A Walk Back in Time at Turkey Point

Last weekend, I took a trip that felt like stepping into a time capsule—right into the small lakeside town of Turkey Point, Ontario. It’s the kind of place where the modern world politely steps aside, letting simpler pleasures and nostalgic charm take the wheel.

As soon as I pulled in, I knew I had landed somewhere special. The first thing that caught my eye was Bay view Restaurant, a roadside gem that proudly advertises ice cream, hamburgers, fries, and hot dogs. The bright umbrellas and walk-up counter felt like a throwback to the 1970's—no pretense, just honest food and picnic tables with a view of the quiet street. I grabbed a hot dog and sat under a Vizzy umbrella, watching life pass by one classic car and local dog-walker at a time. The menu board inside looked like it hadn’t changed in decades—why mess with perfection?

Just down the road, I spotted Pop’s Arcade. The bold yellow letters looked like they hadn't been updated since the heyday of pinball and Pac-Man. There’s something oddly comforting about a place that still proudly flies the Canadian flag beside a mini-putt sign as if summer never ends. The red and yellow paint, the fenced-in picnic area, and the slightly tilted umbrellas—everything spoke of long weekends and cottage summers from a time before smartphones and streaming.

Then I made my way to the heart of it all: Turkey Point Beach. Even under overcast skies, the wide shoreline stretched endlessly, almost empty, with only the soft sound of water lapping at the sand. I walked barefoot, letting the calm of Lake Erie soak in. No crowds, no flashy boardwalk, just trees lining the shore and a few weathered benches facing the horizon. You could almost hear the echoes of transistor radios and kids calling for their moms back in 1975.

Turkey Point isn’t flashy. And that’s exactly the point. It’s one of the last few places in southern Ontario where time doesn’t feel like it’s rushing ahead. The charm is in the slowness—the way a beach day unfolds without an itinerary, how a simple burger joint becomes the best meal of the weekend, and how an old arcade sign can still light up your mood.

For anyone craving a bit of nostalgia—or just a break from the noise—Turkey Point offers a quiet, sand-covered memory. And I’ll be back, camera in hand, ready to capture it before the rest of the world catches on.

 

Rust, Wood, and Water — A Walk Through the Boathouses of Port Rowan

 

They don't build them like this anymore.

Port Rowan might not top many tourist lists, but if you're into weathered wood, timeworn tin roofs, and the kind of waterfront that still whispers stories from the 1950s, then this sleepy little pier is your kind of place.

I rolled into town and saw the pier. Thick clouds overhead, the sun poking through like it was negotiating rent. The water was calm, almost mirror-like, and a row of proud, crooked boat houses stood along the canal like old men lined up at a bar. Each one was a little different: some with rusty red roofs, some painted stubborn shades of blue or pink, most faded into a charming mix of chipped paint and character.

These aren’t your luxury marina condos. They're working buildings—or at least they were. Some look like they still host fishing boats and gear; others may just be clinging to the memory. Doors mismatched. Wires tangled like spaghetti overhead. And the best part? No signs telling you to keep out, no polished fences, no curated charm. Just the raw, slow decay of a shoreline that’s aged naturally.

I walked the narrow road between the rows of shacks, and for a moment, it felt like I had slipped into a forgotten postcard. No tourists. No souvenir shops. Just gulls, lake wind, and the occasional creak of an old door.

One bright orange boathouse caught my eye—looked like someone still took pride in it, even had a barbecue parked out front. A sign on a pole nearby read “Boat Museum – Owners Parking.” Now that’s a museum I want to visit. No velvet ropes—just oil stains and stories in the walls.

If you're out this way and craving a quiet moment that smells like lake water and old wood, skip the beach. Head to the pier. Walk slow. Listen. Let the boathouses do the talking.

Bob

A Photographer’s Food Adventure in Port Dover

 

A Photographer’s Food Adventure

First Impressions

The sky over Lake Erie was a mottled mix of cobalt and pewter when I rolled into Port Dover, but the town’s restaurants were already turning the morning light into something delicious. I came for street photography, but—as often happens—the scent of frying perch hijacked my plans and my lens. By lunchtime I’d traded “decisive-moment” shots for decisive bites, and Port Dover proved the perfect place to do both.

