bottles of the best Vino Nobile di Montepulciano, bought from the wonderful wine cellars of our Palazzo Contucci hosts  Quite how we pulled that off and stayed within our paltry Ryanair baggage allowance from Pisa to Stanstead I’ll never know!

The only wine book I do keep is of the labels off bottles we’ve enjoyed – providing they soak off successfully. Not all do. It was this book I reached for a while back when The Wine Show on tv featured the Poliziano Rosso (incidentally, about £15 a bottle from Amazon ) Neatly stored inside my book were the labels from the Contucci bottles from 2006, and several other great wines from other trips, including some that I’d forgotten about. I was puzzled neither of the Poliziano labels were in the book, but then, as I said, not all labels soak off.

Six weeks or so later, I was rummaging in the wine corner at home, trying to make room for a couple of indifferent bottles of white wine we’d received as gifts recently (note: I am not a Chardonnay fan!). Behind the cases and storage racks is the domain of dead spiders and the accumulation of the grot of years. Something clinked there as I moved a box. Taking my life in my hands, I reached behind, and pulled out a very dusty Poliziano Rosso di Montepulciano 2003! A second grope produced its sister bottle, the 2005! I was a bit stunned, both by the coincidence and the flood of memories that hit me pretty instantly.

There was panic too. Would it still be drinkable? Recommended shelf-life was just 3-5 years. This was Year 10! Nothing for it but to try. It would be the perfect accompaniment to the pork we were having that same evening. Despite being a 13.5% wine, it’s quite a “light” red, with an almost browny tinge in certain lights. I’d got a reasonably recent point of reference for the taste – we’d had a bottle, albeit a 2013, last Christmas Eve in a restaurant in Ghent, in Belgium.

Well, happy to say, it (we opened the 2003) was just about perfect. In fact, the half of the bottle we left for the following evening was even better. I guess I’ve now got two years maximum now in which not to lose the 2005 bottle, and to enjoy its delights. Won’t be that long, though.


(Incidentally, Poliziano was a Renaissance character, from the late 15th century. He features in several paintings in Florence I will have seen without making the connection. This is a short biography.

Salute! Cin-cin!

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“Red and Yellow and Green and Blue….”


I get to shoot some great events. The Events Team at the Heart of Kent Hospice, for whom I give my photographic support as a volunteer, always seem to be able to put on good stuff. Today was no exception. I got to be official photographer at the latest Heart of Kent Rainbow Run.

The Rainbow Run began in 2014. That year there were a number of others, including a big one at the Olympic Park. I wasn’t sure that it was something that would endure – after all, it’s not everyone’s idea of fun to go and run 5 kilometres while having all different colours of powder paint thrown at you! However, 2016 has seen the third Heart of Kent Rainbow Run. The three events to date have raised something like £50,000 or more for the Heart Of Kent Hospice.

The powder paint used at these kinds of events has been specially developed as non-toxic, washable, child-friendly, etc, etc. It’s probably suitable for vegans and safe to polar bears and penguins for all I know. The one thing it is definitely not friendly towards is cameras! In the first year of the Rainbow Run, when everything was a novelty to participants, a nice, clean cameraman, walking around in a hi-viz jacket, trying to photograph everyone else in their paint-covered splendour was something of a sitting target. I always managed to escape with self and camera more or less clean, but only just. When I shoot these things, I put the camera in a large, clear plastic bag, with an elastic band to seal the open end around the lens barrel. This means that as long as I’m careful to keep the UV filter that always protects the front lens element free of paint dust, all is well. It’s quite hard to see precisely what I’m shooting, as looking through the viewfinder means seeing through a) my glasses, and the film of paint dust they may have attracted, b) a layer of plastic bag and c) the glass of the viewfinder on the camera. It’s equally hard to review shots on the rear LCD. However, by trusting the autofocus mechanism, probably more than 80% of the shots I get are usable.

