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Moody Landscape Roy Carr
The outdor world of Roy Carr.
Light, landscapes and a love of the outdoors!
19/09/2025
Members warmly welcomed back Roy Carr this week. A previous speaker last on our programme in January, Roy’s impact was then considerable as he urged us to re-examine how we see trees and woodland in our neighbourhood. On this occasion he continued the outdoor theme but took us near and far in search of landscapes and experiences extraordinaire!
Roy, who confesses he is obsessed with the view, treated us to a range of magical coastal features on Teesside and the glory of the Lakes, the shapes and textures of the cliffs of Pembrokeshire, along with the antics and expertise of the climbers clinging to them. His bicycle took him with cameras to many far-flung places including Spain, Morrocco and Portugal visiting waterfalls, dams and Cathedrals in equal measure, often taking full advantage of the hospitality of the local people with whom he has formed lasting bonds.
What comes across clearly listening to Roy narrate his photos, is the extent to which he develops special relationships with the places he visits. We had heard previously how patiently he always waits for the right light, and how diligently he seeks the unusual angles, and this was more than obvious in the second part of the evening where we enjoyed the magical mists of Staffordshire, the painterly boats moored in the moonlight and the sun setting softly over Catalonia.
We were whisked around the world with tales of action and falls from cliffs before being gently brought back to the more nearby shores of Devon and the delights of Dorset in the familiar shapes of Durdle Door and the Cob at Lyme Regis. Roy finished by reading us a piece entitled “Peak Meditations”, a thoughtful piece of writing which you can find on our website.
It was a highly entertaining and memorable evening once again, and Roy was warmly thanked for being our guest.
Jenny Short.
19.09.2025
Roy finished his talk by observing the quote " (1) Robert Macfarlane is for me the pre-eminent contemporary writer on the
interaction of man and the natural world. He makes acute observations,
encouraging us all to stop and look closely and carefully, and weaves it with
social history, a fine ear for the spoken language into a poetic prose which
speaks to me of landscape. This quote is taken from his book The Old Ways
published by Penguin.
and then by reading aloud the following:"
Peak Meditations
Watch, wait - hope for the light. Look closer and then
look closer again. What can you see? What pulls you in
and invites you to make, not take, a picture.
As I approach the top of Stanage Edge, one March evening, the sky lays flat and
hazy. The landscape fades behind it, barely distinct. Perhaps not a night for
photography. Still I rise, ever hopeful. The excitement of possibility is there. Climbers
descend, retreating from the wind and weather sculpted rock. And still I rise. That
possibility is there.
Other photographers are there at the top, lazily click, click, clicking - their memory
cards not so slowly filling. They do not stay long. They go as the light and the
temperature begin to drop.
I work my way along the Edge hunting for a composition that will pull me into the
landscape. Tonight, for once, my walk is not so far – the rocks call after just a few
hundred yards.
Out comes my tripod, slowing me down to the speed of meditation, inviting me to
consider what I want to capture. No rush here. What goes in? What stays out? I set
the tripod close to the ground, lured by the texture of the grit-stone. I mount my
camera, carefully levelling it with my spirit level as I work toward a composition. Eye
to the viewfinder. Not right. I walk focus my camera and tripod (no zoom lens
here),
refining the elements and levelling it once again. Better, but not right. Adjust.
Change. Level. Better still. Adjust. Change. Level. The composition arrives. The
elements fall into place. I mount my filter holder on front of the lens, and gently slide
in my graduated filter until its dark upper begins to balance the light sky against the
dark foreground of the rocks, helping the camera to make the correct exposure.
And now the wait. I have taken control of the things I can control, but it is time
for nature to play her uncontrollable role. Excitement and fear mingle. Will the haze
persist and deny me or will the sky clear to make my image. The temperature drops.
I put on another layer of clothes. The temperature drops further. I rub my hands
vigorously to fend off the cold and pull my hood tighter, watching, waiting, hoping.
