An Old Camera, a big dream

What’s something you’ve done that your past self would be proud of?

That’s an interesting one?

When we look back at our younger selves, we tend to remember the things we got wrong. The opportunities we missed. The things we were too scared to try. The dreams we quietly tucked away because, well, you know, life got in the way.

But every now and then, something happens that makes you stop and think…

“Blimey. I actually did that!”

For me, one of those moments would be taking an old camera, a dream, and a stubborn determination to see what I could achieve, and getting one of my photographs in the local news.

Now, I appreciate that might not sound particularly spectacular to some people.

It’s not winning an Oscar. It’s not appearing on the front of National Geographic. And it certainly doesn’t involve a Hollywood producer knocking on my door offering me a six-figure contract.

Although, if one happens to be reading this, my email address is available. Just saying.

But here’s the thing.

It was never really about the newspaper.

It was about proving to myself that I could do something with a passion, a bit of determination, and whatever equipment I could get my hands on.

You see, I’ve always enjoyed taking photographs. Capturing those little moments that other people might walk straight past. A bird sitting in just the right place. The way the light catches a building. A landscape that makes you stop for a moment and simply appreciate where you are.

Sometimes you get lucky.

Sometimes you take fifty photographs and discover that forty-nine of them are absolutely rubbish.

And sometimes, just sometimes, you get that one image.

The one that makes you smile.

The one that makes you think, “Actually, that’s not half bad.”

And then, when that photograph finds its way into the local news?

Well, that’s something else entirely.

Because suddenly, something you created, something you saw through your own eyes and captured, is being shared with other people.

And that matters.

Not because it makes you famous. Not because it means you’re suddenly some sort of photographic genius who should be wearing a black polo neck and talking about aperture settings over an expensive coffee.

But because it reminds you that you don’t necessarily need all the latest equipment, the perfect circumstances, or a carefully mapped-out plan to make something worthwhile.

Sometimes, you just need to start.

Take the photograph.

Learn as you go.

Make mistakes.

Try again.

And keep going.

Looking back, I think my younger self would be rather chuffed with that achievement. Perhaps a little surprised, too.

After all, dreams have a funny way of changing as we get older. Sometimes they get bigger. Sometimes they get smaller. And sometimes they sit quietly in the back of our minds, waiting for us to stop making excuses and give them a chance.

I’m not suggesting that getting a photograph into the local news is going to change the world.

But it changed how I looked at what I might be capable of.

And that, in its own little way, is important.

These days, photography has become a much bigger part of my life. I’m still learning, still experimenting, and still occasionally pressing buttons without being entirely certain what they’re going to do.

Some things never change.

But I’ve learned that you don’t have to be the best at something to enjoy it. You don’t need qualifications hanging on the wall or thousands of followers telling you how brilliant you are.

You just need passion and to care enough to keep doing it.

And if something good comes from that? Brilliant.

If it doesn’t? You’ve still spent your time doing something you love.

So, what would my past self be proud of?

Probably the fact that I took a chance on myself.

That I picked up a camera, followed a dream, and managed to get one of my photographs into the local news.

Not bad for a bloke who simply wanted to take some decent pictures.

And perhaps that’s the real answer to this question.

It’s not always about the grand achievements or the life-changing milestones.

Sometimes, it’s about looking back at the person you used to be and realising that you’ve become someone who had the courage to try.

Someone who kept learning, and failing.

Someone who didn’t give up on the things that made him happy.

And someone who discovered that an old camera and a dream could take him further than he ever expected.

So, if there’s something you’ve always wanted to try, perhaps give it a go.

Pick up that camera.

Write that poem.

Start that project.

Take that first step, even if you haven’t got the faintest idea what you’re doing.

You never know where it might lead.

And one day, you might just look back and realise that the person you used to be would be rather proud of the person you’ve become, I know I am

Stay safe,

BC

Scribbling Poems, to Chasing Light

I’m sure you’re all aware that, apart from my twenty-odd years as a fully qualified scribbleologist (poet to those who prefer the technical terminology), I’ve also had a longstanding love affair with photography. Words have always been my way of capturing the world, but lately I’ve discovered that a camera can do much the same thing — only with fewer syllables and considerably less punctuation.

And blimey, things seem to be gathering pace!