There was a light and surprisingly variable breeze blowing at this year’s Rainbow Run. Whereas previously it was fairly easy to stay “upwind” of the worst of the clouds of paint dust, this time, it variously hung in the air and swirled around. There was also a new innovation in the finish in straight to the run – “The Rainbow Zone”. Last year, there had been a view that rather too many runners had finished the event looking a bit too clean. This year, there was a team specially placed fifty metres from the finish line, and armed with huge amounts of all of the colours of powder paint. Their specific task was to ensure no one got through colour-free! It was a task they performed with gusto. I stayed as far back as I could, but with the lens I was using, that was not awfully far. Pretty soon I was aware that not only was I getting a fine sheen of paint powder over my clothes, but I was also inhaling copious amounts of it. I’m a hay fever sufferer. Discovering how much paint was reaching my sinuses came when I found I was depositing rivers of paint-red snot into my tissues! It really was the red paint powder that seemed to get everywhere. Or at least, it was the most visible. Have a look at the full set of my photos here, and you’ll see scenes that could have come from one of those zombie horror films!

Just where that stuff got to on the people I was photographing, who were getting plastered in it from all directions, hardly bears thinking about! Even as a “non-combatant” I had red socks and feet, a rime of paint round the neck of my t-shirt, under my watch-strap and so on, by the time the event was over! I’ve seen photos of some of the really big Rainbow Runs, where the paint powder is literally pumped over the participants through nozzles. Ours was only thrown by the handful. And yet the participants, young and old, appear to love it.

I gave my camera and lens a very careful inspection when I got home, and a thorough external clean with a brush and compressed air can. Next time, I want to use a zoom lens that has both internal focusing and internal zooming, so that I can seal the lens with the plastic bag right up to the lens hood end. It’ll be that or somehow try to get hold of a full underwater housing, or similar!

Goodness only knows what these events are like if it even drizzles, let alone rains. The idea of dressing for it in a full bio-hazard suit, carrying a fully encased camera is not too far-fetched! I’ve not yet thought through an option to use something like a 4k video camera, in a full weatherproof case and to aim to pull stills from the video. That might be a goer and leave my DSLR to fight another day.


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The Dimming of The Day

Panorama 34 6 5 16

No, don’t panic!

I’ve blogged a couple of times in the last year about the degenerative eye condition that I was diagnosed as having. It’s been an anxious few weeks recently, leading up to my first annual reassessment. That was a week or so ago now, and I’m rather happy to say that they found no change at all in my condition, compared to twelve months ago. No, it’s not gone away – that isn’t ever going to happen – but it has not got any worse. I’ll take that.

I said I’d not blog much about this thing, but that’s hard, because my eyesight is so central to everything I do as a working photographer, rather a lot of my waking hours are inevitably affected by thoughts of what the future might hold.

There was a fairly brief period when my reaction was “get out there, see everything, photograph it all”. My diary became a description of pandemonium. Had I tried to sustain that fantasy that I could ever have achieved those goals, I’d probably have damaged my physical and mental health more than my eyes! You might think that the next stage would be benign acceptance, and a gradual realisation of “che sera, sera” (whatever will be will be). Maybe that will come. It just hasn’t done yet.

No, in my case, my diagnosis remains a highly motivating factor. With Fuchs Dystrophy, I’m not suddenly going to wake up blind, and any “fade to grey” is going to be slow and progressive, I’m told. The false start in my reaction to it that I’ve already mentioned was motivated in the direction of quantity. More work, more photographs, new places, new topics, new techniques. And, in the way I was approaching it, it was unsustainable. Some of that will stuff still happen, I’m sure, but I’m increasingly being led by this thing to reassess a number of aspects of the quality of what I do, rather than the quantity. OK, sometimes the two overlap. Poor quality can occasionally be revealed by excessive quantity, just as good quality can come from holding back on the volume.

I’ve never been an out and out “art” photographer. I’m glad about that, because art trends change quite fast. I’d hate to be looking back at a whole load of past material that, even if it was ever in it, has now gone out of that elusive thing called fashion. No, my work, for business and for pleasure, is angled towards shooting what I see, and rendering it in a way that I’d like it to be remembered. A key task of anyone who takes photos for someone else is, of course, to ensure that how “I” want it to be remembered is also how “they” want it, too.

