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Click Here  or on the photograph below for the Images Seven days later I listened to Nick Godwin’s radio commentary as that  goal went in. The grin, that grin, which no Cheshire Cat could ever compete with was accompanied by the now familiar watering of the eyes and uncontrollable laughter that a psychiatrist might have concluded were signs of a disengagement with current reality so defined that it would require medication. Memories are powerful and, far from being alone, I was to learn that my happy abandon was the norm the world over among Crystal Palace supporters after the tectonic shift in the status quo  that winning the oldest, most romantic challenge cup competition in the world for the very first time had caused. Most of us have lived through decades of disappointments, including twice having had victory snatched from us as the Cup Final approached its conclusion, adjustments made by governing bodies which were solely to our detriment while being to the benefit of more ‘popular’ clubs, and twice being threatened with existential obliteration through financial administration. So it was then, in the week following this truly heroic victory, that grown men and women struggled to do anything at all that would constitute ‘normal life’ as they relived the minutiae and finest moments of the finest day of their club’s 164 year history through whatever media content became available. When you’re there, under the Wembley Arch in a Cup Final, you have a job to do and the community of Crystal Palace Football Club did a perfect job on Manchester City. The club has never stood so completely as one before; Chairman, Manager, Players, Backroom & Support Staff and all the way through the supporting base where the Holmesdale Fanatics – the ‘Palace Ultras’ – provide the centrepiece of a never ceasing heartbeat for an organism that, for all their wealth, trophies and expectations, City simply had no answer to. This wasn’t just a football game fought between two teams, this was a matter of pride and endeavour of a shared South London identity that was pitted against the second richest club in the world which had assembled the most expensive team in the world. Some time before the players came out the famous Selhurst Park atmosphere was already up and running at the west end of the National Stadium. A hand-painted tifo of a father holding his two boys which has a hugely touching back-story passed above the fans as half of Wembley was decked in flags that transformed the concrete structure into an undulating sea of red and blue stripes. As the Fanatics synchronized the unfurling of a pre-game banner stretching from one side to the other behind the goal they already knew that what they had done with the £50K collected from Palace fans would perfectly reflect the prophetic words of our outstanding central defender, Maxence Lacroix. Wembley did shake and it was beautiful, oh so beautiful for anyone who witnessed the immensity of the Red & Blue ocean and the tsunami of vocal support, celebrated as one of the best atmosphere’s in British football but which has hitherto become known in foreign lands for its ceaselessness, volume and passion; FA Cup Final 2025 - CPFC Pre Match Display Throughout, and never more so, Palace fans carried the hopes of every neutral who dreams of their club achieving this most coveted prize in football. After fifteen minutes of relentless City pressure had been rebuffed by a defence so impenetrable that it had only conceded one goal in the whole competition, it began to occur to commentators that when the inevitable lightning quick Palace attack came it might all but ensure their gargantuan opposition's downfall before the contest was over. Commentators mused over Oliver Glasner’s strategic plan as another City attack broke down with what, even at this stage, had a growing sense of inevitability about it. Dean Henderson received the ball for a goal kick and, as if by premonition, TV's co-commentator Sean Dyche prefigured the event which would unfold just twenty seconds later. As the clock moved into the sixteenth minute, the Manchester machine pressed the Palace defence who played the ball along the back line. Maxence squared it to Chris Richards who pumped a perfect 55 yard pass to JP  ‘Boom’ Mateta on the half way line. JP’s strength, close control and perfect one-two with Daichi Kamada, the first Japanese player to play in an FA Cup Final, gouged out enough space for him to swivel and lay the ball off to our marauding wing-back, Daniel Muñoz. With the familiar increase in volume to the wall of sound akin to a rumbling Krakatoan eruption driving him on from behind, our South American Superhero sprinted down the right wing to the edge of the City box where he delivered the perfect cross to the right foot of the arriving Eberechi Eze, whose silkily skilled volley guided the ball towards the City goal and ultimately delivered the sling-shot that downed Goliath and ensured that this contest would go down in football folklore as the Cup Final where we; the collective community of club, staff and supporters, reclaimed the meaning of the game from the obscenely funded, trophy collecting ‘superclubs’; BEST COMMENTARY of Eberechi Eze's FA CUP FINAL Winner Commentators lauded the movement and construction of the goal which was as exquisitely sculpted and executed as Michelangelo’s David  while the sky-blue end could only look on in quiet recognition of the devastation that was playing out in front of their eyes. The other half of Wembley danced, hugged and shouted to the heavens with the collective voice reaching 112 decibels before it mellowed and segued into the familiar hand wave and vocal preamble to Palace’s famous post-goal celebration, We Love You . When the song eventually broke out into the chorus Wembley shook, rattled and rolled as beautifully and powerfully as an appearance of Haley’s Comet in the night sky. Being in the middle of such a monumental torrent of joy can be a surreal experience and it was only afterwards, when watching and hearing TV and radio recordings, that I couldn't help but be astonished at just how much noise we made. Commentators and pundits remarked on it throughout as they waxed lyrical about the tactical game and sheer physical and mental discipline on the pitch, but it's even more telling that City fans commented that they had never seen or heard anything like it in their lives before and, as if that were not enough, how could any Palace fan who was there ever forget the sheer joy as we sang Glad All Over followed by Eze’s On Fire immediately the game finished; FA Cup Final 2025 - CPFC Post Match Celebrations In the following days the Palace bulletin boards were full of comments about how people were feeling, what they were going through, and what it all meant for their lives. None of us could have anticipated any of those things prior to the event and, as we watched and re-watched, listened and re-listened, favourite moments became enshrined in the collective memory. We poured over the point in the game where 'The Famous Red & Blue' hit 114 decibels as Dean Henderson pulled off a double penalty save so colossal that, even without his undisputed talent and season long ace performances, the moment ensured that Deano carved a permanent place in every Palace fan’s heart as surely as if he was born with red and blue blood. Some reported fears which were more akin to abused spouses who break free from their abusers; that somehow their joy would be taken from them tomorrow, or next week, or whenever, just as our place in Europe was snatched from us by a change of ruling as the season closed when we had earned it for finishing third in the top flight. Nonetheless, there was always someone on hand to point out that whatever injustice we might face, it is now a matter of history that “We won the FA Cup!” It is difficult to understand, but nothing could ever be compared to the moments we experience when our club wins its first major trophy in its history and it can’t really be adequately communicated to those who haven’t experienced it. Ten days later many older Palace fans still had difficulty believing that it had actually happened during their lifetime and although the Bank Holiday Monday Parade of team and trophy in the community was one of the most wonderful celebrations that any football fan could ever experience, it was also a reality check. We hadn’t just won any title or cup, we've won the FA Cup and there it was, standing in front of us! We started gathering around Selhurst Park from early morning. Mr Cenz’s mural on the side wall of 233 Holmesdale Road faced the iconic mural opposite which immortalizes Wilfried Zaha’s stature and undeniably stellar contribution to our journey as part of the South London community he both grew up in and represented with pride and passion. If you’re Palace you’re proud of your roots and, as much as the slogan ‘South London and Proud’ cuts a perfect phrase, it goes deep into honouring the very heart of what a club like ours has always been about. As the song which is frequently sung in the Holmesdale says; "When I was a young boy my father said to me, listen here my son, you’re CPFC..." but, whichever way we joined the tribe, we were all there to see and celebrate our heroes on an open topped bus. “A bus, we must have a bus… I want a bus just like every other cup parade otherwise it won’t be a parade!” was the feeling behind one of the messages on the boards. That might seem a small issue to those who don’t really understand what being a true fan is