Erie Beach Hotel: Perch, Pride & Postcards

No Port Dover food crawl starts anywhere but Erie Beach Hotel. The vintage neon script—“Serving Lake Erie’s Finest”—isn’t marketing fluff; it’s a promise. I climbed the stone steps, past beds of pansies and a willow draped like a natural awning, and ordered the classic Golden Perch Lunch.

The Bite: Lightly breaded fillets, flaky and sweet, paired with hand-cut fries that taste like they skipped the freezer altogether.

The Scene: Knotty-pine dining room walls, waitstaff who call you “hon,” and windows framing freighters sliding across the horizon.

The Shot: (I grabbed my phone) to let the perch take center stage

A quick tip: Photograph your plate before the coleslaw arrives. Once the tartar sauce starts glistening, you won’t have the willpower to wait.

 Willie’s: Burgers, Umbrellas & Barefoot Vibes

A five-minute stroll toward the pier lands you at Willie’s—the kind of lakeside shack that sells nostalgia by the basket. Blue clapboard siding, rainbow patio umbrellas, and a soft-serve cone the height of a small child announce that calories don’t count on vacation.

Photographer’s Angle: Get low in the parking lot and frame the “WILLIE’S” sign against the sky. Those cracked asphalt leading lines guide your viewer straight to lunch.

Ambience: Country hits drifting from outdoor speakers, gulls auditioning for crumbs, and picnic tables full of sun-seekers happy to share sauce recommendations.

The Beach House: Driftwood, Decks & Dockside Drinks

Further down Walker Street, the pavement slips into sand and The Beach House rises like a contemporary fortress of fish tacos and IPA. String lights zigzag the patio; driftwood stools perch at attention; and the lake breeze sneaks salt into every sip.

Mood: Storm clouds marching in from the southwest gave the scene cinematic drama

Shoot the deck’s wooden pylons at f/4 to blur out the parked cars beyond—instant maritime moodiness.

More Morsels Worth a Future Visit

Port Dover’s culinary map doesn’t end here. I jotted mental notes on:

The Arbor for foot-long hot dogs

Knechtel’s for coconut cream pie

A couple of food trucks promising smoked perch poutine once summer truly hits

If my calorie budget survives, I’ll return with an empty memory card and an emptier stomach.

Reflections Over the Last Forkful

Food and photography share the same secret ingredient: timing. Catch the perch just out of the fryer, catch the light just as it breaks through the clouds, and suddenly you’ve preserved a taste and a moment forever. Port Dover offered both on a single plate—plus a gallery of friendly locals happy to wave at my lens.

So here’s to lakeside towns where lunch is as fresh as the lake breeze, neon signs still hum at dusk, and a photographer named Bob can wander between frames and fries without ever having to choose which passion matters more.

See you (and your appetite) on the pier. I’ll be the one with a camera in one hand and—inevitably—a perch sandwich in the other.

Fugifilm half camera

They came out with the Fugifilm half camera. I check and worked it out you need to shoot in 3:2 aspect ratio to take half frame photos with older Sony cameras

You're absolutely right — and that's a cool discovery!

Fujifilm’s recent Fujifilm X-T50 Half Camera (or similar concept models) has generated a lot of interest in the idea of half-frame shooting, which mimics the old 35mm film format where two vertical images could fit in the space of a single 35mm frame. It’s a nostalgic nod for people who want more shots per roll (or per card) and a different composition style.

For older Sony cameras, especially models like the Sony NEX series or early Alpha (a3000–a6000):

Shooting in 3:2 aspect ratio closely resembles the half-frame 35mm format, which is more vertically oriented (portrait).

The typical full 3:2 sensor image is 6000×4000 pixels (for 24MP models), but cropping to 3:2 gives a more compact, almost half-frame style. For example, it might be something like 4000×3000, which resembles the vertical half of a 35mm frame.

Why It Works for a Half-Frame Look:

Classic half-frame cameras like the Olympus Pen shot vertical (portrait) images with a 3:4-ish ratio, and that’s exactly what you're doing when you crop or shoot in 3:4 on Sony.

With this, you can simulate the vertical rhythm of half-frame street photography, where two side-by-side frames are often told a mini-story.

Bonus Tip for Sony Shooters:

If your Sony doesn’t offer in-camera 3:2 (some don’t), you can:

Use grid overlays to frame for 3:2 manually and crop in post.

Or use APS-C size + Zoom or a crop mode in custom buttons to approximate it.

