The Slow Train

 

At one time, railway lines criss-crossed West Yorkshire like the warp and weft of the very fabrics the area was famous for. Holmfield Junction Station stood at the junction of the line from Halifax to Bradford via Queensbury and the splendidly named Halifax High Level Railway. None of these lines survive, and when I took this photo of the station in the 1960s, it had already been closed for more than a decade.

Stone Passion

Forget Fifty Shades of Grey: let the sun shine in Yorkshire and you get something much better - fifty shades of stone. Those shades don’t come from some manufactured dye (see the brick wall top left and demolish immediately), but from aeons of sedimentary activity, with the occasional added spice of igneous movement. Stone passion.

 

The Picture Postcard

 

Raise a toast to the humble picture-postcard photographers of a century ago. They seemed to spend their lives producing decorative trinkets - bearing inane greetings - sent from aunt to nephew, friend to friend, and lover to lover. What they actually did was preserve the past better than any porticoed museum. They stopped time and saved the past for the future.

Locarno Conference

When world leaders arrive at one of the countless international conferences they seem to attend these days, they might pause for a quick Facebook post or an X tweet, but they are unlikely to pose for, and add their signatures to, a commemorative picture postcard. This card from my collection reflects a different world. Unfortunately, the conference brought peace to Europe for only about ten years. Nice postcard, however.

Howzat!

 

Each week I take the grandchildren up to cricket practice at Green Moor, high on the hills between Sheffield and Barnsley. Each week, as the kids bat balls and catch catches, I look at the scene and try and capture a little of what I see on my phone or my iPad. I never really succeed, but it's fun trying. Here's this week's attempt.

Dark Satanic Mill

As time goes by and memories fade, there is a tendency to romanticise life in the mills of West Yorkshire (and I'm probably as guilty as the next old fool when it comes to this). When they were turning out cloth - or yarn or carpets - by the mile and black smoke was belching from their chimneys, they were dirty, noisy and dangerous places. I worked in this mill back in the 60s for what, I'm glad to say, was a very short period of time.

 

All At Sea

Having just booked a trip later this year to visit my various Caribbean relatives, perhaps I should prepare them for my arrival aboard the Queen Mary. After all, it has been some time since I've seen them. However, as they will discover, I haven't changed at all. 

The Build Up

 

To be honest, I don't remember taking this photograph, but it remains one of my favourite shots of my hometown. Surrounded by hills, Halifax has always built upward: stone needles of mill chimneys, ornate church spires, and concrete-clad boxes of apartments. Scenes like this were made for black and white - colour had no place in Halifax's palette back in those days.

Another Fine Mesh

Whenever I'm inside a stately home, I can't help taking a photograph through the windows, looking out. Maybe it's the mesh they use on windows in places like this that creates a Photoshop filter-like effect. Maybe it's a deep-seated philosophical response to the confines of the British class system. Either way, they always look nice.

 

Good Or Bad?

This is a photo of a boating lake in Blackpool, taken by my Uncle Frank 80+ years ago. I can never tell with Uncle Frank's photos whether they were spectacularly good or spectacularly bad. I submitted it to an AI bot and asked "is this a good photograph?" The answer was: "Yes, it is an exceptionally compelling and well-composed photograph. From both a technical and artistic standpoint, it achieves several elements that make a classic photograph successful". Well, there you go!

 

I Was Nearly Kilt Last Night

 

"We got away for a few days. The weather is lovely. I was nearly kilt last night climbing hills. This is just at the top where we live". A brief explanation of the message on this old postcard may be necessary. The word "kilt" is a northern expression meaning "killed". The hill in question is Salterhebble Hill, and those who know it will appreciate how you might be nearly kilt climbing it.