I was reminded of this recently as I tried to get to grips with a roll of Harman Phoenix 200.

I shot my first roll of the stuff a couple of years ago. I didn’t think about it at all, just popped it into a point-and-shoot, snapped away, and because I was on holiday I did what I rarely do and sent it off to a lab. The scans came back unusable. Proper crunchy, weird colours, just total shit. I probably just exposed them all wrong but I wrote the film off and vowed never to load a camera with it again.

As it turns out, curiosity and some cheap expired rolls got the better of me recently.

When I actually took the time to read up on the film and see how other people were using it, I realised there were a few pretty key things I’d ignored. It really wants to be rated at 100 ISO, not 200. It’s very grainy. It has very little dynamic range. And crucially, because of how it’s made, it doesn’t have the usual orange mask on the negative. The negatives come out blue, which most lab scanners just aren’t built to deal with. So if you send it to a lab that doesn’t know what they’re doing, the scans are almost guaranteed to look like trash. Which is exactly what happened — nothing like paying too much for a job you could have done much better at home.

But herein lies the point I am vaguely trying to make. I called analog photography a hobby, but really it’s a craft. It demands a bit of care and attention, you can’t just half-arse it and expect magic to happen. It reminds me of something an old boss used to tell me: “take the time it takes, and it takes less time.”

If you know me, you’ll know that’s not really how I operate. I tend to go head first into things, get stuck in, and blunder my way through. Sometimes that works, but mostly it doesn’t. And film photography is very good at reminding me of that. It either forces you to do things properly, or it forces you to accept your mistakes — of which, in my case, there are many.

Over the past few years, as I’ve gone deeper into all of this, I’ve started to properly appreciate just how much there is to learn. Choosing the film, choosing the camera, deciding how to expose, how to develop, how to scan. Tiny, almost insignificant decisions that end up having a massive impact on the final image. Even things like the type of water you use to develop your film, or the light source you use when scanning. Really geeky stuff, but consequential when you are trying to achieve a certain result. It requires a level of attention that I don’t often dedicate to a lot of other things in my life.

I often think that from the outside, it can look so simple. Scroll Substack or Instagram and it’s easy to think that if you sell a kidney, buy a Leica M6, and load it up with Portra 400, you’ve got yourself a one-way ticket to bangersville. Unfortunately, it’s not quite that simple — especially if you don’t want to sell your other kidney and outsource all the developing and scanning to labs.

The fact that I don’t find all this stuff easy is a gift. It’s good to have things in your life that are difficult. Things where you have to keep failing, keep learning, keep fucking up. That’s what turns something from a hobby into a craft, into a passion.

So, back to that expired roll of original Phoenix 200 that I picked up on the cheap. I took it into the mountains recently, loaded it into a little Rollei 35 SE, and tried to apply a few of the things I had learnt since I shot the first roll a few years ago. Some of the photos came out great, some of them are still pretty janky. I’m pretty sure there are still a few scanning tricks I’m missing, but it felt like progress nonetheless.

So if anything, for me, all of this is a great exercise in both radical acceptance and actually applying myself to something. I’ll keep learning, geeking, and tinkering in the knowledge that every photo I make is slightly better than the last in some small incremental way.

I hope you enjoy this small selection of my favourite images from that roll…

Alice’s cousin Victor studied a bit of photography and has developed his own photos in the past, and he’s keen to get back into it. He started asking me what sort of camera might be good for hiking — something lightweight, robust, all that sort of thing.

So I did what no one ever asks me to do (but I do it anyway). I laid out my camera collection on the kitchen table and started rambling on about the pros and cons. Why this one is great except when it’s not. Why none of them are perfect, but all of them are, in their own way. Blah blah blah…

And somewhere in the middle of that ramble I realised something. On every single camera I currently own — and every camera I’ve owned in the past — I’ve taken photos that I absolutely love.

That feels like an important point.

I started thinking about it more, and it struck me that although I like to think of myself as a bit of a camera nerd, I don’t actually seem to have a particularly refined eye for optical excellence. It doesn’t really matter what I make photos with; I seem to be happy with the images that come out of all of them.