Half-Frame Look on Sony Cameras + Film Simulations

1. Use 3:2 Aspect Ratio for Half-Frame Style

To mimic the vertical half-frame style of classic film cameras like the Olympus Pen or the new Fuji Half Camera:

On the Sony a6000 series or NEX:

Go to Menu > Image Size > Aspect Ratio

Select 3:4 (if available). Some models only offer 3:2 or 16:9 — if so, just frame vertically and crop in post to 3:4.

You’ll get that classic portrait-style frame used in half-frame photography.

2. Simulate Fujifilm Film Stocks with Sony Creative Styles

While Sony cameras don’t have built-in film simulations like Fuji (e.g., Classic Chrome, Provia), you can manually create your own “recipes” using:

Creative Style

Contrast / Saturation / Sharpness

White Balance with Color Shift

DRO (Dynamic Range Optimizer)

3. Suggested Sony Recipes to Simulate Fuji Looks

Here are some Sony film simulation recipes that replicate popular Fujifilm looks:

Classic Chrome (Fujifilm)

Creative Style: Neutral

Contrast: -2

Saturation: -2

Sharpness: 0

White Balance: Daylight

Color Shift: G7 M1

DRO: Auto

Notes: Muted blues, rich shadows — great for documentary and street.

Provia / Standard

Creative Style: Standard

Contrast: 0

Saturation: 0

Sharpness: +1

WB: Auto

DRO: Auto

Notes: A general-purpose, balanced film look.

Velvia (Vivid)

Creative Style: Vivid

Contrast: +1

Saturation: +2

Sharpness: +1

WB: Daylight

DRO: Off

Notes: Punchy, colorful — great for landscapes and travel.

Acros (B&W with contrast)

Creative Style: B&W

Contrast: +2

Sharpness: 0

WB: N/A

Use a yellow or red physical filter on your lens for film-like filtering

Notes: High-contrast black and white, smooth grain when slightly underexposed.

4. Combine It for Full Half-Frame Film Effect

Shoot vertically, in 3:2 aspect ratio, with one of the film simulations above to simulate:

Half-frame aesthetic

Fujifilm color science

Classic 35mm storytelling (diptychs, contact sheet styles)

Through the Glass: Bob’s Peek Into Toronto Life

 

On this week's photo walk, Bob discovered a simple truth: some of the best stories are hiding just behind a pane of glass. Whether it was a back alley window or a wide-open restaurant door, each frame offered its own quiet moment, waiting to be captured.

The journey began with a curious sight—a strange, hair-like object perched in a dusty window of a red-brick house. Bob stopped in his tracks. Was it a wig? A forgotten Halloween prop? Or just an odd tuft of fabric? Whatever it was, it had personality. He snapped the shot. Sometimes, mystery is more compelling than answers.

Further along, Bob was drawn to the back entrance of a modern eatery. Through the reflection-streaked glass door, he spotted two chefs busy at work. The kitchen was alive with quiet focus. A “Please Use Front Door” sign added a bit of humor—Bob, of course, was right at the back, camera in hand, as if he’d snuck in unnoticed. The moment felt stolen, but not intrusive—just a glimpse of daily life through a different angle.

Later, he passed by a sleek restaurant where the front window was wide open to the street. A woman sat alone at a table, mid-meal, while warm light and soft décor framed her like a scene from a quiet film. Bob shot from outside, blending with the street. The glass was gone, but the feeling of looking in remained.

For Bob, these weren’t just photos—they were connections. Each window or door acted like a lens into the rhythm of a city that never fully shuts itself off. These thresholds between public and private created perfect stages for candid storytelling.

So next time you’re out with a camera, take Bob’s advice: look through the glass. You never know what small, human drama might be playing out on the other side.

 

One Walk, Three Sirens: Bob’s Emergency Services Hat Trick 🚒🚓🚑

It started like any other photo walk—coffee in hand, Sony slung over my shoulder, no plan except to wander the spring streets and see what turned up. I hit the jackpot at Dundas and Bathurst, where the city decided to throw a full-on emergency parade just for me.

First came the fire truck, rumbling eastbound down Dundas like it had somewhere important to be (and probably did). "TORONTO FIRE" was bold across the ladder—Unit L315 in all its red-and-yellow glory. I grabbed the shot just as it passed a Doordash cyclist who barely flinched. One down.

