Blog #10 – Birds, Cars, Film, and Forgetting Memory Cards

This past week has been one of those rare stretches where I’ve been able to get behind the camera more than usual, and it’s reminded me why I keep coming back to this. It started with a trip to Attenborough Nature Reserve, which could become my go-to place when I want to practice wildlife photography. I’m not a twitcher, so if you asked me what species I was after I’d probably just shrug and say “one with wings.” The goal wasn’t about ticking anything off a list. It was about practicing focus tracking on whatever flew into view.

It was midday when I arrived, the light softened by a slightly overcast sky, warm but without the harsh glare that bounces off water on bright days. The stillness was striking, no background hum of traffic, no voices carrying across the paths, just the occasional flap of wings. That breeze was the real challenge. Birds that had been gliding neatly in one direction would suddenly twist midair as the wind shifted, meaning my careful tracking would be instantly thrown off. Over the course of a couple of hours I worked through what felt like every autofocus mode the Sony offers, flipping between flexible spot, wide, and tracking. There were moments where I thought I’d nailed it, only to zoom in later and see that my “perfect” capture was off. Progress, yes, but still plenty of room to improve.

Some kind of birds in flight.

The most satisfying shot of the day wasn’t a bird at all. In one of the meadows I came across a group of long-horned cattle grazing. There was a sign on the gate warning people not to startle them, but they didn’t react to me being there. They just stood, slow and deliberate in their movements, occasionally flicking a tail or turning their head. After an afternoon of chasing unpredictable flight paths, their stillness felt like a gift. I was about ten feet away with the 24–240mm lens, trying to fit them into the frame without losing the texture of their coats and the curl of their horns. The result was calm, detailed, and a complete contrast to the chaos of the morning.

Let sleeping cattle lie.

A couple of days later I picked up a long-awaited roll of film from the developers. This was Kodak Gold 200 shot on my dad’s old Fujica ST901, which has been in the family since 1983. Every frame was taken on our recent trip to the Algarve in Portugal, so it had been sitting in the lab for a while. The ST901 has long since lost its working meter and auto exposure, so I’d used the sunny 16 rule and my iPhone light meter app to get by. Shooting that way forces you to slow down. There’s no quick half-press to check exposure. You commit to your settings and trust yourself.

The roll was a mix of street shots, details, and family moments. The light in Portugal is different. The sun hits whitewashed buildings in a way that seems to pull every shadow into sharp relief, and the narrow streets are full of unexpected splashes of colour. One frame has bright pink oleander flowers in the foreground, with a wall of graffiti and sun-bleached apartments behind. Another shows rows of bunting strung across a street, yellow, pink, blue and green flags fluttering over cafes and shopfronts. Then there’s the shot of a weathered blue apartment block, its balconies stained by rain over the years, with people going about their day below.

Apartment block on the Fujica ST901

Street scenes on the Fujica ST901.

The architectural shots really stood out when I saw them printed, not just because of the film stock but because the Fujica has a certain personality. There’s a texture and depth in those images that you don’t get from my digital kit. The lab had printed the whole roll without me asking, so I walked out with that familiar paper envelope full of 6x4s. I hadn’t held one in over twenty years, and it was instantly nostalgic. Bow sat with Emma and went through each print carefully, asking about the places and people in them. Seeing her treat them as little treasures made me realise how rare it is for photos to exist outside of screens now.

From there my week snapped back to the present. After a heavy run of work and parenting, I knew I needed a bit of time to myself. My happy place is anywhere behind a camera. Loughborough might not be the first choice for a day out, but it was the most realistic option. I’d considered Leicester or Derby for something busier, or heading into the hills for landscapes, but parking up and wandering with no plan won.

I started in the market square, where an antiques market was set up. It wasn’t heaving, but there was enough bustle to keep things interesting. From there I drifted toward the newer part of town where the old bus station used to be, a space that still feels unfamiliar despite the memories I have from my teenage years. Eventually I ended up at a churchyard where I noticed a stained glass window with an LGBT Progress flag draped over it. I’d never seen that before, and I stood there for a while wondering about the story behind it.

