Breakfast with a side of visual overload in Adelaide for Mural Monday

 

The pink and blue mural next door was almost as difficult to ignore as the one I photographed last week — although I have since discovered that my so-called gangster geisha may not have been a geisha at all.

Sitting on that little stool with breakfast in front of me, I had both walls competing for attention. This one is a riot of pinks, blues and cartoonish creatures, oversized sunglasses, strange expressions and layers upon layers of tagging. It has that wonderfully unruly language of Australian street art — part pop surrealism, part comic book, part graffiti, with every available inch apparently regarded as an invitation for someone else to leave their signature.

And perhaps that is part of the charm. The mural itself is carefully composed, yet the wall continues to evolve around it, each new tag and scribble becoming another accidental layer in the picture. In Australia, street art and tagging have long occupied this slightly uneasy space between public expression, vandalism and urban culture. Sitting there eating a very ordinary bacon-and-egg breakfast beneath all that visual noise, I found the contrast rather entertaining.

Another week to go before daylight saving arrives and once again decides that my circadian rhythm needs to be rearranged for the greater good. At least spring has already arrived, bringing longer days, softer light and the promise of getting out with the camera again.

I think I am ready for some landscapes.

After all the walls, faces, signs and concrete of Adelaide, I am beginning to crave something with a little more sky.

Sony A7RV

FE 20-70mm f4 G

Linking Mural Monday

Liffey Waterfall, Tasmania for Sunday Best

 

Last Sunday, I mentioned that trip to Tasmania with Joel, some thirteen years ago, when both of us were quietly going through a dip in our lives. It was only four days, travelling across the island on the Spirit of Tasmania with Joel’s car at the time, yet somehow we managed to chase down most of the places we thought were worth photographing.

One of those places was Liffey Falls and the creek.

There was nothing particularly elaborate about that day. We sat among the forest with our rather humble sandwiches—simple food, nothing fancy—and listened to the creek running through the trees. For a while, there was no need to talk about whatever troubles we had carried with us. The forest had its own conversation: water over rocks, leaves moving gently in the breeze, and the quietness of being somewhere far away from everything.

The first photograph is Liffey Falls itself. It looks rather subdued, almost as though the waterfall is holding its breath. That year was marked by drought, and the lack of water was impossible to hide.

The second photograph is a little more complicated. Looking at it now, I can see quite clearly how much I still had to learn. The long exposure blew out the highlights in the rushing water, while the greens were rendered rather strangely by the automatic exposure compensation. It was one of those photographs that probably taught me more through its mistakes than a technically perfect image ever could.

Digital photography was still a different world then. Cameras were nowhere near as forgiving or sophisticated as they are today, and much of what we now correct almost effortlessly had to be anticipated, understood, or simply accepted.

But perhaps that is why I still like these old photographs.

They are not perfect. Neither were we, back then.

We were two friends carrying our own uncertainties through Tasmania, stopping beside waterfalls and creeks, eating simple sandwiches and taking photographs as best we knew how. Looking back thirteen years later, the technical flaws seem almost incidental.

What remains is the sound of the water, the quiet forest, and the memory of having someone beside you while life was not quite going according to plan.

Canon 5D

FE 14mm f2.8 

Linking Sunday Best

Inglewood night sky for Black and White Community

 

A long while ago, beneath the quiet skies of Inglewood, Victoria, I found myself looking up at a night I still remember.

In those earlier days, I used to travel out to the hostel for home visits, when medicine was still shaped by the warmth of a face-to-face conversation, and a doctor’s journey often led through sleepy country towns and open paddocks. The work took me there, but sometimes the landscape offered its own quiet reward.

That night, the darkness was almost absolute — a vast, unbroken field scattered with hay bales, their pale forms resting like forgotten stones beneath the heavens. With so little light to disturb the sky, the Milky Way emerged in all its quiet splendour, a river of stars flowing above the sleeping countryside.

I remember the stillness of it all: the scent of the paddocks, the deep country silence, and the feeling that time had briefly slowed down.

Some photographs preserve a landscape. Others hold a small fragment of a life that has since moved on. This one brings back those old journeys, when the road was longer, the nights were darker, and the stars seemed just a little closer.

Sony A7RV

FE 24mm f1.4 GM

Linking Black and White Community

Bridgewater Bay Blairgowrie for Skywatch Friday

 

You’re probably getting a little tired of seeing sunsets from Bridgewater Bay, Blairgowrie. But perhaps the sunset was never really the reason we came.