That’s probably not just luck, but it also definitely isn’t skill! I think part of this realisation is tied to the fact that I’m far more attached to the images I’ve made on film than anything I’ve made digitally. Film photos feel more tangible. There’s just more that has to happen before the image exists. Even when I end up looking at a scan on a screen, I know what’s gone into it — choosing the film, loading the film, getting the exposure right, remembering that I actually have to focus the thing, developing it, scanning it, inevitably messing something up along the way.

A lot of the time my analogue images are probably not as technically good as something I might have made digitally. They’re not always sharp. The exposure might be off. The focus might not be where I thought it was. But I’m almost always really attached to them anyway. I think that’s because I actually enjoy the imperfections. They feel like my imperfections. The photos tell a story that I’m very tangibly connected to, not just because I was there, but because of the process I went through to make them.

So I wanted to put this idea to the test. I went back through my archive and made a list of every camera I’ve ever owned, or currently own, and picked one image from each that I really like.

They were made on cameras that cost anywhere between about £20 and £1,000. Some were bought because they were practical, some because they look cool, and some had been forgotten in someone’s old dusty closet and handed down to me. And yet the images all feel equal.

There’s probably a lesson for me in there somewhere. That I don’t need to constantly keep thinking I need new things to make better images. And maybe it’s worth saying that if you are someone who wants to get into film photography, it shouldn’t feel daunting. Just buy whatever you can afford that’s in working order. I guarantee once you get that first roll of film back from the lab, or even better, develop it yourself, you’ll be hooked.

(But please, if you do ever come and stay, still ask me about my cameras. I love laying them out on the kitchen table and boring everyone.)

One of the many wonderful things about being obsessed with cameras is that you find yourself on a never-ending quest for the perfect one. What makes this quest even better is that there is never one perfect camera — there are many perfect cameras, for many different conditions, for many different moments in time. And when you combine that with a seemingly endless backlog of old analogue equipment to research, obsess over, and weigh up the pros and cons of, the quest can basically never end.

But maybe, just maybe, I’ve found something that ticks nearly all of the boxes of a very specific list.

As is probably obvious from a lot of the photographs I share, I love taking cameras into the outdoors. The more photos I make, the less seriously I take it. I’m not chasing perfection, I just enjoy the process of documenting day-to-day life, and I’m very fortunate that a lot of my day-to-day happens in beautiful places in the mountains.

Most of the time I’m moving relatively fast and light. And although I have been known to squeeze a medium format camera into a small running pack, it’s not always practical. In reality, I tend to reach for cameras that are small, light, and convenient.

Over time, I’ve developed a bit of a must-have list for my ideal mountain adventure camera.

Fully mechanical

This is surprisingly hard to find in a small form factor. As tempted as I’ve been by premium point-and-shoots like a Contax T2 or a Minolta TC-1, it feels ridiculous to spend much more than $100 on a camera full of ageing electronics that are inevitably going to fail, and either be impossible or expensive to repair.

They might have great glass, snappy autofocus, or whatever else, but they will break. Especially if you’re regularly covering them in sweat, dropping them in snow, or generally not treating them like museum pieces. Suddenly that $1,000 trendy compact doesn’t make much sense.

I do own a couple of fully electronic cameras, and one of them is fairly expensive. I enjoy using them, but I’m also at peace with the fact that they’re ticking time bombs.

When I go to the mountains, I want to know that it doesn’t really matter what abuse I put a camera through.

A friend recently gave me an old fixed-lens Yashica rangefinder he found while clearing out his dad’s house. I took it out and it worked perfectly. The same goes for an old Ilford camera that belonged to my grandad. These fully mechanical cameras just keep going.

Fully manual

Mountain light is rarely easy, and I really like having full control over exposure. Sometimes exposure compensation or tricking an internal meter by setting ISO works fine. But most of the time, I don’t want to rely on a light meter at all — I want to set exposure myself.

Unless I’m shooting a close portrait, I’m almost always working off the Sunny 16 rule. I get far more consistently good exposures trusting my instinct than relying on internal meters — especially on snow, in very bright conditions, or shooting directly into the sun.

