So I start my ramblings on photography with
some favourites from Suffolk, where I have
ended up. I'm old-fashioned enough to be out
of touch with modern styles of photography,
the 'street' photography, the pretentious
but apparently 'collectible' sorts of pictures
that are lauded by the colour supplements,
or the best of the worst from Instagram and
the like. But I'm still developing, if you'll forgive the pun, so I might get there yet.
In 2017, Suffolk hosted the National Sheepdog Trials at Haughley Park, just up the road.
I knew there’d be crowds and that I’d have to worm my way to the front to get a good
viewpoint. But with camera hand-held the dogs moved so fast I could barely keep them
in the viewfinder with the tele lens on, and they rarely came close enough to the crowd
to get a decent image. So I wandered the rest of the show, and came across a tent
where sheep-shearing was being demonstrated by an old boy whose Suffolk accent was
virtually impenetrable. He was shearing Portland sheep, presumably shipped in from
darkest Dorset, and in a small paddock to the side they were milling around, patiently
waiting their turn. In turn, I waited patiently for them to rearrange themselves for shot
you see here. The soft light was perfect, the sheep were calmer than I was, and a
minute later the big ram in the middle was having his collar felt.
So I start my ramblings on photography with some
favourites from Suffolk, where I have ended up.
I'm old-fashioned enough to be out of touch with
modern styles of photography, the 'street'
photography, the pretentious but apparently
'collectible' sorts of pictures that are lauded by the
colour supplements, or the best of the worst from
Instagram and the like. But I'm still developing, if
you'll forgive the pun, so I might get there yet.
In 2017, Suffolk hosted the National Sheepdog Trials at Haughley Park, just up the road. I
knew there’d be crowds and that I’d have to worm my way to the front to get a good
viewpoint. But with camera hand-held the dogs moved so fast I could barely keep them in the
viewfinder with the tele lens on, and they rarely came close enough to the crowd to get a
decent image. So I wandered the rest of the show, and came across a tent where
sheep-shearing was being demonstrated by an old boy whose Suffolk accent was virtually
impenetrable. He was shearing Portland sheep, presumably shipped in from darkest Dorset,
and in a small paddock to the side they were milling around, patiently waiting their turn. In
turn, I waited patiently for them to rearrange themselves for shot you see here. The soft light
was perfect, the sheep were calmer than I was, and a minute later the big ram in the middle
was having his collar felt.