This was from a few months ago, one of those evenings when Joel and I simply needed to get away for a while. He had a lot on his mind and needed someone to listen, and I was happy to be that person. There are times when friendship is nothing more complicated than walking beside someone while they empty their thoughts into the open air.

We talked, wandered along the coast, stopped now and then, and watched the day slowly surrender to night. The sea was restless, but somehow the evening itself felt gentle. Five minutes before darkness settled completely, the last light turned everything purple and pink, and the long exposure softened the turbulent water into something dreamlike—a mirage of sea and cloud.

I took the photograph almost incidentally.

What I remember more clearly is having Joel beside me.

Perhaps these are the moments I value most in friendship—not the grand adventures, but the quiet hours when you can simply be there for each other, sharing the same horizon, listening without needing to fix anything.

The sunset eventually disappeared, as all sunsets do. But the companionship stayed.

And sometimes, that is the photograph worth keeping.

Sony A7RV

FE 20-70mm f4 G

Linking Skywatch Friday

Blairgowrie sunset at Bridgewater Bay for Water H2O Thursday

 

At Bridgewater Bay, the evening seemed to lose its edges.

Mist drifted through the last hour of light, softening the horizon until sea, sky and distant rock began to melt into one another. Everything was reduced to a quiet blur, steeped in the gentlest golden glow — a sunset less seen than felt.

Perhaps that was why I didn’t feel like reaching for my phone. Some evenings seem to ask for nothing but slowness: to stand still, let the world blur a little, and watch the light leave without trying to hold on to it.

I stopped updating Instagram this week. Then again, I haven’t updated the site for a few months either, lol. Life has been catching up with me, and perhaps I’ve been learning to let it.

I still prefer the slow web of Blogger to the hurried rhythm of Instagram. There’s something more intimate about it — a small, personal corner where photographs can linger, quietly, without needing to be seen by everyone.

And, of course, I don’t have to pay a subscription for it. That helps too.

Sony A7RV

FE 20-70mm f4 G

Linking Water H2O Thursday

Say Cheese Sign in Adelaide Central Market for Sign2

 

Last week, I came across the Smelly Cheese sign while browsing the Sign2 theme, and then stumbled upon another one right beside the store at Adelaide Central Market.

This one was wonderfully weird: two little rats sitting side by side, one proudly posing with a chunk of cheese while the other happily devours it. There was something almost tender about their strange little companionship—two rats sharing cheese as though this were the most perfectly normal arrangement in the world.

Cute? Absolutely. Weird? Completely. And somehow, that combination made it rather irresistible.

Sony A7RV

FE 20-70mm f4 G

Linking Sign2

Bridgewater Bay Blairgowrie for Treasure Tuesday

 

This was probably one of the most unusual scenes I have ever managed to capture at Bridgewater Bay, Blairgowrie, over the past twenty years. There was something almost painterly about it—an unexpected oil-painting quality, with a touch of impressionism woven into the frame. I absolutely love it.

Joel was around another corner, attempting his own experiment on the same view, though his version didn’t quite come together. I think I may have caught this one a little better than he did, lol.

The foreground water was silky and dreamlike, wrapping softly around the exposed sea-floor rocks, while beyond, the waves fell into a loose rhythm, their movement drawing the eye towards the distance. Above, the sky was steeped in a warm golden brew, with the distant arch quietly anchoring the horizon.

For once, the sea, the rocks and the sky seemed to forget they belonged to nature and decided, just for a moment, to become a painting.

Sony A7RV

FE 20-70mm f4 G

Linking Treasure Tuesday

Adelaide Sino Mural for Mural Monday

 

The mural of a heavily tattooed geisha stood beside me as I sat on a humble stool outside a tucked-away café, a bacon-and-egg breakfast plate resting in front of me, almost absurdly ordinary beneath the high-rises of Adelaide’s CBD.

She was turned sideways, her gaze cast elsewhere, yet the whole image had something strangely confrontational about it—the elaborate tattoos, the stark expression, the sheer intensity of the composition. Against the quiet ritual of breakfast, it felt almost too forceful, too pungent for my taste.