about, but it’s even more important when a player from your club was a pioneer of the FA Cup itself, your original ground hosted the Final when it was situated under the shadow of the glass palace of the Great Exhibition which gave its name to the area, and when the club and all its supporters, past and present, have waited 164 years to win it. Under those circumstances tradition is simply not something that should be messed with! A steady throng clad in just about every significant Palace shirt from the Sixties to present milled around and looked for their desired place. I sat my brother-in-law, John, down on a wall where I knew I’d have a good chance of catching decent photographs and went walkabout, not knowing that a TV crew and emergency services had positioned themselves immediately behind him. Nothing would spoil this day for us. The waiting was just a drop in the ocean of a life of longing and John’s debut on ITV News later spoke volumes for so many Palace supporters as he answered; “My first game was when I was 5 years old and I’m 75 now”. As John talked to the reporter I had slung my two Nikons  around my shoulders in search of capturing as much of the spirit of the occasion as possible. By the time I came back the crowd had swelled and, with another 90 minutes to wait, I laid claim to one of the last vantage points on the wall further down Whitehorse Lane. When three police officers eventually walked up the middle of Whitehorse Lane doing checks before disappearing over the horizon at South Norwood Hill, I sensed that this probably meant that the parade was almost imminent. I knew that photography was going to be a challenge – just how I like it – but I went straight into photographer mode when someone in front said “The bus is coming!”. I lifted my D850 and shot a test frame through the flotilla of flags to double check that I had everything set up for any eventuality I might have to respond to as the parade approached. My telephoto lens effectively takes me six times closer and I smiled when I saw that there, on the front of the bus, was the unmistakable FA Cup trophy bearing red and blue ribbons with Chris Richards’ unmistakable head of hair behind it. Richards’ personable smile remained fixed as the trophy moved around all sides of the bus but it returned to the front as the party came closer to the corner with Park Road, where I was standing. Young children sat on parents’ shoulders and older ones climbed anything they could to give them a better view. All around, outstretched hands holding mobile phones held the hopes of their owners in recording something of this historic occasion for their social-media and posterity and, as the bus slowed to take the corner, confetti rained down and mingled with the rising red and blue flares which covered the scene in a magenta mist. It may have all made it difficult for us to see our heroes but it nonetheless accentuated the gleaming trophy which, as it shone through the haze, almost seemed to be saying “I’ve been waiting all your history to find my way home to Crystal Palace and, this year, nothing was ever going to stop that from happening”. One of the last images I captured from Whitehorse Lane was a beaming Steve Parish who was capturing the scenes down below on his mobile phone. At this time, six days shy of exactly fifteen years ago; we were all in a much polarized position when fans protested outside Lloyds Bank in London. That day, Crystal Palace Football Club was to come within one hour of disappearing altogether and the previous day Steve had put out a message on the Palace bulletin board that, if they could not come to an agreement by 3PM the following day, the administrator would sell the players and liquidate the club. “The next day…” he says, he woke up and there were three thousand fans outside the Bank’s headquarters and he very quickly received a phone call from the administrator to talk about the future of the club. Without Steve, Crystal Palace Football Club would never be in the position we are in today. His hard work, dedication, diligence and an insistence on having good people with good character in preference to mere football stars is only eclipsed by his heart for the club, the community and his vision. Always quick to give credit to others, he went on to say “It was the fans that unlocked the whole situation”, because their presence outside the Bank that day plastered the club’s plight across all the news channels and effectively forced the administrator to think about something other than mere money:   How the Fans Saved Crystal Palace from Extinction! | When Eagles Dare . As I captured the image of Steve I said a quiet “thank you” to him, not so much for the celebration of our shared dream being realized, but for how he has engendered the heart, character and togetherness that comes from good people working with a shared vision which, in this case, has ultimately lead us to our club’s finest hour. The Winners bus passed down Park Road and turned into Holmesdale Road where the urban vibrancy of the two gable end elevations formed a welcoming gate which convey every nuance of the ‘South London And Proud’ slogan that adorns the southwest turnoff into Selhurst Park. There, at that entrance, were The Holmesdale Fanatics complete with drum, banner and multiple flares which billowed red and blue smoke up into the atmosphere. Inside the stadium the FA Cup took its centre stage place on the Winners stand as those who had got tickets for The Party on the Pitch started to fill Selhurst Park. As Kelly Somers and Doc Brown compèred, JP removed his huge 'BOOM' sunglasses to receive the Goal of the Season award while Deano, having been asked to comment on the most obvious Moment of The Season of all time, took hold of Doc’s microphone and lead the crowd into his “We won the FA Cup” version of the chorus to Shakira’s Waka Waka . Like so many of the characters in the team, their accessible, personable characters testify to them being part of the Palace family rather than merely being untouchable stars and, when the team stood up and raised the trophy, the rapturous applause was matched by explosions that deposited streamers and confetti which perfectly framed the jubilant scenes and achievement. Finally, it started to sink in. The last two awards were player of the year awards; one voted for by their peers and the other by the fans. On field, Daniel Muñoz plays with such passion that one commentator observed it would probably make him a Homesdale Fanatic in another life but, off the pitch, it isn’t his lack of solid English which gives rise to an understated manner, it's the fact that he oozes character as a talented but humble, hard working man who has a big heart for what matters in life. Today was also our Columbian’s cumpleaños which was celebrated by us all singing Happy Birthday immediately prior to him being presented with the Player's Player of The Year award. Next, Doc called the Austrian architect of our success up to say a few words and present the fans Player of The Year award and, as he did so, the crowd broke out into spontaneous song… "We’ve got super Oli Glasner, He knows exactly what we need,  Mitchell at the Back, Mateta in Attack, Palace on the way to Wemberlee" . Respect, humility and joyful togetherness within the club was plain to see long before this special occasion, at least for those of us who had eyes to see it, and it was no surprise to hear Oliver give credit to the character of this group of players and talk about how happy he is to work in a club such as Crystal Palace. After Oli presented Danny with his second award Kelly Somers asked our notable number 12 to say a few words to the fans and, as he did so, he summed up the whole culture of the club by simply looking out at us all and saying “I love you”. With very little command of English, Danny broke through all the noise of punditry, clichés and click-bait narratives so common in football journalism and demonstrated, beautifully, what Crystal Palace are all about. Confetti and streamers rained down again and once the scene settled Doc called Steve Parish up to the stage as the person who has overseen such a turnaround in the culture and fortunes of the club, that it has actually changed people’s lives. Steve took no time to give credit to people across the whole set up but started with a simple statement that so many in front of him could reflect back to him by telling us that “this has been the best week of my life”. As usual, Steve had some wise, encouraging words before he asked the fans to oblige him in following his lead in a round of his favourite Palace song, We Love You and, with proceedings subsequently coming to and end, Doc had a sense that there was one impromptu issue which could underline what the celebrations were all about. The story behind the Cup Final tifo is now widely known and, in the moment, Doc invited its subjects, Dominic and Nathan Wealleans, on to the stage to enjoy a close up session with that beautiful trophy, the FA Cup. Given their and Palace’s stories, it’s almost immaterial what was said because what had been so obvious throughout was that this was all about celebrating a community, a family who are South London and Proud. Click the photo for the images and if you' ve enjoyed reading this blog, please enjoy some of the other content on the site which you can access from the Portfolio page  and Blog page . Please spread links to others so they can also enjoy the site's content and I'd love to read your thoughts in the comments section below or via email from the Contact page . We won the FA Cup!