Antique market in Loughborough.

Antique gravestones dating back to the 16th century.

Clash of theologies?

It was a warm, bright day, but the sun made it hard to read the camera screen. I had my EarPods in and no fixed goal beyond walking and noticing. About twenty minutes in I saw the small flashing icon, no memory card in slot one. My main card was still in my MacBook from an earlier edit. For a moment I thought the day was over before it had really started, but I remembered the smaller “JPEG card” in slot two. I pulled it out, put it into slot one, and carried on. I thought I’d have to live with JPEGs, but back at the MacBook I discovered the Sony A7III had recorded both JPEG and RAW to the single card. A quiet little feature I’d never noticed before, and one that ended up saving the day.

A few days later, photography turned up in a completely different context. I was called for last-minute paramedic standby at a TVR owners’ meet in the East of England. The venue was a private test circuit with a reputation for strict anti-photography rules, the kind where they’ll seal your phone cameras with tamper-proof stickers. For this event, though, cameras were allowed, and I double-checked with the event managers before I even reached for mine.

It was clearly a social meet. People stood in small groups, chatting, laughing, swapping stories about their cars. I was there to work, so I kept my gear minimal: one lens, a CPL filter, no tripods or off-camera lighting. The cars themselves were impressive. I didn’t spot any of the chameleon paint jobs I like, but the Sagaris and Tuscan models stood out. When they passed, the sound was deep enough to feel in your chest.

TVR Tuscan with CPL filter to remove the glare.

Harry was working alongside me. He’s not a photographer, but he’s a big advocate for men’s mental health and the challenges men face. He gets it when I talk about photography as my third space, the place where I can step away from the roles of work and home and just be. He knows it’s not just about the act of taking photos, but about what happens in my head when I’m doing it. Most of my shots were of individual cars framed like portraits, but toward the end of the day I pulled out the Voigtländer Vito B 35mm for a few frames, using the iPhone light meter to guess exposure. Now I just have to wait and see how they come back from the lab.

This week marks ten weeks of blogging. Ten weeks of sitting down and writing about what I’ve been shooting and what’s been going on around it. The biggest surprise is that I’m still here doing it. People close to me joked at the start that this was another hyperfocus, a passing obsession linked to my undiagnosed neurodiversity. But it hasn’t faded. If anything, it’s become a fixture. I still want to pick up the camera at every opportunity, and I still want to sit down afterwards and put it into words.

The past fortnight has tested that persistence. Emma’s shifts have been unpredictable, Bow has finished nursery and is waiting to start school, and she’s been with me almost constantly. She’s been my little shadow at the office, sitting at mummy’s desk, proudly working through worksheets I’ve made for her. Watching her sound out “The sun is very hot” before writing it down has been a highlight. Balancing her short attention span with my need to get work done hasn’t been easy, but it’s worked in bursts.

Emma knows me well enough to spot when I’m running on empty. She didn’t hint or suggest, she told me. “Take your camera and disappear for a bit.” It’s more than just giving me a break. She knows that’s where I reset, where I find the breathing space I need. It doesn’t matter if it’s a nature reserve, a busy street, or a car show. The moment I’m looking through a viewfinder, the rest of the noise fades.

Blogging hasn’t changed my photography in a technical sense, but it’s made me more accountable to it. I don’t want to miss a week, not because anyone’s counting, but because it’s become a habit worth keeping. It’s a way of slowing down and taking stock, of recording not just the photographs but the context, the small moments, the things I might otherwise forget.

As for the next ten weeks, I’m just going to keep on winging it. That’s part of the fun. There’s no master plan. Some weeks might be about wildlife, others about street photography, others about something I stumble across by chance. I’ve got ideas I haven’t touched yet, a few personal projects I’d like to try, a couple of places I want to revisit with fresh eyes, but I’m not going to overthink it. This started as a way to give myself space, and that’s what it will stay.