Seconds later—no exaggeration—a police cruiser rolled through the same intersection, lights off but presence unmistakable. Unit 1453 was cruising like it had something on its mind, weaving through traffic near the Charles R. Sanderson library. Snap. That’s two.

Now I was joking to myself: “All I need is an ambulance and I’ve got the emergency services hat trick.”

Fast forward ten minutes—I looped around to the hospital nearby, and there it was: not just one, but two ambulances parked outside, with a paramedic mid-step, heading in. The last piece of the puzzle dropped right into place. Bob, 3. Sirens, 0.

Three services. One street. One camera. One lucky afternoon.

Not every day the city rolls out the full lineup. But sometimes, if you’re standing in the right place at the right time—with a lens ready—you catch the whole show.

 

A Walk Through the Wild Walls of Ossington

 

Last weekend, Bob took his camera for a wander through the lane-ways just off Ossington and Dundas, one of Toronto’s most graffiti-rich zones. Tucked behind the cafes, bars, and vintage shops, these back alleys are where the real stories live—spray-painted on garage doors, brick walls, and weathered fences.

The first mural that caught his eye was a charming, cartoon-style painting of a fox and a raccoon sharing spaghetti and wine—a heartwarming twist on Lady and the Tramp, except with woodland critters and what looked suspiciously like a romantic alleyway dinner for two. Bob smiled at the scene. Street art this sweet makes you pause a little longer.

A few alleys down, the vibe shifted. He stumbled upon a chaotic wall of eyeballs and toothy faces, each painted onto what appeared to be grenade-shaped forms. The wall buzzed with a sort of manic energy—equal parts playful and unsettling. One character, done in vibrant purples and blues, stood out like a glitch in the system. Bob couldn’t help but wonder: was this a commentary on destruction or a gallery of rogue cartoon personalities?

But it was the third mural that made Bob chuckle out loud. A mischievous re-imagining of Calvin and Hobbes—except Calvin was now a masked bandit, chasing after Hobbes with a cartoon pistol, the word “BANDIT” exploding in pop art dots across the wall. It was nostalgic, irreverent, and brilliantly composed.

Each garage door was a new canvas, a new voice. These lane ways weren’t just shortcuts between streets; they were a living, breathing gallery of creativity, rebellion, and humor. As Bob slung his camera back over his shoulder, he felt like he’d just toured a street-level museum—no admission required.

Another walk, another story in paint.

Wheelbarrows in Kensington Market

There’s something oddly mesmerizing about watching people move cement in wheelbarrows. I found myself caught in that trance last week in Kensington Market, of all places—not exactly where you expect a concrete pour to stop you in your tracks.

I was wandering Augusta Avenue with my camera, looking for color and character, when I spotted a crew repairing a floor in a building. Three workers  were taking turns hauling loads of wet cement from the truck, up a narrow plywood ramp, and into a shop. No machines, no noise beyond the scrape of shovels and the occasional joke—just good, old-fashioned elbow grease.

I never worked in construction. I’ve never lifted a shovel full of cement in my life. But as a teenager, I was the guy who stood at the edge of the site, watching. After school, on weekends, during summer breaks—I was always fascinated by it. The teamwork. The rhythm. The quiet choreography of hard work. There was something so grounded about it, so different from my own world of notebooks and doodles and, eventually, camera gear.

Back then, I’d hang around the local building sites a little too long, asking questions until someone told me to scram—or, if I was lucky, answered one. I think part of me always wanted to be involved, to learn how to build something real with my hands. But the truth is, I stayed on the sidelines, camera in hand, recording rather than doing.

And here I was decades later, still watching. Still fascinated.

One of the guys in Kensington looked up and gave me a nod—the universal sign that says, “You’re okay.” I nodded back. It felt like permission to stay, so I did. I didn’t take many photos. Just stood there, letting the sound of work fill the space between us.

There’s an honesty to that kind of scene. No branding, no performance—just people getting something done. In a neighborhood like Kensington, where every corner bursts with life and color and chaos, this little slice of order, this repetition of lift-pour-smooth, felt almost meditative.

I left with maybe three photos. Nothing dramatic. Just cement, wheelbarrows, shadows, and sweat. But they felt more personal than anything else I shot that day. Not because I lived that life, but because I spent years watching it—and in some quiet way, admiring it.