The Aurora Borealis, commonly known as the Northern Lights, roughly follows an eleven year solar activity cycle which peaked in 2024 by a visitation to some of the southernmost sightings of this heavenly wonder in recent history. It’s difficult to put the sheer joy I had in seeing it for the first time into words other than I felt like a child getting the birthday present he’s wanted for so long, so it was somewhat intriguing that it appeared as far south for the second time on the 10th October, my daughter’s birthday. On the day the AuroraWatch  App pinged a number of yellow alerts which told me that the phenomenon would be visible across many parts of the UK so, that evening, I checked for clear skies and prepared my camera in the hope that the alerts would spread countrywide, as predicted earlier that day. My Sigma 10-20mm is a great lens but it isn’t designed for a full frame camera. Nonetheless, the crop ratio adjustment gives a maximum angle of 15mm on the D810, which is still an excellent width for shooting vast areas of the night sky. I set the ISO to 1600, put the camera into manual mode, dialled in a shutter speed of 15 seconds at an aperture of F4.0, mounted it on my tripod and settled in to watch a little TV for a change, as I waited for updates. Eyes have two types of receptors; rods and cones, and it’s the low light sensitive rods that are used for night vision with colour sensitive cones active in daylight. I was aware that it takes about twenty minutes for our eyes to switch and that rods aren’t very sensitive to colour, so it stands to reason that when we look at the Aurora it’s nearly always less defined than the images we can capture in camera. It goes without saying then, that looking at a bright screen, even temporarily, isn’t what we should do if we want to see the lights with our naked eyes; a point that seems to be completely lost on many of the people subsequently out with their mobile phone cameras. Sure, I was looking at a bright screen in a darkened room but I knew that all I had to do is register a variation in the normal colour cast of the night sky to know that the northern lights had finally visited me at home, on top of the second highest hill in Sussex. The light show appears because charged particles from solar flares are attracted to the magnetic poles of the Earth where they collide with gases in the upper atmosphere so, if we’re in the northern hemisphere they will always appear, as their Latin name Borealis indicates, to the north and   if we’re in the southern hemisphere to the south, where they’re suitably called Aurora Australis . The steps up to my roof terrace face north-north-east so I periodically lifted the hatch and peered out for a little while to see if I could see a faint glow of unfamiliar colour above the yellow light pollution from distant towns. I checked about three times that first hour with no success but when the App pinged red, just before nine o’clock, I could sense something quite different in the north-eastern sky. I decided to stand up on the roof for a few minutes where a faint, unfamiliar red glow became apparent. I describe it as red because that’s what my eye-brain system registered as my eyes were undergoing the switch between sensors, but “red” or “faint” isn’t what a camera sensor picks up, as my first shot powerfully evidenced. That frame also evidences that my brain and the D810 didn’t register that I’d fitted a non-full-frame lens either, but when I saw the 11mm image with the customary heavy vignetting from the lens barrel I could hardly contain myself. Half out of breath with excitement, “Thank you! Thank you! Thank you!” was all I could mutter out to the heavens. Twenty minutes later I had shot dozens of frames and three or four sequences from east to west to east again, all of which displayed changing patterns of an overall magenta glow. My apartment stands at a point where any air traffic from Gatwick’s southern Willow and Timba  stacks converge before turning for a westerly approach over Tunbridge Wells so, apart from aircraft tracking across the sky in the upper airways, frames often picked up the various anti collision lights of aircraft in various directions as they established on their approach path, some adding positive detail to composition and some not. Once post-processed, I considered that the large bagful of images I caught was really deserving of extra wide coverage, so I chose eight frames from which I stitched together a 180° east-to-north-to-west panorama. I hope you like the result! If you've enjoyed reading this blog then please enjoy some of the images I caught under the 'Latest Images' from the Portfolio page  and check out the other blogs from the the Blog page . Please spread links to others so they can also enjoy the site's content and I'd love to read your thoughts in the comments section below or via email from the Contact page . East-West Panorama of the Aurora Borealis, 10-OCT-2024

It’s part of our human condition to take comfort from a belief that we are in full control of our choices but when personal history and predilection collide we can sometimes experience an overwhelming sense of having been guided to a particular place, at a particular time, for a particular reason. Sure, I plan meticulously when I travel but my approach is far from rigid because I know that if we lack flexibility it’s always at a cost of not being aware of other opportunities we could exploit, if only we saw them. I don’t have a bucket list. Depending on how we define them, the world currently has about 200 sovereign states of which I’ve only visited around 20% so the method which determines where my next destination will be is more akin to an algorithm which tests criteria to find a path to my next experience. This time, as the dampness in the British winter weather set in, I had a strong sense to visit the mild Adriatic coast. I looked at various possibilities, unusually decided I needed to experience a more common approach and aimed for a lazy, one location ‘get away’ stay. The port city of Split in Croatia holds a number of attractions and also played a significant part in my family history. Soon after Hitler invaded Poland my father was ordered to take his men and join the French Army. They made their way across Europe to Split, where they eventually boarded a boat to Marseille. The late afternoon flight from Heathrow was delayed until early evening and by the time we landed in a mist covered Zagreb I wondered if I would get to Split that night. On arrival I found that the onward flight was held back for us latecomers who were ushered through onto the waiting Dash-8. With a taxi pick up waiting for me at the airport, it wasn’t too long before I hit the sack in the apartment which was to be my home for the next seven days. My usual first activity in any location is a walkabout with camera but the morning was overcast so I left my trusty Nikon behind and went to look for a café for breakfast. Walking the main areas of interest around Split isn’t difficult and since the weather didn’t improve I explored all day without camera, noting a few places to revisit in better light of course. The following morning’s bright, crisp winter light brought much anticipation and I made my way down to the ferry terminal where I bought an advance return ticket to the island of Brač. The clear, warm weather would stay with me for the remainder of the trip so things couldn’t have been more perfect for boat trips to the islands. The next day I boarded the midday sailing of the Tin Ujevic  and relaxed under warm azure skies which kissed the top of the coastal mountains as we sailed by. My thoughts turned to my father and I felt an overriding sense to check the date. It was then, when I looked at my phone, that the significance of what I was doing at that very moment hit me. Eighty three years ago, with Europe in the grip of WWII, my father set sail from the harbour I had just departed from but this very day, as I was in some sense following in his footsteps, would have been his 112th birthday. There are many good reasons for travelling out of season but doing so can also be restrictive in some ways. So it proved when my plans for a 10 mile jaunt around the island of Brač was stymied after a long uphill walk in the heat for a lunchtime stop off at a restaurant I had set out for. I found the restaurant, closed. Getting hungrier by the minute I returned to the harbour area in Supetar where I dined with a glass of local red wine and, as the early winter sunset took hold, so did a keen coastal wind which brought a chill to the beautiful scenery and townscape. Too cold to stay out in the wind I found a nearby coffee bar where locals packed in to watch Croatia’s World Cup group game against Canada. Things hadn’t gone well for the team at first but by the time I left, the goal they had conceded within two minutes was reversed and they went in at half time with a 2-1 advantage. Half time was my cue to leave for the ferry back to the mainland and, once on board, I found a place inside where I could watch the second half on a TV screen. Some fifty minutes later, as we slowed on