Another first: crossing the muddy waters of the Usk on a gondola

No, it isn't anything to do with Venice! It was the gondola suspended beneath the span of the Newport Transporter Bridge. And although I just about remember walking across the river Usk with Dad when I was very young - we climbed up the west tower, walked across, then climbed down the east tower - I'd never taken a car across the river this way before. Hence the 'first'. And here is my return ticket to prove it.

The Newport Transporter Bridge is one of just six like it still operating in the world, although twenty were built altogether. This link gives some official facts: http://www.newport.gov.uk/heritage/index.cfm/transporterBridge/. There is another such bridge up north, in Middlesborough. It's very, very similar to the Newport bridge, except that the Newport bridge looks quainter, less functional, more 'Victorian'. The differences will be greater now - the Middlesbrough bridge gondola has been modernised after a two-year upgrade. Here it is as it used to be, back in 2010, when I took Fiona (then quite new) onto it, went across, parked on the other side, and ran back to grab some more shots:

As you can see, the Middlesbrough gondola can carry several large cars and many foot passengers in weather-beating accommodation. It hangs over the water, suspended from steel cables attached to a platform that travels on rails between the two towers at either end.

The Middlesbrough Transporter Bridge is well-used - it's a section of the A178, the old main road to Hartlepool. It's an important part of Middlesbrough's local road system. Not so the Newport Transporter Bridge, which has lost its original purpose, and is no longer an important link. Newport's dock area declined over many decades, and the transporter bridge ended up being more-or-less a 'bridge to nowhere' - or at least a bridge to very little. However, the gradual expansion in more recent years of housing and warehousing along the east and west Usk banks could give it a purpose again. Meanwhile it's a tourist attraction, and doesn't offer a regular service. It's closed in the winter, in any case.

For some years I'd been trying in vain to take Fiona across the river using this bridge. But it was always shut. Then last month, on a hunch, I drove that way and was delighted to find it open and ready to transport Fiona and myself across the muddy and swirling Usk.

I didn't hesitate. I joined the two other cars waiting in the west side queue.

As you can see, the Newport bridge is distinctly more twee and old-fashioned than the Middlesbrough bridge! The gondola is smaller and less substantial. And foot passengers are definitely going to catch colds.

They closed the gates, the 'driver' climbed up into his turret (where he presumably pulled a lever) and we were off.

The regulations stipulated that anybody who wasn't in a car had to stay within the 'passenger area', but I ignored that. Nobody cared. I felt extraordinarily pleased with this turn of events. I blasted away with the little Leica. It was a quiet, very smooth, and quite rapid crossing. Looking up, you could see the suspension wires slightly bowed.

All too soon, the east side got nearer. But I had a return ticket, so I was going to come straight back, and enjoy a double dose. There was a bump as we touched the east side, and then we drove off. Reversing, I returned. And then waited, in pole position, to go back to the west side of the river.

Well, the return crossing was just like the first, so I won't waste words on it. Driving off afterwards, I felt I'd finally done something I'd wanted to do for a very long time. Peg (my elderly aunt) and I had come here several times since 2009, but we had never caught the bridge in operation. She would be disappointed that we hadn't been able to share the experience. Unfortunately, Peg will never have another chance, at least not with me. Big cars with highish seats have become too awkward for her, and getting into Fiona is now beyond her capabilities.

One other challenge remains unsatisfied - walking across on the high span. Although I definitely did walk across with Dad when ten or so (in 1962, that would be), I do wonder at it, because I've never liked heights nor scary thrills, and I remember being pretty scared when climbing down. And yet in the heyday of the Transporter Bridge, dock workmen who wanted to save a few pennies would walk across twice daily, all year round. Clearly they had no fear. And Peg's son Richard told me that when he was in his early teens (say about 1970) he too had walked across, and had met some kids who were actually kicking a football around up there!

So, given these examples, would I do it now - climb one tower, walk along the top span to the other side, and then climb down again? As a personal dare, say? Or for the sake of some amazing shots of Newport? Well, I think the answer has to be yes. I really must push myself to do it. I mean, it can't actually kill me, can it?

Another project, then.

Portland - and nearly clapped in irons!

With another holiday looming, I'd better wrap up what still needs to be recounted from the last one! This post deals with what happened when I visited the Isle of Portland.

If you don't know, the Isle of Portland (or just 'Portland') is that highly distinctive beak-like projection halfway along the south coast of England, just south of Weymouth, that shows up so well on satellite images.