 

The Day I Found R2-D2 on the Sidewalk

Sometimes, the streets surprise you. I was wandering through a quiet neighborhood, camera slung over my shoulder and the sun slanting just right through the leaves, when I spotted something out of place. Gleaming under a coat of dust and industrial grit, there it stood in the dirt—short, cylindrical, and unmistakably droid-shaped.

At first glance, it looked like your average construction site shop vac. But this one had personality. It had curves, character, and a bold red accent that screamed, “Help me, Obi-Wan Kenobi!” I stood there for a good minute, just staring, until it hit me: I’d found R2-D2.

Sure, he wasn’t beeping or spinning his head. His chrome plating was a little scuffed and the power cable dangled like a tired limb. But there was something noble about him. Like he'd just survived a sandstorm on Tatooine and rolled into Toronto for a break.

The red vacuum port looked suspiciously like an astronomer socket. The black wheels? Clearly repurposed repulsorlifts. And that dome-shaped top? It could only be R2's head, just slightly squashed by years of hard labor and drywall dust.

Naturally, I had to take his portrait.

So here it is: the forgotten droid of the job site, waiting patiently under the sun, dreaming of a galaxy far, far away—or maybe just a break from sucking up concrete dust.

Street photography gives you glimpses into alternate universes. Today, I found Star Wars in a backyard reno.

Stay weird, Toronto.

 

 

A Pause in the Buzz: Bob at Jimmy’s Coffee, Baldwin Street

In the heart of Kensington Market, where murals watch over taco joints and vintage stores spill out onto sidewalks, Bob took a well-earned break from wandering the neighborhood’s maze of sights and sounds. His destination? Jimmy’s Coffee on Baldwin—a cozy refuge tucked behind a red-framed doorway, nearly

hidden by reflections and the constant hustle of the street.

The first impression is a flash of layered moments: sunlight bouncing off glass, silhouettes queuing patiently, and the warm hum of espresso machines behind the door. Bob stepped into the dim, narrow cafe and was greeted by the familiar scent of roasted beans and the comforting clatter of ceramic cups. There’s a timeless charm to Jimmy’s—low-hung lights, pressed-tin ceilings, and the quiet camaraderie of caffeine-seekers.

He grabbed a cup, slipped past the crowd, and headed toward the back—where Jimmy’s reveals its secret: a sunlit lounge and patio. The back room, with its hodgepodge of vintage chairs, murals, and big glass doors, offers a slower pace. Here, light filters gently across chipped tables and the buzz of the espresso bar fades into soft conversation, headphones, and books cracked open under streaks of sunlight.

One person typed away behind a laptop covered in comic book decals. Another, red curls tucked under headphones, sipped slowly from a yellow-lidded cup, eyes lost in a book. Outside, in the hidden patio courtyard, a man leaned back in the spring sun, framed by a wall-mounted bicycle and a cheerful mural of a yellow fish-like creature.

For Bob, it was the perfect intersection of observation and rest. The kind of place where a street photographer blends in, unnoticed, while soaking up stories in the small details—faded cushions, mismatched chairs, and half-finished lattes beside worn notebooks.

Jimmy’s on Baldwin isn’t just a coffee stop. It’s part of Kensington’s rhythm—a brief pause where the city's tempo dips just enough to let a person breathe, reflect, and maybe, just maybe, get inspired for the next shot.

Bird watching Without a Clue – Bob at Colonel Samuel Smith Park

 

Bird watching Without a Clue – Bob at Colonel Samuel Smith Park

It was a warm spring day when I, Bob the photographer, wandered into Colonel Samuel Smith Park with my camera in hand and not a single clue about birds in my head.

The park, tucked along the lake shore in Etobicoke, was buzzing with new life. The grass was bright, dotted with yellow dandelions, and the air was alive with the sound of chirping. Perfect day for a photo walk. I wasn’t out looking for anything in particular—just scenes, colors, and characters that catch the eye.

And catch the eye they did. First, a familiar figure—a robin—hopped across a patch of grass, chest puffed out like it ran the place. I crouched low, camera ready, as it paused among the dandelions, looking very much like it wanted to pose. Click.

Further along, I stumbled upon a couple of birds perched neatly around a weathered nest box. They shimmered with blue, white, and black feathers—sleek little things. They looked like they knew they had good feathers. I took my time, getting closer, grabbing a few angles before they zipped off and circled back.