approach to the harbour, the final whistle sounded and Croatia had finished the contest with a 4-1 victory. It felt like a perfect way to end a perfect day. Croats seem to me to be a generally pleasant people. They’re obviously proud, excited by and hopeful for their football team but not in the manic way that seems to be the norm in the UK. That sense of peaceful balance seems to be a general trait of the indigenous population who are not only easy to talk to as a stranger but who genuinely enjoy the fact that they have visitors who take an interest in their homeland. For the next few days I experienced the delights of Split, including the healthy Adriatic diet,  a cappella  folk music and the 1,800 year old Diocletian Roman palace which testifies to the fact that Croatia’s second largest city is only 300km from the east coast of Italy and, with just two days left, I boarded the altogether larger Zadar Rijeka  from the harbour to the verdant island of Hvar. Being genuinely interested in other people and their lives is usually a pleasant experience and my walkabout soon linked me up with a young local who, eager to practice his English, shared an interesting hour or so with me as we walked the coastal paths before going our separate ways. A few hours later I returned to the harbour to enjoy a thirst quenching bottle of beer on the quayside before finding the only open restaurant to dine at as I prepared for my intended ascent of Glavica Hill. The hill overlooks Stari Grad from the north side of the harbour and I duly arrived at the summit after about an hour and a half of uphill walking. As I rested and soaked up the warmth, stillness and bird’s eye views of the town, I found myself reflecting on how privileged I was to be in this place, alone and peacefully observing the unfamiliar landscape and town below. A much quicker and much less arduous descent brought me back to the harbour where another 25 minute leisurely walk around the southern coastal track would bring me to the ferry terminal. The sun soon sank below the horizon and as dusk set in I was treated to some of the most vibrant winter colours I’ve ever seen as I ambled the path for the last sailing of the day back to Split. My last full day had a substantial football theme to it, firstly with a walk to the local stadium of Hajduk Split who I knew from European competitions in my childhood. Along the way I photographed the nearby Marina and Franciscan Monastery and, once at the stadium, I was enamoured to find the team wears exactly the same shirts as the club which occupies a central part of my identity from my years growing up in South London, Crystal Palace FC, the team my father first took me to see when I was just 7 years old. The day's football theme was bookended with an evening's entertainment watching Croatia’s last group game against Belgium among the red neo-Renaissance buildings in the packed Republic Square, where a large screen had been set up to broadcast the match. In a tense game lacking in clear goal opportunities Croatia only needed a draw to qualify for the Round of 16, and the highlight of the evening for the locals came with the score remaining at 0-0 at the final whistle. It was good to feel part of it all, a fan for the night, but the highlights for me were undoubtedly those moments spent photographing faces which expressed just about every human emotion as a matter of their own national pride played out on the screen in front of them. If you've enjoyed reading this blog then please enjoy some of the images I caught under the 'Latest Images' from the Portfolio page  and check out the other blogs from the the Blog page . Please spread links to others so they can also enjoy the site's content and I'd love to read your thoughts in the comments section below or via email from the Contact page . Split Harbour, Croatia

It’s said that we never really visit a place unless we get lost in it and, with its narrow warren-like medina that often had me wondering which rabbit-hole I’d gone down and a GPS signal that’s patchy at best, it’s very easy to “visit” Fés. I trekked the two miles from the station and entered the medina through an inconspicuous side entrance, eventually finding my way to the stunningly beautiful Riad Sidrat . I felt as if I had gone through a magical door as I entered into a world so artistically sumptuous and peaceful that all I wanted to do is to sit and absorb the stillness and intricate architecture of the forecourt for a good half an hour before going to my room upstairs where I marvelled at the soft reflected light which caressed the courtyard below while simultaneously bursting through the stained glass windows like a  nimcha  cutting colours across the tiled floor. Once again, all I wanted to do is absorb the beauty of it all in the moment before showering after which I ascended the small stone staircase to the warmth of the roof terrace under a cloudless sky. It was a long day which started out early in Marrakech so a sound night’s sleep followed by a good breakfast was just what was needed before I ventured into the medina the following day. Short stretches of paved alleyways with sharp corners and rugged walls were the backdrop to the city’s inhabitants; men carrying things or chatting as they sat watching the comings and goings, motor bikes and people passing the ends of passages all played cameo roles in the scenes in front of me as I ambled the passageways in my quest to find the Sidi Moussa  tannery. Getting lost was as interesting as it was easy once I came off the main trading route. The predominantly yellow tones of the walls were sometimes piqued by blues, pinks and umbers while buttresses prevented them from falling into each other or held up higher levels of the buildings behind them. Light and shade, left and right, wider paths lead to the narrowest of alleys and every now and then I’d arrive in a place where I could pick up an intermittent GPS signal to check how my homing pigeon skills had been working. I eventually arrived in a warren-like area and knew I was very close to the tannery but the passages all looked the same to my uninitiated eye. Help came when a local saw me checking my phone and asked me where I wanted to go but, although I was aware that I was both lost and in need of a GPS signal, I was reluctant to follow him at first. Fortunately, he came back for me and took me through passages to the entrance which, had I been obstinate, could have taken me hours to find, not least because the overview I was looking for was only accessible by walking through a store. I was grateful that this wasn’t just another type of “see my uncle’s shop” experience that I had got used to in Marrakech as I engaged my guide who explained what was going on below. The caustic smell of ammonia was immediate and I wondered what strong constitution the men who have to breathe it in had while I watched them undertake back-breaking work in rendered brick tubs which spread out like a square-sided honeycomb. Some tubs remove the main hair and some remove the finer, all of which turns the hide into the softest of leather, while others impregnate the colours and make it ready to be turned into the wares I was naturally invited to inspect in the store before I left. I thanked my guide and gave him an unsolicited tip for his time and interesting information as we went downstairs where astoundingly beautiful leatherwear emanated a rather more pleasant and familiar scent. As so often I’ve found when travelling in a country which maintains its history of craftsmanship, I may well have bought a number of unneeded items just for the sheer pleasure of their beauty and quality. For me, the medina in Fés is a dream location. Maintaining its history in its rugged walls, the maze-like paths are broken every now and then with intricate tiled water fountains while children play around corners and market stalls on the arterial routes spill over with spices, produce and wares. In other parts craftsmen are at work; tinkers work with copper while others sharpen their knives on foot operated stones but, in every direction, the richness of Moroccan identity and culture stimulates the senses through ubiquitous colours, patterns and fragrances. Restaurants offer the most wonderful Tajin dishes while Bab Boujloud , “The Blue Gate”, is both an invitation into the medina’s intimate paths inside the walls and also the exit to a more modern world which, in some senses, is a poor comparison to the vibrant expressions of traditional Moroccan life within. I hope you've enjoyed me sharing these experiences with you and you can check out a small set of associated images under 'Latest Images' on the Portfolio page , from where you can access all the other image content also and, if you've enjoyed the blog, then let me know by giving it a ❤️ and you can access all the others from the main menu or directly from the Blog page . If you enjoy this site then please spread links to others so they can also enjoy its content and I'd love to read any comments which you can post from under the 'Recent Posts' section below or by e-mailing me via the Contact page . Happy travelling!