The downside is that this level of control usually comes with bigger, heavier cameras.

I also find autofocus on most compact cameras pretty limiting. I’d much rather zone-focus and guess distance most of the time.

A wide focal length

In the mountains, 28mm is my most-used focal length. It’s incredibly versatile and aligns closely with how I see compositions. It also means I don’t need to move around too much to create space between myself and my subject.

That said, I’ve been having a lot of success with 35mm recently. It’s always felt a bit meh to me — not especially wide, not especially intimate — but several cameras I’ve picked up over the past year have forced me to use it. And I’ve come to really enjoy the perspective.

Compact, light, and quick to use

Form factor is huge. Ideally, my perfect camera fits into the front pocket of a running vest or the waist-belt pocket of a ski touring pack. It needs to be quick to access and not precious about getting wet or knocked around.

Cameras are meant to be used. And I’ll admit, I don’t take the best care of my gear — there’s a reason I can’t have nice things.

The one

It’s a fairly specific list, but I’ve just put my first roll of film through a Rollei 35 SE and it’s such a cool little camera.

I picked it up almost by accident. I was in our local pawn shop selling some old electric guitar gear, and while the assistant was pricing things up, he noticed me browsing the camera shelf. He mentioned he could give me a better deal if I was buying something from the shop.

That was all the encouragement I needed to grab the slightly beat-up Rollei and give it a go.

Buying old cameras from pawn shops is always a gamble, but it’s fully mechanical, the shutter seemed to work well enough, and it was effectively a straight swap for the guitar kit I was trading in. Worth the risk.

So far, I’ve only put one roll of Kodak ColorPlus 200 through it — half wandering around town on a moody day, half up in the mountains on a sunny ski tour. And I’m really happy with the results.

It’s fun and easy to use. The images feel sharp and characterful. It still blows my mind that something this small can produce images with the same feel as a much larger SLR. It looks like a toy in the hand, but it delivers proper, grown-up results.

I’m excited to put a few more rolls through it. It genuinely feels like the camera I’ve been looking for.

Although… that doesn’t mean I’ll be deleting the wish list full of other beautiful old cameras I’d still love to try.

I hope you enjoy a few frames from that first roll through the Rollie 35 SE all developed and scanned at home:

The whole thing was orchestrated by couple who, in true Swiss fashion, handled everything with terrifying efficiency — accommodation booked, routes curated, logistics colour-coded. They even fronted over 6,000 CHF for the accommodation without asking for payment until after the weekend. Only in Switzerland could something like this happen: a place where you could leave your wallet on a park bench overnight and find it neatly returned with a thank-you note. For my partner (French) and me (British), it all felt like a bit ridiculous but, often leaving things to the last minute, we were grateful for all of the hard work that had gone into every last details of the organisation.

⸻

This year I’ve been quietly chipping away at a content project for my girlfriend’s company — a series of hiking, running, ski touring, and snowshoeing routes across Switzerland. The idea is to create a community resource: something that lets people easily discover new trails without needing to trawl through the internet for beautiful spots to spend their outdoor time. So, when this weekend away came up, I figured I could double up — enjoy the social side and make some photos and routes for the project. That is my version of Swiss efficiency.

⸻

I packed three cameras for the trip:

• Nikon FM2

• Olympus AF-1

• Fuji GA645

I hadn’t shot much medium format this summer, so it was nice to get the Fuji back out. It’s basically the only medium format camera I’d ever consider sliding into a running vest — rangefinder style, quiet, and somehow it managed to survive a lot of sweat and “bumpy descents” despite being renowned as a bit of a delicate flower. But, the lens on that thing is pure witchcraft. Sharp but soft in the right places, and with that impossible to fake Fuji glow. I love it and haven’t used it enough this summer.

That said, I’m still a sucker for fully manual setups when I’m running — there’s something about turning dials, guessing exposures and fumbling focus on the move that keeps the whole thing human. But sometimes convenience wins, and the AF-1’s point-and-shoot simplicity is great for a few casual candid shots or when I can only use one hand on technical terrain.