Since buying my first DSLR back in October last year, I’ve photographed a wedding, covered two Pride events (one of them as the main photographer, no less), and had the pleasure of photographing an evening fundraiser featuring the legendary Howard Jones. Yes, that Howard Jones. Eighties musical royalty, and me with a camera trying to look as though I know exactly what I’m doing.

Next up, I’ve another shoot this month at a poetry event hosted by local celebrity Tom Hirons. Which means I’ll be swapping between two of my favourite worlds: the one where people perform their words, and the one where I attempt to capture the moment before it disappears into the ether.

When I bought that camera, I rather fancied I’d take a few photographs, enjoy myself, and perhaps produce the occasional image that didn’t require an apology. I didn’t quite anticipate things moving along quite so quickly.

But here we are. One minute you’re experimenting with a new bit of kit, the next you’re photographing weddings, Pride celebrations and musical legends, with more opportunities popping up on the horizon.

It’s funny how life sometimes opens a door when you’re busy looking through a viewfinder.

So, between scribbling poems, chasing light and trying to remember which button does what, it seems this particular adventure is gathering momentum.

And if there’s one thing I’ve learnt after twenty-plus years of playing with words, it’s this: you never really know where a creative itch might lead you.

I’d better keep the batteries charged, then. It looks like I’m going to need them!

Totnes Castle (Totnes Times)
Ruth Theodore Totnes Pride.
Portrait of Howard Jones.
(Sherree Valentine-Daines)
The River Dart (Narnia)
Roses (Mirror photography, DSLR)
Raven (Paignton beach)

Learning Never Stops, The Joy of Curiosity

What’s the best online course you’ve ever taken?

I’m not sure I can pick just one course, because the thing that made the biggest impression on me wasn’t necessarily a particular subject.

It was the opportunity to learn in the first place.

Back in 2013, I discovered edX, an online learning platform founded by Harvard and MIT. The idea was simple but rather brilliant: give people around the world access to courses from some of the best universities, without the usual barriers to education.

And a lot of the learning was free.

Well, that was me hooked.

I enrolled in Ethical Reasoning and CS50, Harvard’s introduction to computer science.

Now, I’d love to tell you I sailed through both courses, displaying the sort of academic brilliance that would have had Harvard knocking on my door.

I didn’t.

I crashed out of CS50.

Computer science and I clearly needed a little more time to get acquainted!

But I passed Ethical Reasoning, which encouraged me to keep going. Next, I enrolled in Bioethics at Georgetown University, and I passed that one too.

Not bad for someone sitting at home, learning online from universities on the other side of the Atlantic.

What I loved most was the choice.

Different universities. Different subjects. Different ways of looking at the world.

And the opportunity to explore things I might never have studied otherwise.

Because here’s the thing.

Talent isn’t exclusive to people who can afford a university education.

There are people out there with brilliant minds, curious natures and an enormous appetite for knowledge who simply don’t have the money to follow the traditional educational route.

Platforms like edX opened up opportunities that might otherwise have been out of reach.

And I think that’s something worth celebrating.

I’ve always been keen to learn new things. Not necessarily because I want a certificate to hang on the wall, or another qualification to add to my CV.

Sometimes, I’m simply curious.

I want to understand something I didn’t understand yesterday. I want to challenge the way I think. I want to discover something that makes me stop for a moment and go, “Well, that’s bloody interesting!”

I think learning helps keep the mind hungry.

And I reckon that’s important, whatever your age, background or circumstances.

You don’t have to become an expert in everything. You don’t even have to finish every course you start. Believe me, I’m living proof of that!

Sometimes the value is in trying.

Sometimes it’s in discovering what you enjoy.

And sometimes it’s in realising that a subject isn’t for you, which is useful knowledge in itself.

So, what’s the best online course I’ve ever taken?

Perhaps it was Ethical Reasoning. Perhaps it was Bioethics.

But if I’m honest, I think the best thing I got from the experience was discovering that learning didn’t have to stop just because I wasn’t sitting in a classroom.

There’s a whole world of knowledge out there, and some of it is only a few clicks away.

You just have to be curious enough to look.

And if you happen to crash out of a computer science course along the way?

Well, at least you gave it a go.

Stay safe,

BC

Strong Enough to Fight, Wise Enough not to

What does it mean to be a good person?

Ask ten people and you’ll probably get ten different answers. For me, it comes down to something rather simple: helping others, treating strangers with kindness, and trying to leave the world a little better than I found it.