…is a philosophy I’ve always followed even before I was able to put the sentiment into words. It is, of course, an internal reality but perhaps it was the external experience of travel which calcified my thoughts so that I was able to put words to the creative sensibility it sprang from. I’ve tended to perceive my approach as somewhat counter-cultural but never more so than against present day habituations, where life’s purpose is constantly presented to us as a destination based game, achievement is described by socio-cultural value judgements, and the search for happiness is believed to be achievable by gaining things rather than by experiencing the deeper contentment and joy from being alive to what the universe freely gives to us in the moment. We have an education system which is ever more focussed upon league tables rather than exploration for the sheer pleasure of learning, our sport activities tend towards a narrow mental criterion of ‘win or lose’ and glossy travel brochures present a myriad of possibilities for box ticking and wearing ‘Seen That, Done That’ T-shirts, but if we stood back from the obsession of goal orientation then we would soon find that destinations are best experienced as a by-product of the rich pleasures of the journey that gets us there. The aim then is not to arrive, but to be purposefully aware while we live, and it is with that self-same philosophy that I exited the medina through Bab Boujloud and caught a taxi to the train station. The arched entrance to Gare De Fes echoed that of the Blue Gate and, since a seat in first class was only marginally more expensive than an ordinary ticket, I booked first class and took my allotted place in the six seat compartment. A Muslim woman came in with three teenage daughters and a young son and I helped lift two cases to the overhead luggage shelf as the boy knelt at the window to peer out. I asked in a mix of simple English and hand gestures if she would like me to move next to the door so that they could all sit together, but her oldest daughter replied in English that I should take the window seat, which I happily accepted. The train soon moved off towards Meknes and we chatted briefly about what brought us together. Mother was naturally very pleased to hear how much I was enjoying Morocco, its culture and its food and she told me that they had been on a family visit and were also returning home. We settled down to the ride and I took the opportunity to catch the occasional landscape or mule in a field as the countryside sped by. It was easy to sense that this was a peaceful, happy family as they quietly talked and joked together on what would be fifteen minutes short of a four hour journey. At lunchtime mother’s lap became a kitchen board as two tote bags which stood at her feet produced breadsticks, meat, cheese and fresh juice. I was surprised to be offered a substantial and very enticing filled baguette and juice which, after generous and insistent gestures, I accepted with a gratefully enunciated “Shukran”. I could easily have skipped lunch – in fact I had planned to - but I found Moroccan culture to be honest and open and my sense was that I would neither be properly accepting of it nor would I honour the privileged of being invited to eat with the family if I were to decline. The rural landscape changed as we approached Casablanca where the train would travel on to Marrakech, they would arrive home and I would spend the night in a nearby hotel before taking the tram to the airport for the flight back to the UK. I checked in early, secured a window seat and went through security to wait for the bus that took us out to the aircraft which was standing midfield in the late afternoon sun. I settled in to 30F with my trusty Nikon and went through my pre-flight checks - spare battery, spare card, ISO, exposure mode etc. – as our pilots went through theirs. The weather looked clear all the way along the air corridors we would traverse; up the coastline to Spain, over the western tip of France and the English Channel and onwards across Hampshire, Surrey and Kent to join the queue for the classic westerly approach over London. The art of seeing is surely to be looking with unassuming expectation, just as a child does, so my inner child smiled as we entered Casablanca’s active runway for a rolling northerly departure and off up into the blue. London lies at around 020 degrees from the northwest African coast, so we soon entered a tight bank to starboard which revealed the Mohammad V Stadium and most of the city’s centre below us. Once fully executed we straightened up and climbed to cruising altitude. Tangier soon passed by just before we tracked across the Strait of Gibraltar, its water routes between the two countries having only just been reinstated in the previous days after being closed due to Covid-19. Spanish topography is interesting on so many levels. Depending on time of year and region; patchwork fields with geometric rows of almond trees dot the landscape while furrowed tan and grey-brown amoeboid shaped fields are sights which would no doubt have delighted Antoni Gaudi, if he were ever to have seen the organic surrealism they create on the canvass below. Such artistic pleasures were to elude me this time, but as we flew over Andalucía I caught a sight of the Barbate Reservoir, flanked by the Algorrobo Mountains to the east and perfectly round verdant discs to the south which testify to mechanized circular crop watering in the area. Thirty minutes later we crossed the dry lands of Castilla y Léon where the winding flow of the River Tagus made itself eminently conspicuous before we passed over the Cantabrian Mountains and northern coastline, at Santander. Shipping wakes punctuated the deep blue tones of the Bay of Biscay before the French coastlines of Brittany looked up at us from below. It wasn’t long before we tracked over the Isle of Wight, where the tell-tale signs of the lifeboat jetty and rows of anchored boats in the harbour at Bembridge gave away our location. At the same time we were treated to some beautiful views of Hayling Island and Wittering standing on opposite sides of the Emsworth Channel, the two land masses seeming to hold the channel’s blue-teal features between outstretched hands, while the unmistakable triangular layout of Thorney Island’s wartime RAF airfield stood out among cotton wool clouds which dotted the area. We’d been on a north-north-east heading ever since we flew up the Morrocan seaboard, but we finally banked to the right again as our flight passed into the care of London’s air traffic controllers. We descended over Leatherhead and Coulsdon and were vectored to the Biggin Hill waypoint, where we entered a left hand turn at an altitude of around 7,000 feet. The tarmac runway and hangars at Biggin Hill’s famous airfield were easy to spot, slipping by to our right as our Seven-Three-Seven-MAX turned to establish on the glidepath. A minute and a half later the view was filled with the Isle of Dogs and O2 Arena, but by the time we came out of the turn the view of Central London was already behind us. North of The Thames, the Houses of Parliament, St. Paul’s Cathedral and Westminster Abbey lay in the distance while the London Eye, Waterloo Station and The Oval below us signalled our fourteen mile approach to Heathrow’s southern runway. Five minutes later we reached our destination as cold rubber met with warm tarmac and automatically caused the airbrakes on top of the wings to deploy. Moments later the roar of thrust reversers filled the cabin as we decelerated to taxiing speed. Quieter moments followed as we exited the runway and arrived on stand a few minutes later, where the aircraft’s engines would spool down only to be replaced by various staccato Smartphone tones as people stood up from their seats to open the overhead lockers. Destination achieved, the passenger in seat 30F sat quietly looking out the window and reflected on the multiple pleasures that came to him as part of the journey he had travelled. I hope you've enjoyed reading these experiences and that you'll enjoy the associated images which you can find under 'Latest Images' from the Portfolio page and where you’ll also find other categories of images. Do please leave any feedback via the comment section below and check out the other blogs from the Blog page . If you enjoy this site then please spread links to others so they can also enjoy its content and I'd love to read any comments which you can post from under the 'Recent Posts' section below or by e-mailing me via the Contact page . Happy travelling!