Just as I was reviewing the shots, a pair of birders approached me. You could tell instantly—they had big cameras, bigger lenses, binoculars swinging from their necks, and a bird book in hand like it was a holy text.

"Seen anything interesting?" one of them asked, flipping open a page to what looked like the exact blue bird I just shot.

I straightened up and smiled. "I'm Bob the photographer. I just go around Toronto taking photos. I do not know any birds."

They laughed. “Well, looks like you found a robin and a pair of tree swallows,” one of them said, peeking at my LCD screen. “Good eye!”

Apparently, those shiny blue birds were tree swallows, and the robin? Well, even I knew that one. Kind of.

We chatted for a bit—me, with my photos, and them, with their knowledge. They offered some names, showed me how to ID birds by silhouette and color patches, and even recommended an app to keep track. But I stuck to my truth: I’m here for the photos, not the names.

Still, walking back through the park, I started to notice things differently. The way the swallows soared like tiny jets, the bold way the robin strutted—it was more than just scenery. They were little characters in a city park play. And maybe, just maybe, I’ll learn a few names along the way. Or not. I’m still Bob the photographer.

 

Bob at Centre Island — A Day using Kentmere 400

It was one of those moody spring days on Centre Island—overcast skies, bare trees still holding off on budding, and the lake water reflecting every branch with eerie precision. Bob, ever the curious street photographer, chose this quiet weekday for a photo walk. This time, he brought along his Sony mirror less camera set to a custom film simulation inspired by Kentmere 400—a black-and-white film known for its classic grain, soft tones, and gentle contrast.

The Willow Grove

At the edge of the pond, Bob stood still, drawn to the way the trees arched and mirrored themselves in the glassy water. The Kentmere simulation brought out the silvery texture of the sky and let the shadows of the branches bleed gently into the water. There was a quiet poetry here—nothing moved, not even the ducks. Bob clicked the shutter, knowing that color would only distract from the stark, dreamy symmetry before him.

Far Enough Farm Nostalgia

Bob’s next stop was Far Enough Farm, where he found a charming old tractor parked beside a wooden cart. “Est. 1959,” the lettering read. It was as though time hadn’t moved since then. The Kentmere simulation gave the image a documentary feel—more observation than nostalgia, with rich mid tones and subtle detail in the shadows. It felt honest, like something that might’ve been printed in a local paper sixty years ago.

The Tandem Ride That Never Was

Parked near a closed building, Bob found a tandem bicycle waiting like an idea that had never quite happened. The bike, clean and perfectly aligned, stood out against the textured pavement and dark garage doors. In monochrome, the playful curves of its frame took on a sculptural quality. The Kentmere recipe rendered the scene with a hint of film grain—just enough to suggest this could be a memory rather than a moment.

The Look of Kentmere

Bob’s Kentmere 400 simulation added more than an aesthetic to his images—it changed how he saw the island. Where color might have softened the mood or romanticized the setting, black-and-white revealed structure, silence, and story. The simulation preserved detail but let contrast remain gentle, capturing that timeless look of a slow day far from the city’s pulse.

As the ferry pulled away from the island, Bob looked back at the shoreline. He had a pocket full of images, but more than that, he had a feeling—like he’d stepped through a threshold into a different Toronto, one that still spoke in whispers, in gray scale, in grain.

 

Why I'm Still Using My Sony a5000 and a6000 — And Why You Might Be Too

Why I'm Still Using My Sony a5000 and a6000 — And Why You Might Be Too

Let me start with this: my Sony a5000 and a6000 are still working just fine. They've been through rain, snow, and more than a few sketchy alleyways on photo walks. The lenses are scratched, the grips are shiny from wear, and the menus feel like home. And yet, every camera club meeting I go to, someone asks, "Bob, when are you going to upgrade?"

My answer? Maybe never. Especially now.

The New Camera Hype vs. Real-World Use

Yes, the newest full-frame mirror less monsters are impressive. The auto focus can track a squirrel doing back flips while you're sipping coffee. But for street photography, travel, and daily use, my trusty a5000 and a6000 still deliver. I know them. I know how to push their JPEGs, how to work around the ISO noise, how to squeeze every ounce of drama out of a flat sky.

