Goat abstracts and being there

I first noticed years ago that being on my own, with my camera, made me seem approachable to people who wanted someone to talk to. I take it as a compliment and just listen.

Yesterday I went out hoping to capture some old buildings/autumn leaves/sparkly Irish raindrop type photographs. Instead, as is often the case, I got diverted and ended up with a memory card full of abstract close-ups of a pretty white goat.

And I also had a long conversation with a woman walking on her own around the same roads as me. She stopped to talk about the goat, but almost immediately told me that she used to walk her dog here every day. The dog died two weeks ago, and this was the first time she'd come here on her own. Such a sad and brave thing. I was glad we were able to talk about the much-loved dog and how much it always enjoyed being in this lovely rural area. I hope it helped, even a little bit, to soften the pain of what must have been a difficult outing.

East Coast

Sometimes I find east-facing coasts a bit frightening. They seem cold and light and you're not always sure what's out there, as a new part of the day turns towards you.

West coasts somehow seem more comfortable - warmer, maybe a little more nostalgic and emotional. Maybe it's living in Ireland - in a way, you can't get much further west.

Is there such a thing as a "west-facing" personality? I don't know, but I might be one.

So I find east coasts a challenge, and sometimes a challenge is what I need. A visit to Aldeburgh, on the Suffolk coast, last week, was just that. I'd been there once before and knew how beautiful the light was, how unique its colours, how intriguing its combination of weathered details and huge emptiness. I wanted to look and listen and try to capture something of all that in my images.

I found my weathered textures. 

My companions didn't worry about the looking east thing. 

Before we went, I had a plan in which I'd buy a huge bunch of helium balloons and make my family members pose on the beach, holding them in romantic fashion. Probably everyone is glad that that didn't work out. But some of the buoys on the ships almost compensated for the lack of balloons. 

Don't miss the little paper boat. There might be some kind of parable in this shot. 

I did bring a single hydrangea bloom with me. I know, that might be a bit weird. 

Fresh fish. And we made sure we ate some. 

Ely Cathedral

The quieter you become, the more you can hear.

Sometimes that's most the case in very old places. The voices are still there. Look quietly and listen.

Last week I spent a morning in Ely Cathedral, which dates back to the seventh century. It was time out with my dad, also a keen photographer, and a welcome chance to borrow his tripod and create some effective longer exposures.

It's a remarkable building. The grandeur of its scale is balanced by the intricate detail of its surface decorations. The marks of its makers are everywhere and it's humbling to imagine their stories.

My favourite part is Bishop Alcock's chapel, with its royal icing stalactites, battered and broken by time.

At Ely, I'm constantly looking upwards. I'm sure that was part of the original plan.

The face of Christ breaks the symmetry and forms the central point of the octagon tower's ceiling.

The angels are painted on huge wooden "doors" which allow closer access to the ceiling.

Textures and perspectives, combinations to draw the eye for hours.....

....and a sense of being very small, yet a part of something very big.