I was in Rome, enjoying one of my most loved pastimes of walking with my trusty Nikon while scanning the area for images that present themselves to us when we look, really look, at what is all around. Tourists pile in and out of the many beautiful historic buildings, some with guides, others on their own. A simply dressed old man stands perfectly still with an outstretched hat in his hand I immediately saw the powerful image in my mind's eye and, as I approached, I considered all the common, uneasy objections to giving directly on a street, in a city. I walked past, gained distance, stopped and turned to watch the man, still statuesque as people walked past: tourists, workers, families, clergymen alike. I put a ten Euro note in my pocket, shot a salvo of frames and walked back. It all happened so quickly; a slight smile on my face as his clear, humble eyes met mine. His hat grew in weight and value as he voiced an honest and appreciative "Grazie". The weight of being compelled lifted in me as I slipped away and rested in the valuable experience I knew I would relive when I came to work the images. This, a gift, an image and a moment of life, shared with someone I'm privileged to have met so briefly. https://www.imageresolution17.com/street-documentary-photography

Welcome to my Blog. If you've checked out my About and Portfolio pages you'll understand that my passion for photography is an important part of my life's journey, a journey which has arrived here, where I can celebrate that ongoing journey through images and words. You may find we have a lot in common and you may equally find that we have many differences, but all those things teach us to appreciate each other and reassess the lens we see life through. Photography and travel are valuable ways to experience personal enrichment. They both ask us to question our views and perspectives; to effectively reassess and change the world within ourselves as we're touched by the richness of nature, culture, human ingenuity and new experiences. These images, therefore, aren't just documents of the things I have experienced but also pastiches of my own inner journey. In that sense they are stories; of our planet, of human culture, of my life and of the lives of others. Selfies, snapshots, auto-processed photographs and click-bait content may have their own purpose and value, but you're unlikely to find such things here. Every image is individually considered and worked in the hope that viewers and readers alike will not just enjoy them, but that they might also be encouraged and inspired by what they see and read. My hope is that they open you up to the wealth of possible experiences which lay beyond our usual lives. Please do Sign Up (see top of this page) to receive periodic updates via email. I hope my work will inspire you to travel with purpose, without and within. Paul

Lindisfarne, Holy Island; an area of just one and one half square miles with a big history that boasts a castle, a monastery, the relics of St. Cuthbert and a Viking invasion. Accessible twice daily at low tide, the coastguards have their work cut out with visitors regularly sitting atop their waterlogged cars on the causeway but a relatively new, and curious, phenomenon are people who become stranded on the island itself - because they want to see the tide come in. Planning is such an underused strategy in life! I had planned for three lazy days visiting my friend Steven who, having grown up in the northeast, was the the perfect host; full of knowledge about the area and its life. Clear and sunny in the days before, the weather on the island had now turned mainly to cloudy skies and ethereal morning mists. At times, shards of sunlight would break through as the distant hollering of thousands of seals on the sandbanks in the North Sea punctured the silence. Nearer inland, a solitary cross silently marked St. Cuthbert's Island. Sometimes the mist was so dense that the castle wasn't at all visible from 100 meters away, but when it enveloped the rotted jetty posts on the beach it delivered a scene of such dereliction that it conjured up poems from Siegfried Sassoon in my mind, albeit that the conditions and times were quite other to those which his writings inhabit. More charming were the beached boats and upturned Herring Boat sheds which drew my lens and gave good return on my walks while, in clearer hours, the conspicuous might of Bamburgh Castle stood guard over the Northumberland coastline. Better weather for a visit to Bamburgh one afternoon brought closer views of the Farne Islands from the beach, where people and their dogs enjoyed the enviable stretches of sand of England's most least populated county. Everywhere the castle, which dates back to the site of a first Millenium fort, dominated the views around town while Aiden, the Irish monk credited for converting Anglo-Saxon Northumbria to Christianity, lay in his tomb at St. Aiden's church. All the while Lindisfarne Castle peeked through the sea mist towards the north and the following morning brought another cloudy day to roam the locale in. A fishing boat chugged across the bay in front of the low sun as the Farne Islands spread across the horizon like a locomotive underneath smoky skies. I ambled for a last look before it was time for Steven to take me back across the causeway, to catch my train back to Berwick. From there the tracks carried me to Edinburgh Waverly where I caught the tram to Turnhouse, so as to complete my east-west island hop tour, before boarding the waiting A320 which delivered some wonderful views over London on approach to Heathrow. I hope this blog has interested you and please do check out my other blogs from the Blog page and other images from the Portfolio page . I'd love to read your views about the site and its content in the comments section below and it's always great to know if you've enjoyed the blogs which you can let me know by simply giving it a 'heart'.