And still I wait.
Tonight the weather gods smile at long last. I work to make my picture, adjusting my
filters and exposure to balance the light. Tonight I make my image.
The camera hunt for hares has proved hopeless. They lie dead still in their forms,
shrouded by the morning mist, oblivious to the gaze of the lens, dissolving my
plans.
The mist draws me into her folds. What is it Robert Macfarlane writes? “You need
to look for disturbances to the expected, be alert to unforseen
interaction” (1) I cast around
me, formulating new plans, new ideas, as my camera bag weighs heavy on my hips.
The dry stone walls call. Lichen clad rocks, each one weighed and considered by a
human hand, melded together, snaking through the landscape, defining and dividing
The Peak District.
Amid the mist, adjacent to the wall, loom the four ancient sentinels, survivors of the
Nines Stones, punctuated by an incongruous farm trailer. And on the other side of
the wall, a mist laden tree, leafless, almost silhouetted in the low light. Elements for
a composition.
Out comes the tripod and I enter into my familiar routine. Mount the camera. Level.
Check the composition. Not right. Move. Level the camera. Check the composition.
Better but not right. Move. And so it goes on until at last my tripod rests precariously
on the wall, the composition pulling together stones, tree, wall and mist.
Out come the filters, balancing the relative light of the sky against the other
elements, allowing my camera to retain detail across the scene. Click! Check the
exposure, adjust and click again. Check the exposure. Adjust the exposure and click
again. At last the image is made.
The scene before me, bleached of colour by the mist, cries out for a monochrome,
that deceptively simple, most traditional of photographic forms, which carries its own
particular power. Strip an image of colour and there are fewer distractions,
emphasising shape and texture, evoking mood. I think often of the distinction
between television and radio. Monochrome, like radio, leaves room for the
imagination in a way that colour rarely does.
To make a monochrome demands work at home in front of a lap – top, where
software emulates the processes of the dark room. Dodging and burning (lightening
and darkening) parts of an image, leading the viewer’s eye through the composition.
Pulling out detail to further emphasise shape and texture whilst trying, as best I can,
to remain true to the image in my head when I released the shutter, conveying a
sense and mood of place.
Roy Carr
Roy, who confesses he is obsessed with the view, treated us to a range of magical coastal features on Teesside and the glory of the Lakes, the shapes and textures of the cliffs of Pembrokeshire, along with the antics and expertise of the climbers clinging to them. His bicycle took him with cameras to many far-flung places including Spain, Morrocco and Portugal visiting waterfalls, dams and Cathedrals in equal measure, often taking full advantage of the hospitality of the local people with whom he has formed lasting bonds.
What comes across clearly listening to Roy narrate his photos, is the extent to which he develops special relationships with the places he visits. We had heard previously how patiently he always waits for the right light, and how diligently he seeks the unusual angles, and this was more than obvious in the second part of the evening where we enjoyed the magical mists of Staffordshire, the painterly boats moored in the moonlight and the sun setting softly over Catalonia.
We were whisked around the world with tales of action and falls from cliffs before being gently brought back to the more nearby shores of Devon and the delights of Dorset in the familiar shapes of Durdle Door and the Cob at Lyme Regis. Roy finished by reading us a piece entitled “Peak Meditations”, a thoughtful piece of writing which you can find on our website.
It was a highly entertaining and memorable evening once again, and Roy was warmly thanked for being our guest.
Jenny Short.
19.09.2025
Roy finished his talk by observing the quote " (1) Robert Macfarlane is for me the pre-eminent contemporary writer on the
interaction of man and the natural world. He makes acute observations,
encouraging us all to stop and look closely and carefully, and weaves it with
social history, a fine ear for the spoken language into a poetic prose which
speaks to me of landscape. This quote is taken from his book The Old Ways
published by Penguin.
and then by reading aloud the following:"
Peak Meditations
Watch, wait - hope for the light. Look closer and then
look closer again. What can you see? What pulls you in
and invites you to make, not take, a picture.
