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The Ta-Ta Tales Of Chapel Camera Club
Episode 1
Gait Barrows Words By Stephen ‘Mid’ Middleton
“It’s not what you might call a landscape this. Is it, Steve”, he sighed. His face, an avalanche of despair. What did he expect? Yosemite? “I’ve seen limestone pavement before and it’s got like a whole flat area of just barren rock with just one tree… Now, that’s a landscape”.
Since he put it like that I was compelled to admit Keith did have a valid point. My choice of destination had been unashamedly self-indulgent.
I don’t know about you, but I’ve always found that the happiest organisations are those whose collective knowledge and expertise are freely traded amongst their members. A virtue I witness at Chapel Camera Club on a weekly basis. This idea of a ‘free knowledge trade’ resonates with my own moral instincts: that is to say by becoming a member it is incumbent on me to give back something in return for what I’ve been generously given. Thus, to reciprocate the munificent help and hospitality, not to mention the tolerance of my intolerable tourettes-style quips I wanted to introduce the club to my little world. A world of flowers, rocks and trees. A world which is surely of immeasurable photogenic charm… But where?
Gait Barrows! It popped into my mind like a gift from the Muse. Yes, Gait Barrows, that cosy little nature reserve nestling on the Lancs and Cumbrian border. That’s bound to impress ‘em. With its orchids, sculptured stone and stunted boughs it’d blow the britches off a belted Earl! And so, the game was afoot.
Kick off was at 10am Sunday 5th June at Newtown Railway Station. My dream team consisted of Sue Murdoch, Janette Hindle, Shay and Lynne McPeake, David Blowers, Angela Caunce, Norma and Bob Wade, Ken Lomas, Brian Barfoot, Ismail and Samo El Haddad, Brian Bristol and Keith Gordon. I cannot recall exactly what I said in my prep talk because I was suffering from the mother of all man-flues but it certainly had the desired effect. With a glint in their eye and a spring in their step they shot out of that car park like greyhounds in the slips. I swear to goodness Shay McPeake was screaming onto the M60 before I’d even had the chance to close my map case!
Now, I must confess, this was the stage when I began to twitch a bit! All alone I began to worry. ‘I hope they understand my directions?... Suppose someone gets lost?... Suppose someone breaks down?... Suppose… Suppose someone has an accident? Oh, Stephen, why did you have to choose Gait Barrows for your first ta-ta? Malcolm didn’t even know how to spell it! You always have to be so bold. Couldn’t you have suggested somewhere local… Monsal Head... Lathkill Dale… Sparrowpit? Did it need to be so far away?... I bet someone gets lost.’ The junction for Preston was barely disappearing in my rear view mirror when it began to rain. ‘Oh No! Now it’s chuckin’ it down. My name’s going to be mud!’ Bursting for a comfort break and a box of valium I pulled into Lancaster Services but I was more relieved it’d stopped raining. Moments later I cruised to our second rendezvous in the pretty dove-grey village of Yealand Redmayne to find what appeared to be an improvised roadblock.
“Where’ve you been?” someone chided. “We’ve been waiting half an hour!” Then, in a masterpiece of timing Lynne McPeake asked, “Do you know if there are any loos here, us ladies are bursting?” “I’ve got a roll of toilet paper in the van,” I smirked. “There’s plenty of bushes where we’re going.” Deducing from the scowl a blind man could tell exactly where she wanted me to stuff it!
Travelling in convoy for the remaining two and a half miles I pioneered the way around the unhurried, leafy lanes until at last I was indicating left into the car park of Gait Barrows. ‘Phew! We made it!’
Photography is an absorbing hobby requiring more than a modicum of concentration and (if you pardon the appalling pun) focus. Having arrived on site, however, the consummate art for me became relegated to a spectator sport. I didn’t mind. My purpose was passive not active. My enjoyment came from finding interesting subjects which my guests might like to photograph and to ensure that nobody fell into one of the thousands of ankle-breaking chasms called grykes. Oh, don’t let the name fool you! Gait Barrows has absolutely nothing to do with either the way a person walks or single-wheeled contraptions for lugging heavy loads. It is in fact a small but significant nature reserve managed by Natural England and famous for enclosing what is indisputably the finest limestone pavement flora anywhere in the whole of the UK. I love wildflowers which is why I chose it. Did I mention that?
After about an hour and a half Keith confided his hunger for dragonflies. I suggested he might try his luck in the nearby wetland of Haweswater. Realising the potential he summoned his forces with a rallying cry and put the ‘Gordon Plan’ into effect. Haweswater would be occupied by a two-pronged assault. I was to lead a brigade in a great encircling movement and attack from the east whilst Keith and the officer corps attacked… platefuls of fish and chips in a Silverdale Pub. “He didn’t have his breakfast,” explained Sue. “He can’t function on an empty stomach.”
We knew our place. We had our mission. We marched on iron rations: Norma’s Kendal Mint Cake split between seven. But providence was to reward our privations. Traipsing along a woody path that skirted the edge of the lake, someone from our party – I forget exactly who – suddenly yelled, “Hey, hey! Look at this!” Protruding from the side of a rotting old pollard and illuminated by a perfect shaft of sunlight was the biggest, brightest bracket fungus I had ever seen. In an orchestral clatter of equipment we each took turns to snap our fungal fashionista. “By ‘eck, Steve. I’ve ne’re seen owt like that. ‘Ere, we’ll none tell that lot. It’ll be our secret.” Keith and company returned to the tumultuous triumph. I felt I ought to tell them. It was my moral duty. I only keep secrets from the tax office! So here I close my tale by tying it in to the beginning. Knowledge is like currency: it’s utterly useless until it changes hands.