Sony A7RV

FE 20-70mm f4 G

Linking Mural Monday

Bay of Fire in Tasmania Australia for Sunday Best

 

More than thirteen years ago, Joel and I escaped to Tasmania for a little boys’ time away from the complications of real life. He was about to become a father for the second time, while his relationship was already beginning to fray at the edges. I was carrying my own disappointments. I had failed my fellowship examination, and with it went much of the confidence I had once taken for granted. I was uncertain where life would lead me next.

In those days, Joel and I were also finding our way back to each other after years of drifting apart. Perhaps the trip was as much about rediscovering an old friendship as it was about photography.

Photography was supposed to be the reason for the journey. I had only recently returned to the hobby, armed with a rather modest Canon setup and even a few lenses I had bought back in my university days. There was nothing particularly sophisticated about the equipment, but perhaps that was part of the charm. I was simply happy to be looking through a viewfinder again.

Then came the Bay of Fires.

It was already an iconic corner of Tasmania, with its rust-red granite glowing against the cool Tasmanian sea. We pointed our cameras towards the rocks and water and, with the modest tools we had, somehow managed to bring home a few frames that still hold their own.

The first is almost a classic: that unmistakable red stone, softened by the silky, creamy movement of the ocean as it slipped around the rocks. The second caught something altogether more dramatic—a great burst of water frozen at precisely the right shutter speed, as though the sea itself had exploded into the frame.

Looking back now, the photographs seem to belong to a simpler time. Two old friends, two cameras, a rugged coastline—and for a little while, an escape from everything waiting for us when we returned home.

Canon 6D

EF 70-200mm f2.8 

Linking Sunday Best

Corcomroe Abbey remains in Ireland for Black and White Community

 

Corcomroe Abbey was one of many ancient abbeys I visited during my travels through Ireland, guided by a private tour guide I had hired for the journey. He was a wonderfully friendly, rather formidable-looking fellow—beer belly, full beard and an endless supply of stories. I have to confess that I remember very little of the history he told me. There was simply too much of it, day after day, as we moved from one ancient ruin to another. Perhaps my generous tipping every evening also helped maintain his enthusiasm for keeping me company.

But Corcomroe was different.

Hidden in a quiet valley beneath the limestone hills of the Burren in County Clare, the abbey seemed almost to grow out of the landscape. The Cistercians established their monastery here around the end of the twelfth century, probably around 1194–1200, with monks coming from Inislounaght Abbey in County Tipperary. The precise founder remains uncertain: tradition attributes it either to Donal Mór O’Brien, King of Thomond, or to his son Donough Cairbreach. The monastery was dedicated to the Virgin Mary and became known in Latin as Sancta Maria de Petra Fertili—Saint Mary of the Fertile Rock—a wonderfully paradoxical name for a place surrounded by the seemingly endless grey stone of the Burren.

The church that survives today belongs principally to the early thirteenth century, probably built between about 1210 and 1225. Its limestone walls, ribbed vaulting, narrow lancet windows and beautifully carved capitals speak of a remarkably skilled medieval tradition sometimes called the “School of the West.” Flowers and plants appear in the stonework—lily-of-the-valley, poppy, foxglove and other delicate forms—an extraordinary softness carved into such austere stone.

There is also the tomb of Conor O’Brien, King of Thomond, who died in 1268, his effigy still lying within the ruined church. The O’Brien connection runs deeply through the history of Corcomroe, as does the turbulent history of medieval Clare. The abbey witnessed centuries of changing power, local dynasties and conflict. In the fourteenth and fifteenth centuries its fortunes declined, and the monastic community gradually diminished. The Dissolution of the Monasteries in the sixteenth century eventually brought its religious life to an end, although abbots continued to be associated with the place into the seventeenth century.

There are darker fragments in its history too. Corcomroe stood in a landscape where political struggles between powerful families could be violent, and the surrounding Burren has witnessed battles, raids and centuries of human loss. Yet what remains today is not the violence itself, but the silence that follows it.

And that silence was what I felt most strongly.

I remember walking through the ruins and feeling a peculiar uneasiness. There was something about the place that gave me the creeps. Perhaps it was the isolation, perhaps the centuries of prayer and death contained within those walls, or perhaps simply the way the ancient stones seemed to absorb sound. I have always had a strange sensitivity to places since childhood, and Corcomroe was one of those places where I could almost feel a sadness hanging in the air.