It hasn't really been an island for a very long time, because it's connected to the mainland by Chesil Beach, a long wide ridge of pebbles that begins near Bridport in the west and ends at Portland in the east, forming that distinctive straight line on the satellite image above. Here's a shot I took in 2009 of the Beach at Burton Bradstock, at its western end:

And here's one I took last month closer to Portland, near Abbotsbury, showing the lagoon behind it known as the Fleet and, in the distance, the Gibraltar-like rocky prominence of Portland:

At Portland itself, the beach looks like this (a shot of mine from 2004). You can see that it is wider and higher here compared to further west.

Chesil Beach was formed by the action of waves pushing stones against the shore from the south-west, and piling them up, rather than (as is commonly thought) gradually extending them eastwards from Bridport. This hints at the strength of the wind and waves in Lyme Bay. It has always been a deadly trap for shipping, the sea in the English Channel tending to push any unpowered vessel onto this steep shingle bank, and there was many a shipwreck in the days of sail. And if any ship escaped getting caught in Lyme Bay, and being dashed against Chesil Beach, then off Portland Bill (the southern tip of Portland) there was another problem - a tidal race. Not a good place for little boats to be!

And yet on the lee side of Portland is vast Portland Harbour, for so long a safe and sheltered anchorage, with stout enclosing breakwaters. This was where the 2012 Olympic sailing events were held, and where a Sailing Academy now is.

But back to Portland itself. It has always been a rather bleak place, renowned for its quarries (this is where the famous white Portland Stone comes from), the naval and military presence, and its suitability for keeping prisoners secure - because, of course, it's easy to block the only road out of the place. So there are two places of detention on it - HM Prison Portland, opened in 1848 on the eastern cliffs at Grove, and HM Prison The Verne, opened in 1949 within the the massive citadel at the island's highest point.

On a whim, I decided to see what The Verne looked like up close. There is only one modern road to it, a steep zig-zag approach through a council housing estate full of parked cars and tight bends. No chance then of a speedy getaway if a prisoner absconded, even if there were a Ferrari waiting to whizz him down the hill and off the island! Getting nearer, you could see that this was a classic nineteenth century military stronghold with impressive ramparts. I parked Fiona off the road, near the entrance.

I hoped she didn't look suspicious. You know - the handy getaway vehicle. But there was no sign to say I couldn't park there, nor that Fiona might be towed away, and besides the view northwards over Portland Harbour was magnificent. I decided to chance my arm.

Walking up to the entrance to the citadel, I was surprised to see that it was unguarded. Certainly there were huge iron gates and gun-slits, and a long narrow tunnel controlled by traffic lights, but that was all.

The notice (which I photographed on leaving - for a reason that will become clear) said: 'HOME OFFICE - NO UNAUTHORISED ENTRY'. With translations in a curious selection of other languages. Why not just in English? Oh well. The important question seemed to be this: was I authorised to enter? Absolutely not. I wasn't a wife visiting her husband, nor a legal person, nor any kind of official. I had no business there at all. So of course I went in.

Emerging on the far side of the tunnel, there was still no challenge. No barking dogs, no armed guards rushing forward. Just an inner view of the military stonework.

How odd, with nobody about. Were the prisoners and their guards having a nice day on the sands in Weymouth? I'd expected much more security in one of Her Majesty's prisons. I advanced carefully up the roadway, and eventually reached another gateway, one that finally looked the business, with a modern-looking reception area next to it. They had built a compound with high concrete walls around it. Ah, this must be the real prison! I definitely now felt like the trespasser.

There was nothing to see of whatever (and whoever) lay inside the compound. But I saw an interesting-looking notice nearby, a Home Office notice, that listed the penalties for doing all sorts of unauthorised things, such as springing a convict. I took a photo of it. Then I began to walk on, intending to find The Jailhouse Café. I gathered this was open to the public, and was a normal café. Presumably frequented by prison visitors - wives and girlfriends - smuggling in the usual things: cigarettes, sweets, drugs, helicopters.