From the 'are we there yet' pleadings of a child to the present day collective obsessions about attainable targets, our lives seem ever more focussed on end results but, for those of us who remain conscious of these mere ephemera, we never take the journey of life for granted. Life with a big L is, in fact, all about the journey. When we place our focus on the essence of our lived experiences in the moment rather than on fleeting achievement we tend to not only achieve as much as we are able at any particular moment in time, but we also become more aware of the myriad opportunities and gifts that are bestowed upon us. Awareness often seems to be such an undervalued feature of our inner lives. This one day journey, from a Scottish isle in the northwest to an English isle in the northeast, was to take me from bus to plane, to tram, to train and finally from foot to car as my journey cut a diagonal across Scotland and over the border into England. I woke early, ate breakfast and caught the bus from the terminus in Stornoway, arriving at the airport in good time to watch 'Romeo-Charlie' arrive and taxi on stand. Fifty five minutes later Loganair 344 had crossed the North Atlantic as we tracked south-south-east over the Scottish highlands. The hum of the twin turboprops faded into the background as the peaceful topographic contours of hills, lochs and dams circumscribed a verdant landscape. Snaking roads made patterns through trees and around occasional wind farms, the landscape becoming ever less rugged as we made our way down to the River Forth. Descending further onto our base leg for Edinburgh Turnhouse, ubiquitous farmland was interrupted by neatly laid out developments of red and grey roofs which became ever more frequent and sizeable the further south we flew. We turned onto final approach for Runway 06 at EDI and, after a while, I felt the familiar thud of the undercarriage dropping below my seat. The event was met by a characteristic drop in speed and increased cabin noise as air particles caused friction against the steel and rubber appendages. Closer still the the aerial perspective became adorned with unadulterated farmland where harvested fields and purposefully situated straw bails painted modernist canvasses within irregular geometric boundaries. It was a gloriously sunny day and I took the tram into Edinburgh. Within a short walk I had reached Waverly Train Terminus and perused the offerings of a whiskey shop before boarding the train to Berwick-Upon-Tweed. Later that evening I'd be on my way to another island I'd long wanted to visit but, for now, I stashed the bottle of Laphroaig in my case, ready to be gifted to my host who would collect me once the tides allowed him to drive across the causeway to the mainland. With a lot more than a few hours to enjoy I popped into The Castle Hotel and asked if I might leave my case there for a while, so as I could properly explore this town of dualistic identity. The border town of Berwick is the northernmost town in England and is situated just 4km from Scotland. It retains many links with the neighbouring country, so much so that both its football club and rugby club play in the Scottish leagues. Is it English or Scottish?...both, it would seem, in some senses at least. A traditional market town, the main street descended from the station past a multitude of small shops and businesses and down to the medieval walls and impressive grass laden Elizabethan ramparts. Standing high above the town, the rampart gave me a sense of what it was like to be one of the gulls milling about as I looked down on the townsfolk going about their business. The route I chose was firstly to the east, for views over the North Sea, Berwick Pier and its lighthouse. From there the rampart turned southwards and noticeably downhill as I approached the mouth of the River Tweed. I headed down to the town walls which, by this time, were basking in the golden light of an icreasingly low laying sun which glistened like a mirror ball off the water. A handful of anglers fished for their supper as I headed north to the three bridges lying further up the river and I finished up at the impressive Royal Border Bridge. I stopped for some time to capture its striking backlit arches which looked like a stencil against the sky before making tracks again, climbing the 30 metres or so up steps and paths back to the top of the town. I reclaimed my luggage at The Castle and took a well earned pint of local ale in the bar as I catalogued and thinned out my image haul for the day on my laptop. I waited until the dark hours before walking down to the station again where my pick up would finally meet me and take us back to his home on the alluring isle of Lindisfarne. I hope this blog has interested you and please do check out my other blogs from the Blog page and other images from the Portfolio page . I'd love to read your views about the site and its content in the comments section below and it's always great to know if you've enjoyed the blogs which you can let me know by simply giving it a 'heart'.

I arrived at Inverness Airport the morning before and stayed overnight in Ardersier prior to my lunchtime flight to the Isle of Lewis. Loganair 153 took off on time and tracked northwest over Ullapool before a left hand turn delivered some beautiful coastline views on approach to Stornoway. There are no bus services on the island on Sunday but I had planned to walk the few miles into town anyway. It was blustery and rain was in the air so I turned my collar to the cold and damp and headed down the airport road. Before long a kindly couple offered me a much appreciated lift to the doorstep of my B&B and I settled in to download and catalogue images while wondering what tomorrow's walkabout would bring. Muted tones of overcast skies may hold many challenges for a photographer but they also have their own subtleties to be explored, something my circuitous path around the harbour and down to Arnish Point would soon reveal. Isolation is a gift when we have a camera over the shoulder, broken only by the nods and hellos of a handful of other travellers. Streams, hills, trees and ferns, monuments, boats, ships and burns all become subjects for the lens. Rugged coastal scenes and carpets of heather accompany me to the Bonnie Prince Charlie monument and onwards to the solitude of the deserted lighthouse standing tight lipped over the lives and deaths it has witnessed. The walk back was punctuated by brief moments of sunshine and a trip back down to the harbour later that night delivered some night time images which always have a charm all of their own. Morning was bright and warm. I stopped off at the harbour on my way down the bus station in good time to catch one of the four daily cross-country rides out to the west of the island. Next stop Callanish, where I would experience the mysterious presence of the Standing Stones. Erected some 5,000 years ago, the only way to really appreciate the human timescale which puts our own brief personal existence into context is to stand in amongst them. Once there I had to work fast in the ten minutes before clouds, some heavily laden with water, obscured the sun but they served as a dramatic backdrop for a number of studies of this stunning Neolithic work of human ingenuity. The cloud cover seemed to synchronise with more people arriving so I moved on to traverse part of the area around Loch Ceann Hulabhaig which offered up a few more gems for my memory card before making my way back to Stornoway for my last night prior to heading off to the mainland again. I hope this blog has interested you and please do check out my other blogs from the Blog page and other images from the Portfolio page . If you've enjoyed this blog then I'd love to read your views in the comments section and why not send me a 'heart' from below the image too :)