The temperature seemed to drop a few degrees as I moved deeper into the ruins. The Burren itself is an extraordinary landscape—bare limestone pavements, fissures, distant hills and an almost otherworldly stillness—but inside Corcomroe the atmosphere felt different again. The light seemed older. The shadows seemed deeper.

Of course, there is a perfectly ordinary explanation for much of that sensation: ancient stone retains cold, the valley is sheltered, and the ruined church is protected from the warmth of the surrounding landscape. But standing there, surrounded by eight centuries of history, rational explanations seemed strangely inadequate to the experience.

I did not see a ghost. I did not hear a voice.

I simply felt that the place remembered.

Perhaps that is what ancient ruins do. They hold the traces of generations who prayed there, loved there, fought there, died there and were eventually forgotten. The stones remain long after the people have disappeared, quietly carrying their silence into the present.

Corcomroe was not merely another ruined abbey on an Irish itinerary.

For me, it felt like a place where the past had never completely left.

Canon 6D

EF 14mm f2.8

Linking Black and White Community

Bridgewater Bay Blairgowrie from cliff for Skywatch Friday

 

This was taken last weekend with Joel, when we finally managed to catch up after some time apart. I was still recovering from my wisdom teeth extraction, which had left me in surprisingly severe pain even two weeks afterwards. Eventually, I asked a colleague to prescribe a course of antibiotics, and the pain cleared almost immediately. In retrospect, it seemed that infection had been the problem all along.

It was a rather sobering reminder of the increasingly cautious world in which medicine now operates. With practitioners facing ever greater scrutiny and the possibility of audits, prescribing can sometimes become an exercise in hesitation rather than simply responding to what is in front of you. It feels like a sad reflection of the times we live in.

Yet, as often happens, photography offered a small escape from all of that.

The view that afternoon was unusual. A thin sheet of mist had settled across the landscape, and several hours before sunset the low sun slipped in from the side, filtering through the haze and quietly transforming the scene. The light was neither dramatic nor flamboyant; it was softer, stranger, almost suspended in the air.

For a brief moment, the landscape seemed to exist between two worlds—mist and light, distance and shadow. I simply lifted the camera and took the shot.

Sometimes the most memorable photographs are not the ones we go looking for. They are the ones that appear quietly before us, at exactly the right moment.

Sony A7RV

FE 20-70mm f4 G

Linking Skywatch Friday

Cape Schanck Beach at Mornington Peninsula for Water H2O Thursday

 

A quiet army of stone stands at the threshold of the sea, where the tide retreats to expose a sprawling bed of smooth, dark pebbles. Balanced with impossible precision, these gray towers rise like modern monuments against the soft, golden blush of the twilight sky, right where the dark volcanic headlands of Cape Schanck meet the churning ocean. Born from human hands seeking a fleeting online trend, these geometric spires wait silently for the next wave, but their stillness hides a deeper disruption to the fragile shore.

Beneath each displaced pebble lies a broken home, as lifting these stones destroys the cool, damp micro-habitats essential to the crabs, lizards, and shorebirds that rely on them for shelter and protection from predators. By pulling this natural armor from the earth, eager hands unwittingly strip the beach of its defenses, leaving the coast vulnerable to accelerated erosion from wind and crashing waves. What lives online as a harmless visual aesthetic ultimately imposes a heavy human footprint on the wilderness, dismantling the pristine, untouched beauty that visitors travel so far to find.

Sony A7RV

FE 20-70mm f4 G

Linking Water H2O Thursday

The Mettwurst Shop Sign for Sign2

 

The Mettwurst shop tucked inside Adelaide Central Market has become my little morning ritual. Each time I visit, I am greeted with a generous tasting tray—a few savoury morsels offered almost like a daily gift.

It is hard to imagine a better way to begin the morning: good food, good protein, and a little taste of the market’s lively spirit before the day properly begins.

Who said getting your protein had to be boring?

Sony A7RV

FE 20-70mm f4 G

Linking Sign2

Infrared Bridgewater Bay Blairgowries for Treasure Tuesday

 

These two infrared frames were never meant to be fine-art masterpieces. The rendition is strange, almost deliberately so—the peculiar colour profile is, after all, part of the experiment.

Yet somehow, I find them more powerful for it.

