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When left untouched by the graffiti artists, so many of the Spanish surfaces are like primed but blank canvasses. The wires that seem to drape from every building are the picture wires that attach the canvasses to the gallery wall - which always seems to be painted in a deep sky

I walk the streets, clinging to shadows and looking for shapes, like a cut-price Mondrian on tour. A hill appears: no parked cars, no plastic dustbins, no satellite dishes. Perfection.

Travel broadens the mind. Exposure to foreign cultures and foreign culinary experiences, makes us fuller, rounder individuals. Went for fish and chips in Spain. Travel broadens the waistline.

To the coast. The coast is easy; it's sea and sand, light and dark, sand and sky. Jump out of one into another and the horizon stays as true as a spirit level. Cetainty comes easy after too many malt whiskeys.

Not sure how this boat got here, but I suspect that a SatNav error was involved. Having got there, what better thing to do than to plant trees and flowers in its wake?

I return to a town I last visited eight years ago and retake a photograph I first took then. Looking at the two images, I suspect the one I took eight years ago is better. You'll have to make do with the new one, however; it would be too depressing to admit that I'm regressing.

Given the date, I was going to go with a view of the coast complete with an emerging AI-generated sea monster. Then I walked past the glorious bronze statue by Pepe Azorin entitled “L’abroç," showing two naked torsos fused into an eternal embrace. Given the current state of the

Another Spanish town, another Spanish street. More brown, more blue - a baked landscape, cuttlefish-dyed. Even the mad dog didn't fancy the noonday sun, which left only me.

Our last full day in this country of blue skies, ragged mountains, dust-dirt roads and heat. Endless heat. Preparing for a retreat into the shadows and the shade, preparing for home.

It's amazing how quickly you come to miss the familiar: soot-stained stone, orphaned chapels, history carved in moss-covered gravestones, mill chimneys left to point to the past. The image is by A.I. Burnett - although it has to be said it was more by A.I. than it was by Burnett.

I think my brother took this photo sixty-odd years ago. I was young and about to embark on a career as a photographer for the local newspaper, hence the portrait with the camera. For various reasons, that career never came about, and my life went in a different direction

My photograph captures the end of an era: it's Halifax before Burdock Way, Halifax of Crossley's Carpets; it's railway lines still spreading beneath North Bridge in the shadow of the Gas Works; it's chimneys and churches and treeless horizons. The 1960s are about to become the

There is something rather sad about this Victorian portrait I bought a few weeks ago for a few pence. There is no name, nor are there any studio details, and therefore no clues as to location. Despite that determined look on her face, the lady has descended into anonymity, but

I have always thought that the view from the Farm Shop car park at the top of Blackley overlooking Elland, Greetland and the Lower Calder Valley is a splendid one, spoiled only by someone having placed a great big electricity pylon in the middle of it. The other night I decided

It is the best part of 45 years ago that we moved to Sheffield, and this photograph must have been taken 45 years before that. This, however, is the Sheffield I remember: I know that the trams are now different and the cars were sleeker, but this still captures the feel of the

This is a scan of an old negative of unknown origins. It would have been possible, using Photoshop, to revive the contrast and sharpen the lines, but this is a photograph of a long faded memory - there needs to be nothing sharp about it.

You can complain about this if you want. You can say it isn't a real photo: it isn't; it's one of my old photos from 55 years ago that I've messed with. You can say they aren't the real colours: they aren't; the original was in black and white, but that wasn't real either. This

Trying to de-clutter and decide if I could part with a treasured book from my over-full bookshelves. Flicking through it, I find a wonderful old illustration of an advert from Barnsley Brewery (you could write a PhD thesis on the advert alone). Wouldn't life be easier of my

I have spent some time trying to work out where I was when I took this photograph of my father forty or more years ago. My best guess is Haworth - always a favourite destination for family visits - and one of the steep staircases to an upstairs café on the main street. It would

It's back in the 1980s, and I'm walking along a canal towpath somewhere in South Yorkshire. The bridge creates a monumental frame for a picture of social and economic change. A man looks down, puzzled by someone wanting to capture such a scene. Film was expensive back in those