Nothing revolutionary, is it? Although, given the state of the bloody world sometimes, you’d think kindness was a rare and endangered species.

But here’s the thing. Kindness isn’t weakness, and peace isn’t an inability to fight.

You can be compassionate without being a pushover. You can stand up for yourself and those you love without making aggression your default setting.

It’s why the idea of a demon hand and a Buddha heart resonates with me. Strength tempered by compassion. The ability to confront darkness without allowing it to dictate who you become.

I’ve been trained for war, but that doesn’t mean I want to spend my life fighting. Quite the opposite.

There’s a difference between being unable to hurt someone and having the capability to do so but choosing not to. One is a limitation. The other is restraint.

And restraint, in my opinion, takes a fair bit of strength.

We all have anger, pride and darker impulses. The question isn’t whether those feelings exist, but whether we allow them to control our actions. Just because somebody insults us doesn’t mean we have to respond. Just because we can win an argument doesn’t mean we should have it.

Sometimes, walking away is the strongest thing you can do. Not because you’re frightened, but because your peace of mind is worth more than having the last bloody word.

So, what makes someone a good person?

Not perfection. I’ve yet to meet anyone who has that particular trick figured out.

It’s about trying. Helping when you can. Admitting when you’re wrong. Apologising when you’ve hurt someone. Standing up for those who need it, setting boundaries when necessary, and having the courage to change your mind when life proves you wrong.

We can’t control how others behave, but we can take responsibility for how we respond.

For me, that’s the balance:

It’s known as Demon hand, Buddha heart. Strength without cruelty. Compassion without helplessness. Peace without pretending the world is always peaceful.

I don’t have to be harmless to be kind, weak to be gentle, or blind to the world’s darkness to choose not to add to it.

I can walk a path of peace while being prepared for war. But above all, I can choose to lead with my heart.

Will that change the world overnight? Probably not. I’m not that bloody optimistic.

But if we all made a little more effort to choose kindness over contempt, restraint over retaliation, and understanding over hatred, perhaps we’d make this place a little easier to live in.

Not perfect. Not without conflict.

Just a little kinder.

And honestly? I’d settle for that.

Stay safe,

BC

GPS Is Great… Until It Isn’t

What’s the most underrated life skill?

For me, it’s map reading.

And before you start saying, “But Bob, we have GPS…”

Yes.

I have satnav on my phone too.

And it’s bloody brilliant.

Until your phone battery dies.

Or your GPS stops working.

Then suddenly you’re standing in the middle of nowhere with absolutely no idea where you are, or how the hell you’re getting from there to where you need to be.

Map reading is one of those skills the Army taught me that has stayed useful long after I left.

And actually, I’d put basic first aid right alongside it.

Neither skill is particularly glamorous.

Neither is something you think about every day.

But when you need them…

You really, really need them.

So perhaps these are two skills we should all learn.

Because technology is wonderful.

But sometimes knowing how to read a map and patch someone up is worth a hell of a lot more than having 5% battery left.

Stay safe,

BC

The Ancient Art of Not Being a Dick.

What’s a personal mantra or philosophy you live by?

Mine is pretty simple.

Don’t be a dick.

That’s it.

No ancient scrolls. No twelve-step spiritual journey. No bloke on a mountain handing me a mysterious answer.

Just… don’t be a dick.

Try to be kind.

Think before you speak.

Remember that everyone else is fighting battles you probably know nothing about.

And if someone annoys you, take a breath before deciding to make their day worse.

There’s probably a tiny bit of Buddhism hiding in there somewhere.

Be mindful. Let shit go. Cause less suffering where you can.

I’m not claiming enlightenment.

I still get annoyed. I still swear. I’m still occasionally a monumental dick myself.

But I’m working on it.

And perhaps that’s the point.

We don’t have to be perfect.

Just try to leave people feeling a little better rather than a little worse for having crossed your path.

Seems like a decent way to wander through this life.

Don’t be a dick.

Simple.

Stay safe,

Bc

Sunday Snaps

Crystal ball photography
Narnia night sky
Totnes Pride open mic
Pharos islands
Bob in action

This last picture is a special one. It was sent to me by a fellow photographer and Pride volunteer. It’s nice to see things from the outside.

So I’d like to ask you to send me one of your favourite pictures and why it’s special to

BobChristianpoetry@gmail.com

I’d like to share it on my guest slot on Sunday snaps

Stay safe

Bc

The Accidental Photographer Strikes Again

I think this last week has probably been the pinnacle of my 2026 journey.