But I was stopped in my tracks by a commanding voice behind. It was a prison officer in uniform. I should point out that I was hardly looking like a dangerous intruder. This was a selfie taken barely an hour earlier at Portland Castle:

Miss Demure and Innocent, surely! But the man was implacable. Had I taken a picture of that interesting Home Office notice? Yes, I had. Did I know it was an offence to photograph a Home Office notice? No, I didn't! I was so sorry. What would happen now? (I braced myself for the blown whistle, the turned-out guard, the gyves clapped onto my wrists, the reeking dungeon, the rats, the night-time gang rape by all the other prisoners, the firing squad at dawn)

Desperate not to lose control of the situation, I had an inspiration: would deleting the photograph, while he saw me do it, save me? I put this to him. Yes, could I do that, please. I said to him, 'Come into the shade so we can both see the screen better, and watch me delete the shot.' But you know how it is. I've owned that camera for six years. I've taken 59,000 shots with it. I've frequently deleted some of them on-camera. But could I do it under pressure, with a prison officer standing next to me - a man determined to stick to the rules and likely to confiscate the camera if I failed? Or impose an even worse punishment for my crime?

No I couldn't. My mind went blank. I completely forgot how to delete that incriminating photo. I fumbled. It took three embarrassing attempts to delete it. But at last he saw it disappear. Phew!

And then magically his attitude changed. Oh, I still had a lecture on what I could and couldn't do at The Verne. But he also strongly recommended, in friendly terms, a visit The Jailhouse Café. And he told me where to see an amazing view along the coast, as far as the Isle of Wight, which involved walking between some old buildings, somewhere I wouldn't have dared go ordinarily.

Well, I skipped the café. No doubt it was excellent - and indeed it would have been an intriguing experience, because I learned later that it was staffed by trusted prisoners - but then I'd already had a light snack at Portland Castle, and after my brush with Authority I wasn't really in the right mood. I did seek out the amazing view he'd recommended. And it was pretty good, even though I couldn't actually see the Isle of Wight. I decided to fib about that - not seeing the isle of Wight - when walking back past the prison reception block, if the officer came out and asked me about it, as he well might. I needed to keep him sweet. No prison toady was going to out-toady this toady! I had to ensure that I could escape this fortress.

But by the time I did actually get back to the reception block, I had recovered my composure somewhat, and was determined to show the man that this lady wasn't to be intimidated. I decided to go in and have a word with him. Boldly I entered where I might not return from. I saw a huge array of lockers, and a glassed-in counter, such as you might find in a bank. Two prison officers, a man and a woman, confronted me from behind the plate glass and asked me what I wanted. Behind them I saw the older officer who had imposed his will on me. I smiled, and said that I'd popped in to thank him personally for directing me to such a good view. Ah! All was at once good cheer.

Then I left before I said or did something to land me in trouble again. I didn't feel safe until I'd passed through the tunnel and out into the sunshine on the other side. Nor indeed until I was sitting in Fiona with the engine fired up. I drove away before they changed their mind about letting me go.

It was only today, when checking some basic facts about HM Prison The Verne, that I discovered it was converted in early 2014 from a medium-security prison for fairly serious offenders into an Immigrant Removal Centre. So it wasn't stuffed full of felons - just persons who had come to the UK illegally and were going to be deported. Well, that explained the strange selection of foreign languages on the notice outside the tunnel entrance. But it felt something of a let-down!

And I began to wonder whether that rule-minded prison officer had been entirely correct about not photographing Home Office notices. Had he been merely curious about me, and had made it all up? Hmm.

I've mentioned Portland Castle twice. Let's look at it. This is an old gun fort of Henry the Eighth's, now in the care of English Heritage:

It was immaculately presented, as is usual with English Heritage. Also as usual with their properties, there was a collection of period clothing to try on. Not just in kid's sizes. I was able to don a colourful gunner's outfit from 1793, complete with tricorn hat:

I think that looks pretty good! Wouldn't it be fantastic if late-eighteenth century fashions came back in?

I also tried on the iron hat of a Tudor soldier of 1545:

No, that's not so good. I think I'll avoid iron hats in the future. Even Second World War tin hats don't do it for me, as this 2013 shot with friend Emma in Hastings confirms:

I also visited Portland Bill, and had a wander around Fortuneswell, the main town on Portland. This 2004 photo will give you a good impression of the place - it's very hilly!

I encountered an idiot man there. I was walking down a narrow one-way street with camera in hand, and he was painting his house. He gave me a look that seemed to say, 'What's your game, missus?' So to mollify him, I smiled pleasantly and asked him whether, if I turned left at the bottom of the street, I would get back to the town car park. It seemed a simple enough question, and in fact I already knew the answer, which was yes, I would get back to the car park. But he perversely seemed to think that I had parked my car just up the road from his house, and wanted to drive to the car park, and not walk. He kept on saying that it was one-way, and that I had to turn right at the bottom and then drive all the way around if I wanted to park where I wanted to.

