Our new calendars – Signals in Stone and Dust & Shadow – are out now.

Each calendar features 12 images taken from my portfolio. Signals in Stone focuses on the megalithic monuments of France’s Grand Ouest region (in this case, mainly Brittany and Normandy), including several photographs taken at Carnac.

Dust & Shadow is about more recent monuments that mankind has left in the landscape. This first publication concentrates on German coastal defences in France, left over from World War 2. The images explore how these sites are starting to acquire a mysterious and enigmatic quality similar to that of ancient monuments.

The calendars are printed and delivered via the online service RedBubble. They are large format (A3) and printed on heavyweight art paper. This means the images are large, making them ideal for cutting out and framing once the year is over.

These images, and many others from both projects, are also available from RedBubble as framed, card-mounted or laminated fine-art prints, with the same high-quality printing used for the calendars. And you can also buy them as greetings cards. Visit the WebVivant Gallery on RedBubble to view the images.

The calendars are the first publications from our new web-based publishing venture, WebVivant Press. We’re planning a whole range of books and calendars for 2010. These will include novels and non-fiction books available in both print and e-book versions, and high-quality photography books. There will be a series of Human Landscape titles based around the photographs in the portfolio and others not available online.

If you would like to be alerted when these books appear, visit the WebVivant Press website and use the form on the home page to sign up for email alerts.

The past is soon forgotten. Even recent history is quickly reduced to facts and statistics. And when that history involves suffering and death, we seem to want to forget.

A Time Team episode I saw recently, where Baldrick and his pals excavated World War 2 anti-aircraft emplacements on Shooter’s Hill, talked about how quickly we lost, and are still losing, the artefacts of that recent conflict.

Pointe du Hoc, Normandy

The monuments of the war still litter the countryside across Europe. The stop lines and pillboxes in England, and coastal defences along the Channel and Atlantic shores of France are among those that interest me most. But the fascination comes in part from the way they seem to be slipping into a kind of obscurity. We can read about the conflict that spawned them. We know how and why they were built – even the names of some of those who built them. This is not prehistory. But for many of the people who encounter them – the tourists and beachcombers – they probably appear as bizarre and mysterious objects left by a long-lost race of people.

In many ways they are acquiring the same obscure and inscrutable mystery as neolithic monuments – the standing stones and dolmens whose true purpose and significance are lost to us. The exact purpose of some of the remains is almost secondary: they seem to have acquired a layer of indecipherable symbolism.

Gun emplacement

Last year, I was lucky enough to visit a key site for these ‘modern megaliths’ with my artist friend Doug Selway. We spent a day at Pointe du Hoc, the cliff-top German artillery emplacement a short distance west of Omaha Beach in Normandy. It was taken, with immense bravery and sacrifice, by US Rangers.

The shattered (and sometimes surprisingly intact) remains of the massive concrete structures have now assumed the air of an auspicious location. Perhaps the fact that it certainly was a sacrificial site – and parts are effectively war graves – lends it that solemn and faintly menacing aspect.

The broken blocks of concrete often directly echo the abandoned melancholy of many of the best neolithic monuments. And added to this, as World War 2 slips from living memory, is a sense of mystery – a veil slowly descending over the relics so that they assume their own importance. They are no longer simply reminders of a past time but assume a significance of their own, right now: they become phenomena in our time, places of wonder and mystique.

Pointe du Hoc by Doug Selway

Doug has recently completed a painting (above) of one of the gun emplacements at Pointe du Hoc. It brilliantly conveys that sense of mystery and the strange impression one gets that this was a place of ritual and sacrifice, and that whatever went on here is no longer fully understandable – that the true meaning was understood only by the now-lost generation that experienced it.

This is a landscape photography project about my response to megalithic sites and what they mean – not in the archaeological or wider cultural sense, but what they mean to me. With their original significance forever obscured, this kind of personal response is the most appropriate – the question is, how to do it.

The images I have posted so far – in this blog and in the portfolio, won’t always look like that. Some of them are pretty enough, some of them function quite well as record shots. But that isn’t the purpose of this project.