There is Joel, my old photographic companion, caught somewhere in the amusing transition from a thin, tentative beard towards the full magnificence of a proper jack beard. And alongside him is another transition of sorts: my own experimentation with an infrared camera, seeing a familiar landscape through an unfamiliar spectrum.

Bridgewater Bay is beautiful, but never quite the same twice. The rocks, water, mosses and seaweeds seem to rearrange themselves with every visit, reminding me that photography is not simply about recording scenery. It is also about learning to see differently.

Perhaps that is what I like most about these images. They remind me that I am still moving, still experimenting, still adapting to all sorts of photography.

And then there are those mosses and seaweeds, suddenly transformed into an almost fluorescent blue-cyan—so strange, so unnatural, and wonderfully freaky.

Sometimes the imperfect photograph is the one that tells the more interesting story.

Sony A7RIV

FE 16mm f1.8 G

Linking Treasure Tuesday

Adelaide carpark mural for Mural Monday

 

I posted the larger view of this mural a few weeks ago. This time, I have moved closer, zooming into the middle-lower section, where the details begin to reveal themselves in a different light.

Hidden within the vast composition is this smaller world of colour, texture and movement—another story tucked into the larger one. The mural sits quietly in an Adelaide CBD car park, transforming an otherwise ordinary concrete space into something far more curious and alive. From a distance, it is a single sweeping vision; up close, it becomes a collection of fragments, gestures and little surprises waiting to be noticed.

The previous post is here Adelaide carpark mural

Sony A7RV

FE 20-70mm f4 G

Linking Mural Monday

More Giant Causeway images in Ireland for Sunday Best

 

There are so many different terrains and moods around the Giant’s Causeway, each one offering its own palette of colour and texture. Dark basalt cliffs, weathered stone, green grasses, rugged headlands and the restless Atlantic seem to come together in a landscape that is constantly changing.

In many ways, it reminds me of the Twelve Apostles along Victoria’s Great Ocean Road. Both landscapes have that wonderful sense of rawness, where ancient rock meets an unforgiving ocean and the elements slowly reshape the coast. Yet the Giant’s Causeway feels more intimate and intricate, with its strange geometric columns, layered cliffs and rocky shoreline revealing new details at every turn.

I particularly love the rugged character of the region. Nothing feels overly neat or composed. The rocks are fractured and weather-beaten, the cliffs rise in irregular layers, and patches of green cling stubbornly to the land. The colours shift with the weather too—from deep charcoal and earthy brown to vivid green and the cold blue-grey of the Atlantic.

It is a landscape made for wandering and photography. Every corner seems to offer another combination of shape, texture and light. The Giant’s Causeway is not simply one dramatic view, but a whole collection of smaller landscapes stitched together along this wild corner of the Antrim coast. And perhaps that is what makes it so captivating: the feeling that the land is still unfinished, with the sea continuing its ancient work of carving, breaking and reshaping the coast.

Canon 6D

EF 14mm f2.8 L 

Linking to Sunday Best

Bonratty Castle in Ireland for Black and White Community

 

To step across the thresholds of Bunratty Castle is to leave the modernity of County Clare behind, but to enter its South Solar is to step directly into the private psyche of the O’Brien dynasty. Transformed into the stark clarity of black and white, the chamber sheds the distractions of color and exposes its true, architectural skeleton. It stands not as a public monument or a house of worship, but as the intimate nerve center of the Earls of Thomond—a space where the heavy burdens of lordship, family life, and wartime strategy converged beneath a single, magnificent ceiling.

Looking upward, the eye is immediately captured by the room’s crowning glory: an extraordinary Tudor ceiling. In the absence of color, the interplay of light and shadow accentuates the deep, geometric ribbing that webs across the vault. The intricate carvings of stylized leaves and vines, frozen in dark timber, create the illusion of an inverted forest canopy. It is a striking display of wealth and sophistication, designed to impress the high-profile guests and political allies who were granted access to this exclusive sanctuary. While the Great Hall below echoed with the rowdy, public clamor of medieval banquets, this room offered the O'Brien lords a sun-drenched retreat—a "solar"—where privacy was the ultimate luxury.

Yet, this sanctuary was far from peaceful. The long wooden table stretching through the center of the room serves as a silent witness to the high-stakes geopolitical chess games of the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries. It requires little imagination to populate this table with the ghosts of the O’Brien chiefs, hunched over parchment maps by candlelight, plotting military alliances, or bracing the castle for incoming sieges. To the left, the massive stone hearth stands like a sleeping giant. Once roaring with turf fires to cut through the damp Irish winters, its rugged masonry grounds the room’s artistic elegance in pure, defensive utility.