But before we get into that, let’s rewind a little.

At the start of the year I spotted an advert on Instagram looking for volunteer photographers for Torbay Pride.

Now, being me, I thought…

Why not?

So I threw my hat into the ring.

Somehow, they said yes.

And suddenly I found myself being one of the volunteer photographers for Torbay Pride.

My first proper photography gig.

And I bloody loved it.

Something had happened.

That little spark had caught light.

So when my hometown of Narnia announced its own Pride in July, I did what any sensible person would do.

I sent them a cheeky email asking if they needed a photographer.

Apparently, nobody had thought of that.

So, by a mixture of enthusiasm, timing and possibly nobody else putting their hand up, I became the official Pride photographer.

Which brings us to last week.

Totnes Pride.

Another fantastic day. Another camera full of photographs. Another reminder of just how much I love doing this.

And then came the inevitable bit.

The bit where I sat down afterwards and started looking through hundreds of photographs.

Yes, they were in focus.

Yes, they were clear.

But…

Did they have that something?

Probably not.

And when you combine that with a healthy dollop of imposter syndrome and failing to score in a poetry competition, it’s fair to say I was being a little hard on myself.

Then Friday happened.

One of the Pride volunteers contacted me.

She sent me a lovely photograph of me in action with my camera.

Then came the unexpected bit.

She was looking for a volunteer photographer to photograph 80s music legend Howard Jones while he had his portrait painted, followed by an auction raising money for a local youth music charity.

Would I be interested?

Well…

Yes.

Obviously.

I didn’t even need to think about it.

More experience.

More hours behind the camera.

A chance to build my portfolio.

And, quite frankly, an excuse to take photographs.

What’s not to like?

Then, as if the universe was trying to make its point, some of my astrophotography started producing some rather lovely results too.

And suddenly that slump didn’t seem quite so deep.

Perhaps I’d just forgotten something fairly obvious.

I’m still learning.

I’m still finding my eye.

Not every photograph is going to be the photograph.

And that’s okay.

You take the next one.

You learn.

You keep going.

Sometimes you just need to stop judging the last frame long enough to notice that you’re already holding the camera for the next one.

And maybe there’s something to be said for simply being there for that moment, rather than worrying too much about what comes afterwards.

Anyway…

The camera’s charged.

There are more photographs to take.

And apparently, I’ve got a portrait of Howard Jones to go and shoot.

So I’d better get on with it.

Stay safe,

BC

My One Wish Wouldn’t Be for Me

The genie grants you a wish. What is it?

It’s one of those questions that sounds wonderfully simple.

You rub the lamp. The genie appears.

Three seconds later, you’re suddenly faced with the biggest decision of your life.

And I’m guessing most people would go for something fairly obvious.

£100 million in the bank. A mansion. Fame.

Maybe becoming a bestselling author, a world-famous photographer, or whatever else happens to float your particular boat.

And don’t get me wrong, I’d quite happily take the £100 million, but there’s a problem. If I became a successful poet or photographer because some magical blue bloke handed it to me, I’m not sure I’d want it. I want to know that I earned it.

Every poem. Every photograph. Every little bit of progress.

The mistakes. The failures. The hours nobody sees.

That’s where the meaning comes from.

So if the genie stood in front of me today and said: “Bob, you get one wish. Anything you want.” My answer would probably surprise you.

I wouldn’t ask for money. I wouldn’t ask for fame. I wouldn’t even ask for anything for myself. I’d wish for one thing.

I would wish to eliminate child sexual abuse.

Completely. Everywhere. No exceptions. No child ever having to experience it. No teenager carrying a secret they’re terrified to tell anyone.

No adult waking up decades later and realising that something that happened in childhood has somehow followed them through and affected their entire life.

Because I know what it’s like.

I’m a survivor of child sexual abuse.

It happened more than forty years ago.

Forty.

Years.

And yet here I am, all these decades later, still thinking about it. Finally talking about it. Still understanding that something that lasted for a relatively small part of my childhood managed to leave fingerprints all over the man I became.

That’s the thing about abuse.

People sometimes imagine that when the abuse stops, the damage stops too.

It doesn’t necessarily work like that.

The perpetrator might walk away.

The child grows up. Life moves on. People get married. Have children. Build careers. Take photographs. Write books. Stand on beaches. Have therapy.