I am slowly working towards the right approach, towards the right expression of how I feel and what I think about these human marks on the landscape.

As part of that process, it helps to look at the work of other artists. As always, I find myself inspired by the painting, drawing and printmaking of Doug Selway – a fine artist and, I’m proud to say, a very good friend.

The painting above is one panel from a multi-panel panorama, part of a body of work Doug has produced about Orford Ness. This is a strange and intriguing part of the country. A bar of land just off the Suffolk coast, Orford Ness is now a major nature reserve. However, it was once the site of dark and inscrutable activity.

The Ministry of Defence (as now is) used it for many years, exploiting its remoteness to carry out work it would rather others didn’t see – and also work that would be safely distant from the general population should anything go horribly wrong. To this day, there are strange concrete buildings, their heavy roofs held up by pillars designed to blow out, allowing the roof to slam down and seal the building. The reason? They were developing triggers for nuclear weapons.

Other work, like the development of certain types of radar, has also left its enduring mark. Over time, the purpose of these sites has become increasingly hard to fathom purely from what remains. Of course, they were created in recent times, in an age of history: unlike megalithic sites, documentation and even living memories exist to explain their function. Taken at a purely personal level, however, and dealing only with one’s intuitive response to the sites (either personally, by being there, or by benefiting from Doug’s interpretation), they become fascinating enigmas on to which we can project our own emotions or fantasies – much like we do with megalithic sites.

Looking at this panel again, it struck me that the concrete structure sits in the landscape much like a circle of standing stones, with a similarly obscure significance. It is a deliberate presence within the landscape whose purpose is not readily apparent (it’s the base of a radar array, apparently, but you’d have to do research – or ask Doug – to know that).

It’s not uncommon with stone circles to find a single stone standing alone some distance outside the circle. These are sometimes given names like the ‘King Stone’ (eg, the Nine Ladies on Stanton Moor, Derbyshire). In this image, the lighthouse stands like a king stone and it is impossible not to make a meaningful connection between it and the circle.

In Doug’s painting of a grain tower (right), connections are suggested through the framing. A chief attraction of panoramic images is that they mimic, and exaggerate, our visual system’s preference for landscape-format images (a genetic adaptation, I believe, because it helps us scan the landscape around us for food and threats). Using a vertical panoramic format tightly constrains our tendency to scan horizontally and creates tension by forcing us into an unusual and unnatural vertical scanning mode. Knowing that your attention has been directed in this way, you cannot avoid concluding that there is a significant association between the tower at the top of the image and the objects beneath it.

Just as interesting, from my point of view, is that it is hard, or even impossible, to take in and comprehend the entire image at once. You have to build it by scanning down the image (and then up again, as though checking the links your mind has just made). That process means that you discover the various parts of the image in a sequential, even narrative way.

That has real potential for what I want to do with these megalithic sites, because there are many that you cannot grasp at once.

Standing stones that you approach via a woodland path (such as Carnac’s Géant du Manio), dolmens hidden by trees or a rise in the ground until you are almost upon them, alignments of menhirs – these are all sites where you go through a process of discovery that does not happen in a single instant. Typically, you find yourself stopping to take in the scene, scanning and building up an understanding of what stands before you. This is often the most wondrous moment of all (after half an hour at the site, there is a danger that the mystery evaporates and all you are left with is a bunch of stones).

Creating that sense of discovery won’t be easy. I’m not even sure it’s possible. But the attempt should be fun.

For me, it’s all about the landscape.

My interest in megalithic sites was rekindled by another, long-term project. Called ‘The Human Landscape’, it’s a photographic study of how we leave our marks on the world around us.

In part, this project is a reaction to the immense amount of twaddle that underlies landscape photography today. I’m tired of the highly pictorial, ‘camera club’ mentality by which landscapes must conform to arbitrary and artificial notions of purity. Any overt sign of human presence, such as a car or electricity pylon, is deemed unacceptable.