That’s actually quite a complex equation. That’s been brought home to me quite often as I prepare for my exhibition in a few months from now, of the very best of my photos of my local stretch of the River Medway. I’ve never had an exhibition just of my own landscape work. I’ve exhibited pieces alongside others, but my 2014 one-man show was a mixed bag of topics. Sitting down, often and for long periods, to try to distill something like five years of work along the river into around 35 images was tough, as I’ve mentioned in an earlier blog. My worry at the time was that I’d be wanting to de-select pieces when I’d been out and shot newer stuff. Well, that has happened (and is perhaps still happening even as deadlines loom!), but what has been more of an issue was something I’d not expected.

New material has made the cut for the show less by being, say, a view I’d not shot before, but by being of a quality that I couldn’t bring myself to leave out. I have finite wall space for the show, so if something is going to come in at this stage, something else is going to have to come out. Quality of one piece (measured against a number of factors) inevitably brings into question the quality of other pieces of work. Were this not so, I’d basically be adding and removing pieces at random. Chris, who does my printing, has been a really helpful part of the assessment process, because she’s been prepared to tell me when she doesn’t think something will print up in the way I imagined it, and she’s been good at gently spotting flaws that I’ve got too close to see.

So, is the quality of what I’m doing progressively getting better and better? I guess I’d want to hope so, but that’s just my own view. Will visitors to the exhibition be able to see the difference between early work and later work? I don’t know the answer to that, although my get-out is that I’m probably going to be the only person who knows which are the early works and which the later!

And there’s the point. I’ll only really be happy with an exhibition of work that is of the best quality I can achieve. Why would I want to be producing “just good enough” when I have 100% vision, and risk the regrets that might bring when, at some future point, I can’t even do as well as that? Perhaps that sounds a little morbid? Sorry if that’s the case. I’m still trying to work this thing through.

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The Lady

Panorama 7 3 11 15“Naked tree of winter seems to stand so proud.”

When I was in my teens, I was deeply in love.

The object of my affection was seven years my senior. She sang in a group, and solo. Despite her complexion of milk and honey, she was a hard drinker, allegedly able to drink her musical companions under any table. My own limit at the time was the occasional pint of shandy.

I seemed to have total recall of every word I’d heard her sing. We’d never spoken. The Lady had many acolytes like me. The music world then wasn’t anything like what it is now, when all the music in the universe seems to be instantly on tap. Our search engines were Melody Maker or NME, once a week, and the grapevine. The latter dropped me a hint that The Lady was to perform at the BBC’s Paris Theatre in Lower Regent Street, a few days before my 18th birthday. The journey was one that I and my pals had made many times; a simple train ride from Eden Park Station to Charing Cross and a brief walk. We were 6th Form grammar school boys and free from school uniform. On this day, the others weren’t interested. They understood what The Lady meant to me, though.

It was a wet evening. Come to think of it, those trips always seemed to be wet. I’d not walked far up Regent Street when I realised that the queue outside the Paris was bigger and earlier than usual. Entry was first come first served, as was seating inside. Capacity was no more than a few hundred, and I seemed to have left it late. Dutifully, I joined the line, listened politely to the buskers and, at last, began the shuffle towards the entrance. But I was indeed too late. The doors closed about twenty bodies ahead of me. Several guys were hammering on those doors, begging – pleading – to be allowed in. Stoically, I joined another queue, at the Wimpy Bar, then caught the train home, heartbroken.

“Oh gentle music, wash away the sadness in me” she’d once sung.

I sat at her feet at a tiny concert in a university bar in London a year or so later, but she was away with the music, and it was like none of us were really there. She remained the centre of my late-adolescent musical attentions for a further two years, then she suddenly upped and married a guy I’d never even heard of, and broke my heart again.

In all, I watched The Lady perform three times. Every time, I heard her sing the words she’d written just for me. She played a mean guitar, but was simply captivating when sat behind a big piano.

Roll the tape on to late April 1978. I was on a fairly intensive course at Birmingham University, enjoying a dive back into a monastic student life. Punk was new on the block, and a kid in the student’s union with brylcreemed spikes of hair was reading Sounds. He left, and bored for reading matter, I picked up the discarded newsprint. The world stopped. I read that The Lady had died a week or so before. It hadn’t made the headlines. No one had told me. There was no Twitter to carry the news.