Laugh. Love… Live.

But sometimes, the past comes along for the ride. It sits quietly in the passenger seat. You might not notice it for years. Then something happens: A smell. A place. A memory.

A conversation.

A particular feeling.

And suddenly that little passenger taps you on the shoulder and reminds you that it’s still there.

That’s why my wish wouldn’t be about making me rich. It wouldn’t even be about erasing my own past. Because if I could magically remove what happened to me, I’d also remove part of the journey that made me who I am today.

And despite everything… I don’t want to erase myself, now.

I want to erase the reason children need to become survivors in the first place.

That’s the difference.

I don’t want a world where we become really good at helping people pick up the pieces.

I want a world where fewer people have pieces to pick up.

I want children to grow up knowing what safety feels like.

I want survivors to know that they will be believed when they find the strength to tell someone what happened, or is happening.

I want them to understand that their bodies belong to them.

That saying no means no.

That adults are supposed to protect children, not exploit them.

And perhaps most importantly…

I want survivors to know that what happened to them wasn’t their fault.

Not then. Not now. Never.

Because shame has a nasty habit of attaching itself to the wrong person: The child carries it. The teenager carries it. The adult carries it. Sometimes, to their grave.

Meanwhile, the person responsible may carry absolutely none of it.

That’s backwards. The shame belongs with the person who caused the harm, not the person who survived it.

So yes, if that genie ever does turn up, lamp in hand, waiting patiently for my answer… I know exactly what I’ll ask for… I’d simply look him in the eye and say:

“Make sure no child ever has to become a survivor of sexual abuse again.”

And if that sounds like an impossible wish… perhaps it is.

But I’ve spent enough of my life being told that some things are impossible. Sometimes impossible just means we haven’t tried hard enough yet.

So until that genie turns up, perhaps the rest of us have a part to play.

Listen. Believe. Protect. Educate.

Speak when silence would make things easier for the wrong person.

And when a survivor finally finds the courage to say those words:

“This happened to me.”

Don’t ask them why they didn’t tell someone sooner. Don’t brush it off with a throwaway comment. Don’t ask what they were wearing. Don’t ask what they did to cause it. Don’t ask why they didn’t fight or scream.

Just listen.

Believe them.

And do remind them of something they may have spent years struggling to believe themselves:

It wasn’t their fault.

Forty years later, I’m still here. Still writing. Still taking photographs. Still telling stories. Still trying to turn some of the darker parts of my life into something that might help somebody else. Perhaps that’s the closest thing I have to magic.Not changing the past, but using what happened to me to try to make somebody else’s future a little safer.

And if I only ever get one wish… That’s the one I’ll choose.

Every single time.

Stay safe,

BC

The Children We Taught to Disappear

Somewhere in America,

History is clearing its throat,

And nobody wants to hear the cough.


Somewhere in America,

A little girl is folding herself

Into the smallest version of survival.

Learning that silence can weigh less than a scream.


She is hiding.


Not because children play hide and seek.

But because grown people play God.

Because hate sharpened its teeth,

Put on a flag,

And called itself patriotic.


She writes.


Not because she dreams of being famous.

But because it’s cheaper than a gravestone.

Because every sentence whispers:

“If I disappear, don’t let my words disappear too.”


And somewhere, right here,

We walk past brick walls;

Past headlines;

Past each other;

Thinking that monsters wear uniforms from history books.


But monsters evolve.


They trade boots for boardrooms.

Slurs for slogans.

Chains for algorithms.

And suddenly prejudice sounds… Polite.


Tell me… How many attics are we building today?

How many children are shrinking themselves

To fit inside cupboards… borders… classrooms…

Their own skins?


How many diaries are being written

Because speaking aloud

Still feels too dangerous?


This isn’t just about one girl.

It’s about every heartbeat

That’s forced to apologise for existing.


It’s about every page

That had to become a witness 

Because people refused to be one. 


So don’t tell me “That was back then”.

History doesn’t repeat because it forgets…

It repeats because we do. 


And somewhere in America,

There’s still a child 

Waiting for grown-ups 

To prove they are adults.


So read the diary. 

Please. 

Read the silence. 

Read the spaces between the words,

Where fear learned to breathe. 

Then close the book. 


Not to end the story, 

But to make damned sure

That we never hand another child a pen 

When all they needed was a world

That didn’t ask them to hide.

(C)BobChristian