This isn’t unique to photography. On one trip to Cornwall, we stayed at a National Trust cottage on the edge of a lake. The cottage is visible from a number of public footpaths. A few hours after arriving, an NT person pitched up at the door to ask us to park our (medium blue) Ford Sierra around the back of the property, so as to not spoil the view. And while I was happy to comply, it made me wonder what was so objectionable about the car. That it was a man-made object? So was the cottage. That it was blue? Actually, it matched the colour of the sky quite well. That it was modern? Maybe that was it. If so, how old would the car need to be to be acceptable in that scene? As old as the cottage? Where does the threshold lie? Wherever it is, I guarantee it will seem no less arbitrary.

There are few landscapes in the UK – few in Europe, probably – that do not carry the marks of mankind. Dry stone walls, power and phone lines, fences, paths and roads, tracks trodden through grass or bracken, hills and valleys denuded of trees, crops, fields, farm buildings, cairns – which of these is acceptable in landscape photographs, and why? The signs can be very subtle. Most fields, even entire hillsides or ranges, are effectively artificial because they would not look that way if farmers had not kept sheep or goats grazing on them for centuries.

Do we read significance into these signs? Of course. We read significance of some kind into every part of an image. How we read these signs is the interesting part. Take the picture at the top of the page. Is it a ceremonial route to a sacred site of ancient ritual? No. It’s a public footpath that passes by a fenced-off mineshaft in Cornwall. But each of us can add whatever meaning we like. Some of us will see a path winding through some coastal woodland (also in Cornwall) as leading to something mysterious, or frightening, or enchanting, or maybe we see it just as an opportunity for a brisk stroll.

Megaliths are among the most ancient of mankind’s marks on the landscape – certainly the oldest deliberate marks. This is the source of my interest in them now, as signs of people who passed this way and felt the need to create such enduring memoranda. Their message may have been forever obscured by time, but the signal remains. I’m not trying to decode it, merely acknowledge and perhaps honour it in some way – find a place for it in today’s landscape.

Because, of course, the landscape has changed immeasurably since neolithic times, and in a way that any people find surprising. On our recent visit to the Carnac region, we found many of the megalithic sites – the standing stones, dolmens and alignments – nestled in tranquil and picturesque woodland. And that is woodland that simply did not exist when the stones were originally erected. Stone-age man denuded the landscape of much of its forests, hacking down the trees for firewood, building materials and to make way for primitive farming techniques that quickly exhausted the soil. Brittany is now far more wooded than it was 6,000 years ago.

That significantly changes the atmosphere of the megalithic sites, and changes how they relate to the landscape. And regardless of speculations about their use as astronomical devices, as portals for earth energies or whatever (and there are many hypotheses that range from fascinating but unproven down to the frankly wacky) our encounters with these monuments are affected by how this sit in today’s environment. And those encounters are what I want to explore.

For the megalith enthusiast, visiting the Carnac region can be an overwhelming experience. There’s just so much to see. But here are some personal recommendations, as well as a few photography tips.

Many of the monuments in the Morbihan department of France are among the most important megalithic sites in the world. And the department has one of the highest concentrations of megalithic sites you’ll find anywhere. Alas, that brings with it popularity and a responsibility to protect and manage, and it risks turning the sites into McMegaliths – well-preserved but devoid of atmosphere.

If you visit the Morbihan and see only the main Carnac alignments (Le Ménec, Kermario, Kerlescan) and the famous Locmariaquer megaliths (Le Grand Menhir Brisé, Er Grah and La Tables des Marchands) you might easily leave with a vague sense of disappointment. Yes, you would have seen magnificent artefacts of great historical and cultural significance. But it’s hard to be moved by them.

I would strongly recommend visiting these famous sites at the beginning of your trip. Tick the boxes, take the snaps, browse the gift shops then move on to the places that retain something of their auspicious character. Those we visited that fit into this latter category would include Le Dolmen des Pierres Plates at Locmariaquer, Le Géant du Manio near the Kerlescan alignments, the Petit Ménec alignments and the rambler’s path from the Kerzerho alignments at Erdeven (a route that takes in standing stones and the Mané-Braz dolmens). I’m sure there are many others, but in a week we only just scratched the surface in terms of megalithic sites in Brittany.