⸻

Here’s a small selection from one of my favourite trips of the summer. The colour shots are Portra 400, run through either the FM2 or GA645, and the black and white frames are Kentmere 400 from the final day — when we scrambled up a ridgeline with the AF-1 dangling around my neck and banging against rocks.

These photos are from one of those rolls. We were heading high into the mountains and I wanted to keep things light, so I grabbed my little Olympus AF-1 which still had half a roll of Kentmere 400 in it from a previous outing.

I’m not naturally drawn to black and white, so I often spend the first hour or two cursing the fact that I’m surrounded by vivid colour and can’t take advantage of it. I have to consciously settle into the idea of seeing in monochrome; it can feel frustrating and a bit disappointing at first. But I just snap away, trying to lean into contrast and shape.

As it turned out, this was one of those times where the camera and the “accidental” film choice ended up being perfect. Our route started at the Simplon Pass Hospice, and at around 2000m we were already above the treeline and in proper alpine terrain. We left behind the greens, yellows and oranges and everything shifted to greys, blacks, whites. The sky also dulled as cloud rolled in and out the higher we climbed.

Once the trail narrowed into a scramble, the harsh lines of the ridge stood stark against the swirling weather. I happily fired the shutter, doing my best not to slip while photographing Alice moving across the rocks. As the landscape changed, so did my attitude about the film in my little AF1.

I try not to turn these days into a photo shoot. Now and again I’ll ask Alice to slow down or repeat a short section, but mostly I want to keep things natural and moving. Film suits me for that way of working. Whether it’s a tiny point-and-shoot like the AF-1 or an SLR I’m zone-focusing on the fly, shooting film feels more intuitive and freeing than digital—I click the shutter and move on. For me, this is exactly what I want when I’m documenting this kind of day out in the hills.

I love nearly every frame from that half-roll. I’m realising that black and white draws my attention to shape. Running in the mountains—especially these kinds of mountains—creates such interesting forms. I’ve probably only shot five or six rolls of black and white while mountain running, but I’m starting to see the creative possibilities in it.

I hope you enjoy the photos and if you have any good monochrome advice or inspiration, please send it my way. I just bought a bunch of 35mm Kodak T-Max to try out!

My writing here has evolved into something I didn’t quite expect. I first gravitated towards Substack as an alternative to social media — a place to share my work in a more meaningful way. But what I found was a space to dive deeper into personal thoughts and experiences, to get a little political, and to open up about how I see the world.

This new section of my newsletter is a place to get into the nuts and bolts of my photography. The photos will still play a big part in the stories on my main newsletter, but here I’ll dive into gear, techniques, and share images that I simply love and enjoy. If that’s your thing, stick around. If you’re here mainly for the essays, you can opt out of this section and still receive the main newsletter.

To kick things off, I wanted to share a set from one of my favourite days above Zinal in the Swiss Alps — it really was a summer full of long climbs, rocky scrambles, and glacier views. Alice and I had a lot of days like this: big vertical gain and very tired legs.

I always bring some kind of film camera on these missions, though weight usually limits me to something small and simple. For this outing, and many others this year, I took the Fuji HD-M. It’s a bit bulkier than your average point-and-shoot and the optics aren’t exactly top-tier, but I love that it’s waterproof (because I sweat A LOT) and allows me to set ISO manually for more exposure control.

I was testing Kodak ColorPlus for the first time and was really happy with the results — especially considering it’s one of the cheapest colour films you can buy right now. I’m looking forward to seeing how it handles snowy conditions this coming winter. The black-and-white shots are the end of a roll of Kentmere 400, another affordable stock that consistently surprises me. It’s nice having a few reliable budget options for these casual personal days when I’m just clicking away for the joy of it.

And finally — I’m incredibly lucky to spend so much time in the mountains with the best model. Thanks, Alice, for always being up for running back and forth for me… even above 3,000 metres!

I’d love to hear what you think of the photos. I plan to weave more of these stripped-back, photo-led pieces in between the longer essays as this space evolves.