Blog #28 - The Prague Film Challenge

I did not expect to spend part of November thinking about film cameras and risk management in the same breath, but that is how this little Prague idea crept up on me. It started as a simple conversation with Emma about packing for a short city trip. We booked three nights away as a quiet break for all of us, something that sits between family time and a chance to get out of the usual flow. It is not a photography trip at its core, although I have long since accepted that anywhere I go now ends up involving a camera one way or another. Even so, I told myself this would be a pack light trip. Something straightforward. No bags that dig into shoulders, no rearranging a rucksack every time we stop for a drink, no twenty minute debates with myself about whether I should bring a long lens in case something unexpected happens.

If you have spent more than five minutes with me, you can probably see how well that plan was going to go.

The thing about packing light is that it forces you to admit to yourself what matters. That sounds like the start of a self help book, although all I really mean is that it shows you what you are willing to sacrifice. When you only have a small bag, you cannot take the full safety net of digital bodies, primes, zooms, and backups. You choose one direction and hope it is the right one. I sat at the dining table with a tea, trying to work out which direction made sense. I kept drifting into the same cycle of thought.

If I take the Sony, should I bring the 20, the 35, or the 70 to 200. If I choose the Fuji, does that limit me too much if the weather turns rubbish. How much will we actually be walking each day, and will I end up annoyed at myself for choosing the wrong thing. It was a familiar loop that felt a bit tedious even while I was still going round it.

What nudged me toward a different path was the little burst of confidence that came after my first home development. I did not expect it to work. I certainly did not expect it to work well. When the negatives came out of the tank with an actual image on them, I felt like I had somehow cheated the system. I stood in the hobby room with the film hanging on clips, feeling strangely proud that the process had not fallen apart in my hands. There was something grounding about that whole experience. A feeling of building something from scratch. It made me wonder if I could lean into film a little more.

The idea formed quicker than I would have liked. What if I photographed the whole trip on film.

It was not a dramatic revelation. It was more like standing at the edge of a cold swimming pool and realising you have already given yourself permission to jump. Once the idea surfaced, it was very hard to put it back down. I could feel the tension between excitement and caution immediately. Film brings a type of uncertainty that digital never will, especially when you are depending on gear that is older than you are. A 35mm SLR looks simple from the outside, but once you rely on it for something you cannot repeat, you start to picture every part that could go wrong. A hair in the film gate that you do not see. A meter that suddenly reads half a stop too bright. A shutter that decides the cold morning air is too much effort. A tiny crack in the foam that lets sunlight spill across the frame. All of these little problems lurk quietly until you are back home, rolling the wet film out of the tank and wondering why there is a perfect diagonal line across the entire roll.

There is a thrill in that uncertainty, even though it makes no logical sense. Something in my brain likes the idea of placing that bet. It feels almost honest. If it works, it works because you trusted yourself. If it fails, you learn something that only failure teaches. There is no preview to fix it, no histogram to check, no second chances for missed focus. You make your decisions in the moment and live with them. Maybe this says something about where my head is these days, leaning toward slower, more deliberate ways of looking at things. Or maybe I am just trying to give myself a challenge that sits outside the normal rhythm of daily life. I am not entirely sure.

When I explained the idea to Emma, I expected her to stare at me for a long moment and tell me to behave. Instead, she nodded and said it was probably a good idea. I think the simplicity appealed to her. A single camera, a couple of lenses, and no heavy backpack trailing behind us. A lighter trip, both physically and mentally. For a second, I thought I had her full approval. Then I watched her expression shift ever so slightly. It was the moment she remembered that she has a photographer in the family now. A photographer who could, in theory, get it completely wrong and return home with nothing. No family photos. No record of Bow eating ice cream near the river. No shots of the little streets or the winter markets. Nothing except a handful of blank or poorly exposed negatives. The stakes suddenly felt real, even if they came wrapped in a bit of humour.

So now I am trying to work out how brave I want to be.