It also pays to plan what you’re going to see in advance and have at least a rough itinerary each day. If you can, get hold of a copy of Gabriel le Cam’s Guide des Mégalithes du Morbihan, even if your french isn’t up to snuff. Because it has at least one, reasonably sized image of each site, you can make valid judgments on which are likely to prove worth the trek.

Going out of season turned out to be a good move. True, we were lucky with the weather, having had bright sun and cloudless skies most days (which is rare in Brittany in November). But megalithic sites are just as fascinating on cloudy or rainy days – and often even more atmospheric. By turning up in the off-season, we had free and unfettered access to the Le Ménec and Kermario alignments and were also able to walk around by ourselves at Le Grand Menhir Brisé at Locmariaquer. We also had fewer other tourists to contend with – a real plus for photography. Talking of which…

A few photo tips

• Bend your knees! A lower viewpoint places the monuments against the sky, where they stand out and you achieve a better impression of their massive nature. It also helps to eliminate or minimise distracting background details, such as nearby buildings. Don’t take it to extremes though, unless you want to seriously distort scale. I spent a lot of time on my knees (which some might feel appropriate ).
• Have something to sit or kneel on. I didn’t, and my knees ended up seriously scratched by the gorse. Also, if you are visiting these sites with a partner, they might appreciate having a ground sheet or blanket to sit on (and maybe a book to read) while you busy yourself taking pictures.
• Wear practical clothing. You’re going to do a lot of lying down, kneeling and scrambling about, especially where dolmens are concerned. In cooler seasons, something like a Barbour or hunting jacket will keep you dry,clean and protected while providing plenty of pockets for lenses, flashguns etc, so that you don’t have to drag camera bags into tight spaces. Which brings me to…
• Keep your gear light. You may end up walking fair distances or squeezing into tight spaces. My preference now is for a backpack (a Lowepro CompuRover), which means I can haul water and some snacks without putting a strain on my shoulders. But if you can get all your gear in your pockets, so much the better.
• Carry a torch at all times. You’ll want this anyway when you’re inside a dolmen or tumulus, but it also has photographic applications. You can ‘paint’ with light using long exposures (I plan to blog on this technique very soon). And even if you plan to use flash, a torch (or flashlight, for our American friends) gives you enough illumination to frame and focus the picture. I always have a tiny LED torch on my keyring, but also carried a 2 D-cell Maglite.
• Flash is more useful than you might think. For interiors, it may be the only light you have. But even when shooting menhirs in broad daylight, it’s useful to be able to fill in the shadows, to retain some detail. Also, flash on a nearby standing stone helps pick it out from the background. So carry a flashgun at all times. I’ll be blogging on this, too.
• A tripod is good – sometimes essential. But if you can’t be bothered, carry a monopod. It’s often the case that you need to use a small aperture to get the depth of field you need – for example, to render both a menhir and the landscape behind it sharp, or perhaps multiple stones in an alignment. A monopod lets you stop down a couple of extra stops over what you’d risk hand-held. A monopod also makes a reasonable walking stick when hacking across the landscape (and there are walking sticks available with camera mounts, though I like to have a quick-release plate on my monopod).
• Think about the context. One standing stone or dolmen looks much like another when isolated in the picture frame. Think about what’s around it and the relationship the monument has to its surroundings.

Standing stones and circles have always exercised a strange attraction for me. Back in the mists of time – no, not that far back, but when I was at art school, we visited a number of sites in Derbyshire, including the famous Arbor Low. I was hooked – by the monumental strangeness of the megaliths themselves, their harmonious relationship with the landscape and the general spookiness of what one imagined took place at these sites.

I read, and was thoroughly convinced by, View Over Atlantis – sold on its message that ancient man possessed knowledge, insights and powers that we have since lost.

I’ve grown up a lot since then. I tried to re-read the book and found it embarrassingly new age, intellectually flaky and entirely unconvincing. But the stones still exert some kind of power over me, something I’d been ignoring.

We now live in rural Normandy. There are menhirs and dolmens everywhere. Our friends, just down the road, have a standing stone in their field. There’s another a few hundred metres from the supermarket where we do our weekly shop. So this is my new personal project – to document and explore the stones and their relationship to the landscape.