It was several years before I could pluck up the courage to visit Putney Vale Cemetery. Her grave took some finding. But there it was. “’The Lady’ Alexandra Elene Maclean Lucas (Sandy Denny) 6-1-47 to 21-4-78”.

“The Lady, she had a silver tongue. ‘For to sing’, she said, ‘and maybe that’s all’.”

In recent years, the best of that Paris Theatre concert has made it on to CD, as part of “Sandy Denny Live at the BBC”, and three tracks are on the new (April 2016) acoustic compilation “I’ve Always Kept A Unicorn”. It was the arrival of that double album on my doormat today that triggered this reminiscence. For many of us, Sandy’s death is a wound that hasn’t healed much over the years. My thoughts are with any Prince fans, who will be going through something similar following news of his death yesterday.


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“See me….”

Oxford 13 9 08

Photo by Julia Buckel

This blog is a bit of a cross-over from my other one, but it’s a bit autobiographical and fits just as well with other stuff like that here.

I was chuffed to bits recently to be awarded Maidstone Parkrun‘s “Volunteer of the Year” trophy, for the work I do every week with them from behind my camera. To know that what you’re doing makes a difference to other people is enormously rewarding.


Surprised? I’ll say!

I started running when I was just a young kid, and began to take it more seriously from about the age of 14. It staggers me to think that in just two years from now, I’ll have been a member of the same running club for 50 years. I was very honoured a few weeks ago to take the Club’s “Olympic Year” photo. There are Club photos going back to its earliest days, in the 1870s, and it has gradually become the tradition to gather as many members as possible together for a photo in each Olympic year, just before the Club’s annual general meeting. Given that the guy who did the job before me did it for about 50 years, the band of photographers to have had this privilege is a pretty small and exclusive club in its own right.

I’ve always had a thing about running and photography. For someone who started young, I actually have very, very few photos of myself in action. Any shots my mother took at school sports days etc are long lost. I don’t remember many, anyway. My earliest are two shots of me taking part in the Kent County championships in around 1974, taken by the father of a good friend. And in those days, the absence of pictures of me running wasn’t because I was usually the other side of the camera. No, it just wasn’t as common or, (given the equipment available to most people,) as easy, to take good “action” photos.

This has always been a source of regret to me. Even in my 30s, when I was recovering from serious back damage and (reluctantly) running road races because I wasn’t physically able to train as a sprinter, there was never any one on hand with a camera to record the event.

Fast forward to about 2005, and, as a relatively new, modestly successful Masters athlete back on the track again, I thought the amount of photographic coverage was small compared to the number of opportunities. Jeremy Hemming and Lesley Richardson were doing what they could in the UK, but Masters Athletics, and Masters athletes had a very low visual profile.

It was a time when, quite suddenly, digital photography began to really bloom. By coincidence too, I needed to refurbish my camera equipment, sore abused and much battered from years spent following me up and down mountains. Digital really was a game-changer. To someone with what I call “the athlete’s eye”, it was really only a matter of practice and repetition to be able to produce a passable set of photos from an athletics competition. I’ve not stopped since. I like to think that my work has gone a little way to raising the profile of my sport. It’s certainly ensured I’ve never been short of opportunities to photograph runners, jumpers and (occasionally) even throwers.


Me at speed, by Alex Rotas

If it’s also given me a reputation and a bit of a recognisable style, I’m happy. Of course, the one thing it’s not done is address the life-long lack of photos of myself in action. Recently, my friend and frequent trackside photographic compatriot Alex Rotas has shot some lovely work of me “at speed”. Several others have also been kind enough to give me copies of shots they’ve taken from the stands. It means that now I too have the benefit of photos as a diagnostic tool about my running, as well as to help keep memories alive. It’s been rewarding over the years to hear people tell me how “useful” my photos have been to them, in helping spot technique issues and flaws etc. Pure spin-off, and not something I ever set out to do, although now I understand much better what they mean when they tell me.