The safe version of the plan is straightforward. Take one of my more reliable 35mm SLRs, probably the Fujica ST701 or the Olympus OM-1n. Choose two lenses at most. Pack ten rolls of HP5 because it handles almost anything and I will not spend the trip rationing frames. Keep the digital Fuji X-E5 tucked in the bag for insurance. That gives me room to enjoy the challenge without risking a marital dispute over the absence of family photos. It is practical, balanced, and still has enough room for the film adventure to feel like a proper commitment.

The less sensible version of the plan keeps tapping me on the shoulder as well. If I am serious about this, should I push it a bit further. Should I leave the digital behind altogether. Should I also pack a medium format camera for a few slow, careful frames. The Zeiss Ikonta has been sitting on the shelf giving me that quiet look that vintage cameras seem to manage without moving. It would be lovely to take it. There is something special about medium format film. The rhythm of it slows you down in a way that even 35mm does not. You feel the weight of each frame. The trouble is that the Ikonta lives in the category of equipment that might decide to work only when it feels like it. It is beautiful, but temperamental. Adding it to the bag pulls the whole idea back into the realm of overpacking, and I am trying to avoid that if only to prove to myself that I still have some restraint left.

Even the film choice carries its own set of questions. Ten rolls of HP5 sounds like plenty, but what if the weather turns harsh and I want something with finer grain. What if I find myself wishing I had a colour stock for a particular moment. Do I want to be the dad who disappears into a conversation with himself about film stocks while Emma and Bow wait politely by a bridge. Probably not. So HP5 it is. Reliable, flexible, forgiving. A film that does not get fussy when conditions change. It does what you ask of it and lets you focus on the part that actually matters, which is being there and paying attention.

As the idea settles, I can feel the real challenge underneath it. It is not only about whether the camera works or whether the negatives survive the journey home. It is also about how I show up while we are there. Film naturally slows me down. It forces me to look for moments rather than chase them. Family trips can sometimes slip into a rushed collection of photos just to say we were there. I do not want that for Prague. I want to move at a pace that suits us, not the algorithm or the shot list in my head. Perhaps the film will help with that. Or perhaps I will spend the first day overthinking every choice of aperture like a man trying to predict the future. Hard to say.

I keep circling back to the fact that this is the first proper family trip where photography has a place in my life that feels established. When we went to Portugal earlier in the year, the blog was still finding its shape and I was still trying to work out who I was as a photographer. This time, I feel more settled in it. Not more skilled necessarily, but clearer about why I enjoy it. There is a part of me that wants to test that growth. Not in a dramatic way, just in a simple one. Take one camera, trust it, and pay attention to whatever moments arrive.

Of course, I also have to acknowledge that things could go wrong. The film might not load cleanly. The camera might freeze in the cold. I might forget to bring enough batteries for the meter or enough bags to store the exposed rolls. I might stand in the hotel bathroom on the last night, holding ten rolls in my hands and wondering whether any of them contain something worth keeping. These possibilities are not reasons to back out. They are part of the reality of film. I chose this hobby knowing full well that it sometimes gives you rubbish even when you do everything right. That is part of the appeal in a strange way. A reminder that not everything can be controlled.

If I want insurance, I will have the X-E5. A small, light digital body that has already proved itself to be reliable. It will sit in the bag and I will probably use it for a few family shots to keep everyone comfortable. Having that option means I can fully commit to the film challenge without putting pressure on myself to produce something perfect. The whole point of the trip is to have a bit of time together. The photography sits alongside that, not in front of it.

The closer the trip gets, the more I am warming to the idea. It has a sense of adventure without being reckless. It pushes me just far enough out of the comfortable side of photography that I will learn something from it. And if it works, it might become one of the most meaningful sets of photos I take this year. Not because they are technically flawless, but because they belong to a moment in my life where the process mattered as much as the result. Film often reminds me to hold on to that.

So that is the plan taking shape. One solid 35mm SLR. A couple of lenses. Ten rolls of HP5. Maybe the Zeiss Ikonta if I feel brave on packing day, although I suspect I already know what the sensible answer is. The Fuji X-E5 tucked in the corner for peace of mind. A willingness to trust the process. And a quiet hope that the combination of family, film, and winter light in a city I barely know will come together in a way that feels honest.

What could possibly go wrong?

Piece of rusty trolley next to a canal..... taken on film (theres the relevance!)