More importantly — they’re light, discreet, and easy to carry. Try pulling out a $4,000 camera with a white telephoto lens in Kensington Market. You’ll feel more like a surveillance agent than a street shooter.

Tariffs and the Price Wall

Now here's the twist. In case you haven’t been watching the news, camera prices are going way up. With new tariffs on imported electronics — especially anything with advanced image sensors — the latest models are suddenly even more out of reach. That $2,800 upgrade you were eyeing last year? It's now $3,400 before tax.

People in the camera clubs are starting to grumble. They want the new toys, but now they’re facing a reality check: the old gear is going to have to last a lot longer.

Embrace the Old

So here I am, wandering Toronto with my decade-old cameras, experimenting with film simulations, using adapted manual lenses, and printing my photos with a Canon Selphy CP1200. While others are stuck comparing specs online, I'm out shooting.

I say let the gear heads chase specs. If you’ve got a Sony a5000, a6000, or any older mirror less camera — keep using it. Learn it inside out. Push its limits. Post your work. The images still matter more than the megapixels.

And hey, in a few years, we might all be retro cool again.

Stay sharp,

Bob

Cherry Blossoms and Stormy Skies: A Velvia Day on Centre Island

Cherry Blossoms and Stormy Skies: A Velvia Day on Centre Island

Spring arrived late this year, but on a grey day in early May, I packed my Sony and set sail for Centre Island, chasing cherry blossoms and reflections under moody clouds. With the trees just beginning to bloom and the sky refusing to brighten, it felt like the perfect test for my Velvia film simulation—a setting designed to pop colours and boost contrast, ideal for overcast days.

The Walkway of Blossoms

As I stepped onto the island, the cherry trees were just catching their stride. Pale pink petals lined the main walkway like a seasonal guard of honour. While the lighting was flat, Velvia’s punchy saturation gave the scene life. The blossoms glowed against the mossy greens and muted browns of early spring—almost as if the photo had been pulled from a postcard rack in the 1990s.

Cherry trees in bloom, under dramatic clouds

The simulation deepened the pinks and sharpened the shadow edges. Velvia doesn’t lie—it amplifies.

Along the Shoreline

Next stop: the beach. The lake was calm, the sand still cool from spring rain, and not a swimmer in sight. The palette here was more muted—beiges, dull greens, and greys—but Velvia still managed to carve definition into every ripple and tree branch. The weeping willows in the distance turned an electric yellow-green that probably wasn’t quite accurate… but it sure looked great.

Empty beach, trees just budding, lake stretching wide

Velvia’s colour boost gave the shoreline a nostalgic, almost dreamy tone—like a memory from a 90s travel brochure.

Skyline Reflections

From the island’s edge, I faced the CN Tower and the dense wall of glass towers that define Toronto’s skyline. Water in the foreground, city in the back—this is a view I’ve shot a dozen times, but today felt different. The dark sky added drama, and Velvia made the water shimmer with teal and steel-blue tones. Even without sunlight, the simulation gave the photo punch.

The Toronto skyline framed by island foliage

With Velvia, the glass towers cut sharply through the haze, and the forest on either side looked richer and deeper.

Notes on Shooting

Using the Velvia film simulation was a conscious choice for this trip—its exaggerated saturation and high contrast are risky in bright sunlight, but perfect for cloudy spring days. I shot in JPEG with in-camera settings for minimal post-processing, relying on:

Creative Style: Vivid

Saturation: +2

Contrast: +1

Sharpness: 0

DRO: Level 3

White Balance: Daylight with slight magenta shift

It’s not a true Velvia slide, but it gave me that nostalgic FujiFilm look—like seeing the world through a photographer’s rose-tinted glasses.

If you're a fan of vibrant colours and don't mind bending reality a bit, try a Velvia-style setup next time the skies are grey. Sometimes, the best colour shows up when the sun doesn't.

 

Bob’s Spring Visit to Centreville: A Nostalgic Stroll on Centre Island

On a crisp spring morning, Bob boarded the ferry to Centre Island, armed with his camera and a cup of strong coffee. His destination? Centreville Amusement Park—a charming, old-school gem nestled among the trees and waterways of Toronto’s island chain. Though the rides weren’t open yet, the park was waking up after a long winter, and Bob was there to capture the stillness before the summer crowds.