Talk about having an unshakeable bulldog grip on a concept! I gave up trying to explain that I was actually on foot, and just thanked him and walked on. No doubt he thought I was the stupid one. Sigh.

More treasures in the attic! Some great cameras this time.

My goodness, there's a lot of stuff up in my attic! Yesterday I came across some photo equipment from the film era. I hadn't touched any of it since I went digital in May 2000.

Now this was something I couldn't throw away! Or at least not my three favourite cameras from film days. These were: a Konica Auto S3 compact, bought in 1973; and two cameras from 1993 - a sub-compact Minox 35 GT-E, and a secondhand Olympus OM-1N SLR. Here they are, brought down from the attic and set up on the table in my study:

It was lovely to handle them again!

The Konica was my first 'proper' camera. It cost me £75 in August 1973. I used it right through to 1990, when I switched to a secondhand Olympus OM-10 SLR. The Konica wasn't all that pocketable, but it was small enough to carry around all day and never miss a shot. Its 38mm f/1.8 lens could cope with a wide range of subjects and lighting conditions. Manual focussing was accomplished with a rangefinder. It still felt impressively solid and well-built - all-metal, naturally.

No screen on the back of the camera! (Doesn't it look strange?)

The only snag with the Konica was its viewfinder, which was fine while I had young eyes, but once I began to wear glasses from 1986 it was a nuisance to squint through it.

The Minox was truly pocketable, and of course you paid for both the famous name and the miniaturisation. It cost me £199 in February 1993. But what a handy little camera it was. Its forte was being there in your jeans pocket. Its mainly-plastic construction made it very lightweight, and because the lens folded completely away, it was very slim. That said, I gradually fell out of love with it, because focussing was by guesswork (which led to too many slightly-less-than-crisp shots) and creatively it had severe limitations - you couldn't use filters, for example. Nor was it good in poor light - its 35mm f/2.8 lens was strictly for daylight shooting. But nevertheless it was and remains a design icon:

The best of the bunch is of course the Olympus. The original OM-1 was launched way back in 1972, but stayed in production for a very long time virtually unaltered. My secondhand OM-1N was a late model, probably made in the mid-1980s. I'd already been shooting with the 'amateur' OM-10 for some while, and was ready to upgrade to the 'professional' OM-1N, although by then 'real pros' would have been using the OM-4. Intending to explore low-light photography, I bought it with a secondhand 50mm f/1.4 lens. The combo cost me £220 in August 1993. Other lenses followed, but the standard 50mm lens always seemed to give me the very best results, and I generally stuck with it. I used the Olympus heavily until May 2000. It was a very pretty camera. It gave me great pleasure throughout, and great shots, and I was sorry to relegate it to the attic.

Here are some side-by-side shots which show how these cameras each compare in size with my current Leica D-Lux 4 digital zoom compact, bought for £550 in June 2009:

That Minox really was very small!

I was an early convert to digital photography, getting into it before before the main rush began. I recall many an article in photo magazines about whether digital was 'better' than film. The answer was, and still is, that the two media produce distinctively different results, and it's a matter of taste as to whether you prefer one to the other. But there's no denying that digital surpassed film for clean resolution of sharp detail years ago. And digital can secure usable images in extreme lighting conditions well beyond the capability of film. Once uploaded (or in the case of film, scanned) onto a computer, both can be tweaked as much as desired, of course. But it's hard nowadays to do anything serious with film, because film manufacture has almost stopped. Even that giant of film, Kodak, has gone.

Talking of Kodak film, guess what I discovered in the front pocket of the Olympus carrying-case?

Two Kodak Gold 100 film packets, one of them opened - meaning that there must be a partially-used film in the Olympus. And an unused film waiting to be loaded up and exposed after that.

Isn't this tempting? Both films must be fifteen years old, and well past their best, but I'd love to see those undeveloped shots from early 2000, and how I would look now if captured on 35mm film. And also what would be the outcome of a grand digital Leica/film Olympus head-to-head comparison test. Time to get out the tripod, methinks, and experiment! I asked in Boots today whether they still processed films (Yes) and what it would cost to to have prints off a 36-exposure film (£4.99 quoted to me).

It looks like a tenner's-worth of fun is looming!