As I approach the top of Stanage Edge, one March evening, the sky lays flat and
hazy. The landscape fades behind it, barely distinct. Perhaps not a night for
photography. Still I rise, ever hopeful. The excitement of possibility is there. Climbers
descend, retreating from the wind and weather sculpted rock. And still I rise. That
possibility is there.
Other photographers are there at the top, lazily click, click, clicking - their memory
cards not so slowly filling. They do not stay long. They go as the light and the
temperature begin to drop.
I work my way along the Edge hunting for a composition that will pull me into the
landscape. Tonight, for once, my walk is not so far – the rocks call after just a few
hundred yards.
Out comes my tripod, slowing me down to the speed of meditation, inviting me to
consider what I want to capture. No rush here. What goes in? What stays out? I set
the tripod close to the ground, lured by the texture of the grit-stone. I mount my
camera, carefully levelling it with my spirit level as I work toward a composition. Eye
to the viewfinder. Not right. I walk focus my camera and tripod (no zoom lens
here),
refining the elements and levelling it once again. Better, but not right. Adjust.
Change. Level. Better still. Adjust. Change. Level. The composition arrives. The
elements fall into place. I mount my filter holder on front of the lens, and gently slide
in my graduated filter until its dark upper begins to balance the light sky against the
dark foreground of the rocks, helping the camera to make the correct exposure.
And now the wait. I have taken control of the things I can control, but it is time
for nature to play her uncontrollable role. Excitement and fear mingle. Will the haze
persist and deny me or will the sky clear to make my image. The temperature drops.
I put on another layer of clothes. The temperature drops further. I rub my hands
vigorously to fend off the cold and pull my hood tighter, watching, waiting, hoping.
And still I wait.
Tonight the weather gods smile at long last. I work to make my picture, adjusting my
filters and exposure to balance the light. Tonight I make my image.
The camera hunt for hares has proved hopeless. They lie dead still in their forms,
shrouded by the morning mist, oblivious to the gaze of the lens, dissolving my
plans.
The mist draws me into her folds. What is it Robert Macfarlane writes? “You need
to look for disturbances to the expected, be alert to unforseen
interaction” (1) I cast around
me, formulating new plans, new ideas, as my camera bag weighs heavy on my hips.
The dry stone walls call. Lichen clad rocks, each one weighed and considered by a
human hand, melded together, snaking through the landscape, defining and dividing
The Peak District.
Amid the mist, adjacent to the wall, loom the four ancient sentinels, survivors of the
Nines Stones, punctuated by an incongruous farm trailer. And on the other side of
the wall, a mist laden tree, leafless, almost silhouetted in the low light. Elements for
a composition.
Out comes the tripod and I enter into my familiar routine. Mount the camera. Level.
Check the composition. Not right. Move. Level the camera. Check the composition.
Better but not right. Move. And so it goes on until at last my tripod rests precariously
on the wall, the composition pulling together stones, tree, wall and mist.
Out come the filters, balancing the relative light of the sky against the other
elements, allowing my camera to retain detail across the scene. Click! Check the
exposure, adjust and click again. Check the exposure. Adjust the exposure and click
again. At last the image is made.
The scene before me, bleached of colour by the mist, cries out for a monochrome,
that deceptively simple, most traditional of photographic forms, which carries its own
particular power. Strip an image of colour and there are fewer distractions,
emphasising shape and texture, evoking mood. I think often of the distinction
between television and radio. Monochrome, like radio, leaves room for the
imagination in a way that colour rarely does.
To make a monochrome demands work at home in front of a lap – top, where
software emulates the processes of the dark room. Dodging and burning (lightening
and darkening) parts of an image, leading the viewer’s eye through the composition.
Pulling out detail to further emphasise shape and texture whilst trying, as best I can,
to remain true to the image in my head when I released the shutter, conveying a
sense and mood of place.
Roy Carr