Bob at the Abandoned Bay Store Below Toronto’s Streets

Bob had wandered many places with his camera, but nothing prepared him for the quiet eeriness of the Bay store on the PATH under Toronto. On May 31st, it looked like someone had just closed the cash register and walked away forever.

The once-busy department store now sat hollow and silent, its fluorescent lights still buzzing above rows of empty display shelves. The drawers were left open, cash trays sitting on counters like they had been hastily checked one last time before the lights went off. A tangled mess of wires and an unplugged monitor stood at a customer service desk, abandoned like it was waiting for one last barcode to scan.

It was a strange sight — a place once filled with weekend shoppers and perfume spritzers now looked more like a museum exhibit on retail life from a bygone era. Faded sale signs still clung to the fixtures, but there was nothing left to sell.

Bob followed the temporary fencing through narrow paths lined with empty racks and dust-covered countertops. The blue gates guided him through a ghost town, and even though there were no employees or shoppers, the place still held the echo of its past life — faint footsteps, PA announcements, and elevator dings seemed to linger in the air if you listened long enough.

He paused for a moment at the entrance, looked back at the shell of a store that had once been a staple of downtown life, and snapped a few final photos.

Bob never worked retail, but he could feel what this place meant to the people who did. It was a goodbye to more than just a store — it was the end of an era.

Then Bob went upstairs to grab a coffee. Even photographers need a break after exploring retail ruins.

My Flickr Album

 

There’s something special about a campfire

There’s something special about a campfire—the crackle of the wood, the soft glow of the embers, the smell of smoke in your hoodie for days afterward. But this night, Bob’s usual fireside ritual had an unexpected guest: Thing. Yes, that Thing—from the Addams Family. A severed hand with surprising agility and a knack for stealing the poker stick.

Bob had just got the fire going at the campsite, poking at it with a trusty branch like a pioneer reenactment. Flames licked the split logs and coals glowed a fierce red under the grate. That’s when he heard a light tap tap tap behind him. Turning around, there it was—Thing, calmly crawling over from the edge of the fire pit like it was the most natural thing in the world.

No explanation. No fanfare. Just a hand, here to hang out.

Bob didn’t even flinch. He simply scooted over on the log bench and nodded toward the fire. Thing, apparently fluent in body language, settled beside him. The two sat in silence for a while, watching the fire shift from dancing flames to those glowing red coals that hypnotize you late at night. The occasional blue flicker of flame cast an eerie but oddly comforting glow.

Every now and then, Thing would poke at the fire with a stick, showing a surprising talent for tending the coals. Bob swore it even arranged a triangle of wood perfectly to keep the airflow just right. Honestly, better technique than most of the campers he’s met.

Moral of the story: never question who shows up to your campfire. 

 

 

A Doggone Good Time at the Hounds of Erie Winery

 

A Doggone Good Time at the Hounds of Erie Winery

This past weekend, I took a drive out to Norfolk County to visit the Hounds of Erie Winery—a charming little winery with a personality as bold as its wines and ciders. Nestled among the quiet countryside, this spot is a gem for anyone who enjoys local beverages, a laid-back atmosphere, and a bit of canine charm.

The vineyard might’ve still been shaking off the last of winter’s chill, but the warm welcome at the tasting bar more than made up for the moody skies.

The winery is best known for two things: their dog-themed branding and their surprisingly tasty lineup of wines and ciders. As someone who’s usually more into photography than pinot, I found myself genuinely impressed by both the variety and quality of what they offered.

I went for a flight that included:

FHR (possibly short for “Fetch Hard Rosé”? Whatever it was, it was smooth and dry)

PP – maybe “Paw Print Pinot”? Fruity and refreshing.

Sassy – a sparkling rosé cider with bite and personality.

TD – crisp, clean, and tart. Definitely a fan favorite.

Each pour came with its own little character, and the playful dog-bone labels made the experience feel fun rather than fussy. The winery isn’t trying to be pretentious—it’s just good, local drink made with care and creativity. Behind the bar, shelves were stocked with cute bottles featuring bulldogs and bees, and the names alone—Double Trouble, Bulldog & Bee—made me want to collect them all like trading cards.

One bottle especially caught my eye—a wine featuring a French Bulldog on the label. The resemblance to my own dog Dylan was uncanny. Naturally, I had to bring a bottle home for my daughter. It wasn’t just a souvenir—it felt like Dylan had his own signature wine.

What stood out most was how relaxed the whole place felt. No pressure, no pretense—just a few tables, a few pours, and a reminder of how much joy can be packed into a modest glass.

So if you’re looking for a chill road trip stop with local charm, photogenic scenery, and a tasting menu that leans a little quirky (in the best way), Hounds of Erie Winery is worth the detour.

Bob’s Tip: Try the sparkling cider. It’s sassy in name and spirit.

 

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.