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This is another image from the large album of 1920s photos I recently bought. It is captioned something like "Herr Gur Und Schilling, 1924," which may or may not make sense, but that doesn't matter. It's like a piece of visual sculpture, a poem of tone and shape.

This was the Halifax skyline fifty years ago. This was the filtered Halifax skyline seen through the perspective of a few too many pints of IPA and a few too many measures of single malt downed in the company of good friends in an iconic Halifax pub. Good night.

Whichever footpath you walk along in these parts, whichever field you cross, you are likely to come across such standing stones as these. Archaeologists of the future may credit them with mystical or religious significance, but they are memorials to times when stone was cheap,

I remember running along here to catch my bus on my way home from school. I remember meeting my wife here on one of our first dates. I remember calling at the chip shop on my way home from Labour Party meetings. "Memories, Like the corners of my mind ... " Well, more like the

Someone has identified the group of young people in this 1919 photograph as "The Tonics Concert Party of Birds Royd Mission, Brighouse". One thing that was needed in 1919 was a bit of a tonic; memories of the carnage on the fields of Flanders were still raw, and the influenza

The Hebble Brook is a funny old thing. It's not in your face, showy, or boastful; in fact, it prefers to keep itself hidden away as far as possible. It makes few demands: a concrete bridge here and there, the odd culvert or two. It just goes on doing its job, carrying water from

This is a scan of some sheet music left to me by my late Uncle Harry. Dating back 100 years, it's a charming little ditty called "Love's Cigarette" which includes such immortal (or more likely lethal) lines as "Cigarette, cigarette, you are warmer and truer, than any fond wooer,

I took this photo several years ago in one of the many old, dark, and depressing walkway tunnels that run under the railway line at the bottom end of Halifax. I remember being concerned that the chap in the hoodie and his rather cross-looking dog might object, but they were both

This is another scan from the "Big Album" of prints from an unknown German photographer and dating from the mid-1920s. If I continue scanning and sharing these photos at my current rate, I estimate I should have worked my way through the entire album by Easter 2027.

If you want something to take your mind off the fact that it is Friday the 13th, and if you are familiar with Halifax, you can try and work out when this picture was taken. You can make use of all the usual clues: the degree of forestation on Beacon Hill, the absence of cooling

You can't beat inconsequential photographs: photos without any great meaning or purpose. You can wander around them at leisure, stopping off to look at half a car here or a faded billboard there. You can ask questions without the need of answers - what is that train doing in the

As a young man I briefly had a beard. Sadly, it never flourished and it resembled more of a mossy outcrop rather than the fibrous forest attached to the chin of the Victorian gent featured in this Carte-de-visite from my collection which dates from the 1870s.

There was a time when the mills were being abandoned and demolished, and new blocks of flats were built in their place. I must have taken this photograph 50 years ago at a time when Halifax was in transition. These days, the high-rise flats are being abandoned, and whatever mills

Another of the photos from that "Big Album" I bought a couple of months ago. This, like so many of the photos, is almost like a still from a movie, a plot half resolved, a story waiting to be fully told. Who is the man looking on from the back, what is he holding in his hand? So

This is how I remember Princess Street in Halifax. There was a degree of sophistication about the street; it was Halifax's answer to Knightsbridge. There were shops with exotic names and a hotel with AA rosettes. There were women with fur stoles and men wearing trilby hats. There

It was twenty years ago today - and it's all the excitement of the Grand National, as the riders approach the finishing line. Except this is the Grand National in Bridlington, and the horses are powered by balls rolled into slots. Our horse didn't finish - I was too busy taking a

A busy market scene in Halifax in the early 1970s. I seem to have taken several photos like this, probably in search of a Cartier-Bresson decisive moment. I never found it, but maybe came close to a few indecisive moments at the bacon counter.

This "selfie" predates selfies by about 40 years. It's not really a selfie - it's me alright, but it was my brother who painted it back in 1972. Amongst those quickly drawn lines and those splashes of colour, I was to be found back then, and, I suppose, I am still to be found