Opposite the hearth, the deeply recessed windows frame the light, cutting through the thick, formidable castle walls. The wide window benches beneath them tell a quieter story—spaces where the ladies of the castle could catch the best daytime light for embroidery, all while keeping a watchful eye on the courtyard below and the distant sentries on the ramparts. Stripped of color, the photograph transforms the South Solar into a timeless study of power and architecture. It remains a beautifully preserved fragment of Irish history, where the whispers of ancient war councils still seem to vibrate within the enduring, silent stone.

Canon 6D

EF 14mm f2.8 

Linking Black and White Community

Bridgewater Bay Sunset for Skywatch Friday

 

This is Bridgewater Bay without the long exposure, just as the evening was settling in. The ripples in the foreground worked like a treat, catching the last traces of light and giving the water a gentle texture. Behind it all, the sky opened into a warm golden glow, complimenting the scene like a good golden brew at the end of a long day.

I might try to get outdoors this weekend. It has been a while since I managed to catch up with Joel, and perhaps a little fresh air, a camera, and some time together are exactly what I need.

Sony A7RV + FE 20-70mm f4 G

Linking Skywatch Friday

Pirates Bay in Mornington Peninsula for Water H2O Thursday

 

I had all four wisdom teeth taken out simultaneously last Friday, and the days since have been something of a small ordeal. Antibiotics, opioids and NSAIDs have become my rather uninvited companions. They are all short-acting, which means the nights have been particularly unforgiving, with sleep arriving only in brief and restless fragments.

For several days, I could do very little. Even blogging, usually such a small pleasure, felt beyond reach. My hobbies were abandoned too, and even watching television became strangely difficult; I simply could not concentrate for long enough to follow a story.

Sigh.

So, instead, I am posting these two images from one of my previous obsessions: exploring the sea caves around their entrances.

There is something irresistible about standing at the threshold of a cave, where the darkness of the rock meets the vast brightness of the sea. The textures inside the cave, the roughness of the stone, and the sudden explosion of high contrast beyond the entrance have always made these places a difficult photographic challenge. Every frame becomes a negotiation between shadow and light, between what the cave conceals and what the sea reveals.

The infrared conversion adds another layer of difficulty. It leaves behind a persistent blue cast and strange artefacts that can be extraordinarily stubborn to remove in software. Yet sometimes those imperfections become part of the memory of the photograph.

Pirates Bay, on the Mornington Peninsula, is full of these sea caves, tucked along the coast like little chambers waiting to be discovered. I used to find the temptation difficult to resist—to climb, crawl and venture ever closer to their entrances in search of another image.

I doubt I will ever return to that sort of practice now. Some adventures belong to a particular time in life, and eventually we learn to leave them where they were.

Perhaps that is why these two images feel especially precious to me. They are not merely photographs of sea caves; they are little remnants of an earlier obsession, preserved from a time when curiosity was enough reason to venture into the darkness.

Sony A7RV + Laowa 9mm f5.6 

Linking Water H2O Thursday

Smelly Cheese in Adelaide Central Market for Sign 2

 

The sign saying “Smelly Cheese” has a certain old-fashioned charm, sitting so naturally among the familiar bustle of Adelaide’s Central Market. There is something almost wonderfully unapologetic about the name—bold, slightly mischievous, and perfectly suited to a place devoted to the more fragrant pleasures of life.

The Smelly Cheese Shop has been part of the market since 2001, tucked into Stall 44, with its shelves and counters devoted to an extraordinary world of cheese. More than 300 varieties have passed through its doors, from Australian artisan cheeses to carefully chosen European classics, accompanied by crackers, pastes and other little pleasures.

I stopped to try some of the cheese myself, and the variety was impressive. There were familiar favourites alongside more adventurous offerings, each with its own character, texture and lingering flavour. It felt less like simply buying cheese and more like wandering through a small edible map of the world.

In the middle of Adelaide’s old market, surrounded by the colours, voices and aromas of generations of food traders, that wonderfully eccentric sign seemed almost to belong there—a little piece of tradition, with just enough mischief to make you stop and look.

Sony A7RV

FE 20-70mm f4 G

Linking Sign2