First, he wandered over to the log flume ride. The boat, labeled “Centreville,” sat frozen in place, half-submerged in water cascading dramatically over the edge. The sound of rushing water filled the air as Bob snapped a few shots, admiring how the ride looked both abandoned and alive at the same time.

Next, Bob followed the path to the miniature train. The vibrant blue locomotive, proudly flying two Canadian flags, was parked on the tracks with its staff preparing it for the season ahead. “The Centreville Express,” it read. Bob chuckled—it reminded him of old postcards and childhood visits. He gave the crew a nod and took a photo that framed the train against a backdrop of early spring trees.

His last stop was the carousel. Even without the music and motion, the painted horses looked like they were frozen mid-dance, ready to spring to life. Each animal had its own character—snarling lions, wide-eyed pigs, and elegant horses with decorative saddles. Bob lingered here the longest, fascinated by the artistry and the nostalgia it evoked.

As he made his way back toward the ferry, Bob felt like he had stepped through a time warp. Centreville wasn’t just a children’s park—it was a memory machine, quietly spinning its gears until summer returned. 

 

Bob Spots a Drone Survey Team at Centennial Park

You never know what you’ll stumble across during a casual walk in the park — especially if the park happens to be under a flight path. Centennial Park, nestled just west of Toronto Pearson Airport, is normally known for picnics, baseball, and the occasional soccer tournament. But on this chilly spring morning, Bob spotted something that looked more like a science fiction scene than a stroll in the park: a drone survey team at work.

At first glance, it looked like a giant robotic spider resting on the grass — four arms, black carbon fiber, serious equipment. No propellers spinning yet, but you could tell this wasn’t some backyard drone enthusiast. These folks meant business.

Bob, ever the curious citizen photographer, wandered a bit closer and struck up a conversation.

Turns out the team was conducting a topographic survey of the park. They were mapping the terrain using a high-resolution drone equipped with LiDAR (that's Light Detection and Ranging, Bob learned — kind of like radar, but with lasers). The data would be used for planning and development purposes, possibly tied to drainage systems, trail work, or future park improvements. Given the size and accuracy of the setup, this wasn’t just hobbyist gear — it was serious commercial surveying equipment.

Bob asked if it was okay to take a few photos, and the team gave a thumbs-up — as long as he didn’t cross into their safety zone. Fair enough.

While they continued prepping the drone, another team member was setting up a tall tripod-mounted GPS receiver nearby, part of their ground control system. The whole operation was precise and professional. Bob was impressed by how seamless and quiet the process was — high-tech, but low drama.

What fascinated Bob the most was how casually this futuristic scene blended into an ordinary park. There were geese off in the distance, a few joggers running past, and here in the middle — a team quietly scanning the Earth from the sky.

So next time you're in the park and hear a buzz overhead, it might not just be a bee. It could be the future of surveying at work — and Bob might already be talking to them. 

A Spring Stroll: Bob's Cherry Blossom Hunt at Centennial Park

There’s something magical about cherry blossoms—those delicate pink and white petals fluttering in the breeze have a way of making even the cloudiest day feel like a celebration. This week, Bob packed up his camera and made his way to Centennial Park in Toronto, eager to catch the fleeting beauty of spring in bloom.

As soon as he arrived, he was greeted by rows of cherry trees lining the edge of the park. Despite the overcast sky, the blossoms stood out like brushstrokes of light, dancing over a canvas of green grass. Bob started with some wide shots to show the peaceful layout of the park: soft green fields stretching out beside a quiet road, dotted with the pale blooms that only show themselves for a short time each year.

Of course, Bob couldn’t resist going in for a close-up. With his macro setting on, he focused in on the heart of a single blossom. The result? A dreamy image where the yellow stamens popped against the creamy white petals, revealing the quiet elegance often overlooked when seen from afar.

As he wandered deeper into the park, Bob paused to capture a signpost under a canopy of tall pine trees. "Centennial Park," it read, a modest marker for a spot that turns into a springtime wonderland for just a few weeks a year. The cherry blossoms here may not be as famous as those in High Park, but to Bob, they were perfect—no crowds, just quiet beauty and a gentle breeze.

This trip was a reminder of why Bob keeps his camera charged and ready. Nature doesn’t wait. When spring calls, you answer—with a shutter click.

Have you found your own blossom moment this year? Let Bob know in the comments or share your favourite spring spots in Toronto.