But the photographic record of my past inevitably remains unfilled, and this will ever be so. I’m pleased to have turned the sadness that this thought brings me into a motivating force, however. Most Saturday mornings you will now find me out somewhere on the Maidstone Parkrun course, camera in hand. I guess I’m trying to make sure that the current and emerging horde of new runners, created and/or enthused by the phenomenon that is Parkrun have at least some visible record of their own efforts, and are spared a little of my own longing for “what might have been seen”.

I’m humbled to be the Parkrun’s “Volunteer of the Year”. I’m really just trying to fill a few gaps for a few people!

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Got To Go Back

Exhibition flyer

Academic stuff didn’t interest me very much when I started secondary school in the mid 1960s. I was a kid more interested in sport and art. To further encourage the latter, I had an inspirational art teacher right through my school-days. He was someone I never got to thank properly but who, with the retrospection of having passed “three-score years” I can see was a real influence on me.

Harvey Sklair was a bit of a local legend, and I’m glad he’s properly remembered online. He was a very good artist, a point possibly lost on a class full of eleven/twelve year-olds, but what stuck with me was that he didn’t just stick a brush in our hands and point at the paints, he talked to us about why art mattered. He also emphasised that great art was all around us, and that you didn’t need a knighthood or a wealthy family to be regarded as a memorable painter. He said “If a bunch of dockers from Glasgow, or lads from Bermondsey can become an art movement, so can you!”.

At the time, we had my mother’s youngest brother living with us. My Uncle Colin was a bit of a painter, specialising in simple oils of local views. He called himself a “self-taught primitive”. I wish I’d still got even one of his canvases, because they had a big effect on me (as did the intoxicating smell of turpentine and varnish, I think!). I asked him who his favourite artist was. He said “John Cooper”. I’d never heard of him. Nor had the art books at Beckenham Library.

Fast forward a good few years, into the days of the internet. I stumbled upon brief mention of John Cooper on the web, while looking for a book about (unrelated) W Heaton Cooper, my favourite mountain painter. The John Cooper piece, which I can’t now find, was the first reference I’d heard to “The East London Group” as such, and I wondered whether it was these to whom Harvey Sklair had been referring, back in my schooldays.

It took social media, and specifically Twitter, to rekindle some of these thoughts, when the East London Group Twitter account (@EastLondonGroup) began sharing the paintings of members of the Group online and telling their fascinating story.

Well, today, I’ve been to Southend to see a superb exhibition cleverly titled “Out Of The City”, in which Alan Waltham and others have finally brought together a large and representative collection of landscapes and other views by members of the East London Group. Most are from the 1930s. That these paintings represent a genre of work hugely, but subtly influenced by Monet, Pissaro, Cezanne, etc (amongst many others, I am sure) becomes immediately clear in the exhibition.

Doubtless influenced by free access to art in places like the National Gallery and Tate Gallery, here was a loose collection of mostly poor working class East Enders picking up crumbs of inspiration from wherever they saw it, and turning it into a feast. I can only think it is their origins and lack of “establishment” connections that explain why the work of the East London Group is not so very much better known. That’s despite the fact that East London Group work featured at places like the Venice Biennale in the late 1930s. The Southend exhibition also includes a catalogue of a show in which East Londoners Walter Steggles and Elwin Hawthorne exhibited alongside work by Degas, Cezanne, Gaugin and Renoir!

Walking in to the Beecroft Gallery in Southend, after seeing so many East London Group paintings on social media in the last few years, I felt like I was entering a room full of old friends. Seeing paintings “in the flesh” for the first time can be a very mixed experience. Some don’t immediately “do it”, and others just leap off the canvas at you. For me, “Essex Landscape, Early Morning” (1938) by the aforementioned Walter Steggles stopped me dead. Pure Cezanne/Monet-style expressionism.


And being a kid brought up on Broadstairs and Margate beach holidays in the early 1960s, Cecil Osborne’s “Punch & Judy: Margate Sands” (1935) tugged many strings of memory.


I was also agog at the frames! I can only imagine the artists searched out and ‘rescued” these 18th and 19th century gems from junk shops and scrap-heaps. They are brilliant, if occasionally rather incongruous surrounds to some of the paintings. Take the faded gilt, rococo wrap to Harold Steggles’ Chesil Bank from Portland (1938) as just one example!