Episode 1
Gait Barrows Words By Stephen ‘Mid’ Middleton
“It’s not what you might call a landscape this. Is it, Steve”, he sighed. His face, an avalanche of despair. What did he expect? Yosemite? “I’ve seen limestone pavement before and it’s got like a whole flat area of just barren rock with just one tree… Now, that’s a landscape”.
Since he put it like that I was compelled to admit Keith did have a valid point. My choice of destination had been unashamedly self-indulgent.
I don’t know about you, but I’ve always found that the happiest organisations are those whose collective knowledge and expertise are freely traded amongst their members. A virtue I witness at Chapel Camera Club on a weekly basis. This idea of a ‘free knowledge trade’ resonates with my own moral instincts: that is to say by becoming a member it is incumbent on me to give back something in return for what I’ve been generously given. Thus, to reciprocate the munificent help and hospitality, not to mention the tolerance of my intolerable tourettes-style quips I wanted to introduce the club to my little world. A world of flowers, rocks and trees. A world which is surely of immeasurable photogenic charm… But where?
Gait Barrows! It popped into my mind like a gift from the Muse. Yes, Gait Barrows, that cosy little nature reserve nestling on the Lancs and Cumbrian border. That’s bound to impress ‘em. With its orchids, sculptured stone and stunted boughs it’d blow the britches off a belted Earl! And so, the game was afoot.
Kick off was at 10am Sunday 5th June at Newtown Railway Station. My dream team consisted of Sue Murdoch, Janette Hindle, Shay and Lynne McPeake, David Blowers, Angela Caunce, Norma and Bob Wade, Ken Lomas, Brian Barfoot, Ismail and Samo El Haddad, Brian Bristol and Keith Gordon. I cannot recall exactly what I said in my prep talk because I was suffering from the mother of all man-flues but it certainly had the desired effect. With a glint in their eye and a spring in their step they shot out of that car park like greyhounds in the slips. I swear to goodness Shay McPeake was screaming onto the M60 before I’d even had the chance to close my map case!
Now, I must confess, this was the stage when I began to twitch a bit! All alone I began to worry. ‘I hope they understand my directions?... Suppose someone gets lost?... Suppose someone breaks down?... Suppose… Suppose someone has an accident? Oh, Stephen, why did you have to choose Gait Barrows for your first ta-ta? Malcolm didn’t even know how to spell it! You always have to be so bold. Couldn’t you have suggested somewhere local… Monsal Head... Lathkill Dale… Sparrowpit? Did it need to be so far away?... I bet someone gets lost.’ The junction for Preston was barely disappearing in my rear view mirror when it began to rain. ‘Oh No! Now it’s chuckin’ it down. My name’s going to be mud!’ Bursting for a comfort break and a box of valium I pulled into Lancaster Services but I was more relieved it’d stopped raining. Moments later I cruised to our second rendezvous in the pretty dove-grey village of Yealand Redmayne to find what appeared to be an improvised roadblock.
“Where’ve you been?” someone chided. “We’ve been waiting half an hour!” Then, in a masterpiece of timing Lynne McPeake asked, “Do you know if there are any loos here, us ladies are bursting?” “I’ve got a roll of toilet paper in the van,” I smirked. “There’s plenty of bushes where we’re going.” Deducing from the scowl a blind man could tell exactly where she wanted me to stuff it!
Travelling in convoy for the remaining two and a half miles I pioneered the way around the unhurried, leafy lanes until at last I was indicating left into the car park of Gait Barrows. ‘Phew! We made it!’
Photography is an absorbing hobby requiring more than a modicum of concentration and (if you pardon the appalling pun) focus. Having arrived on site, however, the consummate art for me became relegated to a spectator sport. I didn’t mind. My purpose was passive not active. My enjoyment came from finding interesting subjects which my guests might like to photograph and to ensure that nobody fell into one of the thousands of ankle-breaking chasms called grykes. Oh, don’t let the name fool you! Gait Barrows has absolutely nothing to do with either the way a person walks or single-wheeled contraptions for lugging heavy loads. It is in fact a small but significant nature reserve managed by Natural England and famous for enclosing what is indisputably the finest limestone pavement flora anywhere in the whole of the UK. I love wildflowers which is why I chose it. Did I mention that?
After about an hour and a half Keith confided his hunger for dragonflies. I suggested he might try his luck in the nearby wetland of Haweswater. Realising the potential he summoned his forces with a rallying cry and put the ‘Gordon Plan’ into effect. Haweswater would be occupied by a two-pronged assault. I was to lead a brigade in a great encircling movement and attack from the east whilst Keith and the officer corps attacked… platefuls of fish and chips in a Silverdale Pub. “He didn’t have his breakfast,” explained Sue. “He can’t function on an empty stomach.”
We knew our place. We had our mission. We marched on iron rations: Norma’s Kendal Mint Cake split between seven. But providence was to reward our privations. Traipsing along a woody path that skirted the edge of the lake, someone from our party – I forget exactly who – suddenly yelled, “Hey, hey! Look at this!” Protruding from the side of a rotting old pollard and illuminated by a perfect shaft of sunlight was the biggest, brightest bracket fungus I had ever seen. In an orchestral clatter of equipment we each took turns to snap our fungal fashionista. “By ‘eck, Steve. I’ve ne’re seen owt like that. ‘Ere, we’ll none tell that lot. It’ll be our secret.” Keith and company returned to the tumultuous triumph. I felt I ought to tell them. It was my moral duty. I only keep secrets from the tax office! So here I close my tale by tying it in to the beginning. Knowledge is like currency: it’s utterly useless until it changes hands.
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