Casablanca might lend its name to some of the most quotable moments in film history but it was Crosby, Stills & Nash's song, Marrakech Express , that filled my mind when I started out on my journey at the ornate terminus building in the "Red City". On arrival at Gare Casa Voyageurs in the "White City", an altogether more modern terminus with intricately patterned angled roof awaited my inspection before I set off on foot to find my lodgings. The city's hispanic name and moniker are reflected by predominantly white buildings with both architecture and city layout making Casablanca instantly distinguishable as a modern business centre. Neat multi storey character edifices and tree lined main avenues make up much of the aesthetic appeal along arterial traffic routes and, having checked in and rested, I slung my trusty Nikon over my shoulder and set out on what became a 10 mile roundtrip to the coastline and back. Before long I found myself in United Nations Square where a large festival stage had been errected for Jazzablanca 2022 . I loitered a while to listen to an excellent Jazz fushion band working their way through a sound check but I had limited time for my planned walk so soon set off again, through the Medina Market and down towards my target location at the El Hank Lighthouse. Even at distance, the 210 metre high minaret of the Hassan II Mosque dominated the vistas towards the coastline and ever more so as I got nearer. Its beautifully intricate architectural detail attracted the eye at every turn and on reaching the coastline I headed west along the neat, wide promenade which runs the length of the bay. It was Monday but it felt like a weekend as locals took pleasurable afternoon strolls, jogged or sat enjoying the views towards the mosque. People gathered with their families and friends to enjoy the cloudless skies and warm weather but the demographic changed almost in sympathy to the rugged peninsula at El Hank, where bikers and young people enjoyed a beer while chilling or smoking whatever the usual leaf is in these parts.   A lone cyclist perched himself at the edge of the cliff and looked out to sea, a response I found unavoidable as the sun glisted on the expanse of water before us and I spent a little time to enjoy the late afternoon ambience as the shallow angle of the sun's elevation gave texture to the landscape and decrepit coastal buildings around me. When I started back I was aware that I would now have a 180 degree perspective on the scenes I had passed along the way and, changing my route slightly, I came across several enticing street art elevations on tenement buildings displaying colourful cultural images, often celebrateing women and which now reflected the beautiful saturated tones from the sinking summer sun. I eventually arrived back at United Nations Square where a crowd were standing patiently in expectation of the sights and sounds to come. The waxing crescent moon seemed to watch on from a lofty height as the sun had become conspicuous only by its absence and a palpable sense of expectation ran through the crowd as silhouettes of palm trees became screen printed against tangerine dream skies. Musicians entered the stage some fifteen minutes later to check levels before taking up their positions. Eerie keyboards underpinned distant familiar cries of "I want my own TV" which preluded the famous staccato guitar riff of what would turn into a well polished version of Dire Strait's Money For Nothing as the first song in an energetic set list. Conversely, the warm evening light turned through phases of nautical and astronomical dusk towards the still night but, although I wanted to stay longer, I'd had a tiring day and had the prospect of a three hour train journey in the morning. I listened to a handful of songs and captured some of the changing ambience through the lens before leaving, albeit with a slight sense of unfulfilled pleasure, but that feeling soon subsided when my feet reminded me that I had another kilometre to walk before I could take a shower and sink weary bones into a clean, comfortable hotel bed. Casablanca is a major port and transport hub which many air and rail routes across the country have to pass through and I'm sure it has far more to offer than what I experienced in the twenty four hours I had to explore it, but my focus was to engage with as classic a Moroccan experience as I had done in Marrakech so my stay was deliberately brief. So it was that, following a good night's rest and breakfast, I made my way back to Casa Voyageurs to catch the train to the "Yellow City", Fes, which was soon to enchant me with its labyrinthine Medina, relaxed but vibrant souks and historic tannery. I hope you've enjoyed me sharing these experiences with you and you can check out a small set of associated images under 'Latest Images' on the Portfolio page , from where you can access all the other image content also and, if you've enjoyed the blog, then let me know by giving it a ❤️ and you can access all the others from the main menu or directly from the Blog page . If you enjoy this site then please spread links to others so they can also enjoy its content and I'd love to read any comments which you can post from under the 'Recent Posts' section below or by e-mailing me via the Contact page . Happy travelling!

Acting as a natural barricade between the mild coastlines of the Atlantic and Mediterranean against the fiery Sahara, the Atlas mountains stretch across the Moroccan landscape like a lizard's backbone for almost 1000km. Their purple and russet slopes provide home settlements to many of North Africa's indigenous people, the Berbers, and it wasn't long after Ali had picked me up that they rose majestically from the road in front of us. Every now and then our climb would plateau and offer us opportunities to take in the scenic backdrop on our way to our first stop in Dou Igri where we would search out a traditional Berber home. These simple dwellings point to times long gone in the developed world but the keenest sense that impresses as we walk through the spartan quarters is the strong sense of identity which exists within the clay walls, Tajine pots and silverware. A small water driven mill used for grinding ultra fine flour stood in its own room near the entrance while, next door, flatbreads lay warming over an open fire in a sparsely furnished kitchen. We live in image obsessed times but Moroccan women are often displeased at being the subject of unscrupulous holiday snappers, so undertaking street photography and portraiture has greater limitations in such a society. It can, however, offer greater returns if we are genuinely interested in our subjects and, as we made our way out through the kitchen, a Berber woman sat tending the flatbreads. I partially raised my lens and communicated "May I take your portrait?" through a tip of my head and facial expression. Her relaxed gaze implied acceptance as she sat perfectly still for me to shoot a photograph that I consider to be one of the true pearls of this trip. On leaving, Ali took us further into the mountains to Setti Fadma where he linked me up with a local guide who was surprised to find that I wanted to see his local neighbourhood rather than the waterfalls. This was the guide's back yard where he played as a child and he climbed like a mountain goat as we took shortcuts from the well worn, winding paths. I was thankful that I had selected some decent walking shoes with grips on their soles and, in the distance, other small Berber towns and apple orchards sat on the rocky slopes as we climed higher. Proud to show me his home, we went on to visit his neighbour where I was immediately offered Moroccan tea while women sat weaving carpets at the loom and cattle and sheep stood in the stables below. Returning to the town centre it was time for lunch and I was presented with a mountain of couscous to get through at a riverside restaurant. Small birds visited the tables looking for scraps while local musicians did likewise, looking for tips, as the peaceful waters flowed in this idyllic spot. It was soon time to meet up with Ali again to start our journey back down the slopes to Marrakech and our penultimate stop was at a roadside pottery where a veritable Aladdin's Cave of sumptuous stoneware and hand painted, glazed artefacts greeted us as the potter showed us his phenomenal handiwork. Of all the wonderful images I captured in Morocco, the portrait of this artisan at the wheel was to prove to be the one which I cherish the most and I couldn't help to wonder that he demonstrated what any true craftsman does as he sculpted the clay with his hands; he made it look so easy. The evening was sublime as I lazed up on the roof terrace back at the Riad, content with my day spent getting to know Ali, his country and its people and certainly knowing I had bagged some beautiful images for post-processing. Travelling shows us that there are many ways of living and so many points of view we could consider as we are challenged to step outside our comfort zone, especially in a wonderful country like Morocco. After all, where else might you find camels on the side of the road and telephone masts made to look like palm trees? I hope that sharing these experiences with you here gives you much pleasure and encouragement to travel and you can check out all the other images, most of which have been taken on my travles from the Portfolio page and other blogs from the Blog page . For those of you who might like to follow in these mountainous footsteps, then you can drop Ali a line at Ali Travel here . This site isn't sponsored so please spread to let others know about and enjoy it and I'd be very interested to read any comments which you can post from under the 'Recent Posts' section below.