I am happy to say that the East London Group Exhibition at the Beecroft Gallery, Victoria Street, Southend on Sea is on until 25 June 2016. It is open from 10am to 5pm Tuesdays to Saturdays, and admission is free. You can buy prints and greetings cards there of some of the best of what is on show, and pick up a copy of the newly revised masterwork about the East London Group, David Buckman’s “From Bow to Biennale”. (That web link covers the original edition)

In keeping with my habit of titling these blogs from stuff in my music collection, this one came from Van Morrison’s “No Guru, No Method, No Teacher” album. Fitting, on several levels!

And no matter how awful the A13 can be, like today, I’ll certainly be going back to visit these “old friends” again before the show ends.


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I write two blogs. They show the major demarcations of my life over the last few years. The other blog is about my life as an active sports-person. It allows me space for some introspection. Last time I posted there, I wrote about coincidence. This blog here is more about creativity and reminiscence but I think I’m back to coincidence here this time, too. A coincidence in itself.

In the spring of 2013, I visited the Imperial War Museum in London. It’s not somewhere I go very often, but it holds a collection of “war art” second to none. I’d gone to see some of the First World War stuff. For the first time, the genius of the work of the prolific painter Paul Nash really hit me. Nash was an official war artist who also painted in World War 2. He died in 1946 at the young age of 57. There were some of his WW2 pieces on show, and I was both struck and slightly puzzled by his big canvas called “Battle of Britain” (see below). Commentators and critics have praised the work for its allegorical nature and symbolism, without ever really saying what it symbolised or of what it was an allegory. Well, that’s art critics for you, I suppose.

A year or two before, I’d been to the little collection of largely Battle of Britain-related material at Brenzett  and thought Nash’s view might be of the aerial conflict over the Romney Marsh. I couldn’t place the river, though. But then, maybe the river was part of the allegory? There’s actually some fascinating information about the history and inspiration for the painting on the IWM web site  In fact, it isn’t an observed landscape at all. Whatever, there was something about its simplicity compared to much of Nash’s other work that clearly lodged itself very firmly in my mind – even if I didn’t realise it at the time.

The Romney Marsh is somewhere I’ve associated with quiet drives to the south coast since I was a kid. As a family, we used to make the journey frequently from south east London to Littlestone for the day, and occasionally the weekend. We stayed there longer sometimes, as a relative had a house on the seafront. I have no doubt my love of “big skies” comes from these days of youth. It was pure coincidence, however, that the weekend after visiting the Imperial War Museum, I was driving early on a Sunday morning through the backroads of the Kent Weald, heading for Appledore and down on to The Marsh.

It was cold, but the sky was a wonderful blue and there was little wind. What marked the morning out as special, though, was the profusion of aircraft vapour trails all across the sky. I had never seen so many, nor seen them simply appearing to hang there like permanent fixtures. I assume some quirk of the upper atmosphere was causing this. I stopped the car several times just to look up. On the edge of The Marsh, close to the Royal Military canal, I could resist the temptation to take some photos no longer. By a stand of wild daffodils, on the edge of acres of open ground not yet coloured by spring, I shot three or four panoramas. One of these is the opening shot to this blog, as you’ll have realised by now, I expect.

As I set up the camera, it dawned on me that I was looking at a strangely familiar scene. My poor memory is such that, had it been more than a few days previously that I’d seen it, I’d have struggled to connect the view with Nash’s “Battle of Britain”. It was the vapour trails that made the connection. Now, I’m never going to claim to have set up an opportunity to mimic the Nash painting. Self-evidently, I’d have failed miserably had that been the case, as you can see. And of course, I didn’t have a handy copy of the original with me to work from! The connection was more subtle and almost subliminal. Nash’s painting had made an impression on me that I’d not realised.

I also had no idea at the time that, as the morning’s crows flew, I was no more than five miles from parts of The Marsh well known to Paul Nash in the 1920s.  I only made that particular discovery when looking up a suitable web link about Nash to include in this blog! Coincidence heaped upon coincidence!

And if you don’t know the Chris Wood song that gave its title to this blog, you can hear it here.

Nash Battle of Britain

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