And now for something completely different....

Captured with a 4x5 Speed Graphic fitted with a 178mm Aero Ektar Lens 1/60th at f2.5

I have been struggling with the notion of why I still bother to take pictures. Photographs seem to be more disposable than ever and even I hardly make prints anymore. Photographers that cut their teeth in the darkroom lament the loss of their craft in our digital age. But, I have come to see this differently now. Some photographers will gravitate toward whatever makes their lives easier, and can't wait to upgrade their camera so they are a better photographer. While others will scour flea markets for the perfect brass lens to fit on their handmade camera or beloved Kodak 2D. Ultimately it is our personal choice as an artist and nothing more, neither approach is more true or superior to the other. Only by being true to our personal vision and using whatever tools necessary can we become better artists.

Why do I choose antique cameras fitted with giant pieces of rare glass, when I could just use instagram and photoshop? Because, I'm still in love with the tactile portion of photography. The way a brass lens gleams in the sunlight or turning out a custom lensboard in my wood shop. Watching the image come to life in the darkroom still raises my pulse. For me the dedication to building and maintaining my camera equipment and shooting on film is an essential part of the photographic process.

My images are no better or worse because of the tools I use to make them. Some may gravitate toward this process while others will shrug and walk away. I've come to realize photography is not about making money for me, I'm no good at the business of photography, but will forever love the medium.

So if you would love to sit very still in front of outdated equipment and will settle for 10 black and white frames instead of 200 RAW files, then I am your photographer.

Good Health and Travels,
David Hayes

Captured with a 4x5 Speed Graphic fitted with a 6" Petzval 1 sec at f3.5

A different ending

I came across a Korean film trilogy by Park Chan-wook that is some of the most challenging films I've ever watched. You want to look away, but stay to the bitter end. The themes are revenge and ultimately what level of atrocity will we stomach if it is under the guise of retribution. While my photography has nothing to do with these themes, it is easy to be inspired by them. You can't predict the endings (at least I couldn't) and prove the one truth in life is unpredictability. No cliches or rides into the sunset with the hero and heroine hand in hand for this film maker. While the subject matter is enough to send people to the shrink, it is his bold originality and challenges that are laudable accomplishments. So many movies get made with huge budgets but have little to say beyond the veneer of product placements and generic story lines. What does this have to do with photography? Very little, other than like movie makers most photographers just reproduce the same tired disposable images that may sell up front but really make no difference. Does it matter that I shoot with an Iphone or an 8x10? Or if I spend all day producing a silver halide print or just apply some pre bought actions in Photoshop.

If it doesn't matter then I'm not trying hard enough or following Park's example of not letting the audience dictate your vision, but your vision leading the audience. Just like his movies I don't know how this will end, but I'll stay until the credits role and they usher me out of the theater. 

Shot with 4x5 Speed Graphic equipped with 172mm Kodak Aero Ektar f2.5 lens.

And then it was over

and what was done?

I watched the ground glass of my 4x5 for long minutes as this image unfolded. The wind would blow the grass and change the focus while clouds moved to cover and uncover the sun. I lost myself in the scene and how it was continuously evolving visually, but remaining constant in emotion. As the light came back, I made mental notes about my focus plane and slid the film cartridge in, rendering my view black. It was a feeling of when to trigger the shutter and only allow myself this one image of the view before me. Watching it come back to life in the darkroom was to relive the moment and also create it again. One, image, one piece of film, one fluid moment locked in time.

Alaska Diving and big film

Whittier, Alaska is connected to the road system via the longest vehicle tunnel in North America.

Tunnel to Whittier, trains take the same tunnel as scheduled

Whittier, Alaska is an interesting little hamlet at the edge of the civilized world. I know there are more far flung places but few are as unique as this location. There are no standalone private homes, only condos and apartments. The sun doesn't even shine here a couple months each winter due to the location and the high mountains that surround it. What makes Whittier especially unique is the diving community that abounds here. In the dark of the arctic winter, the normally turbid waters of Prince William  sound become clear as everything above the waterline freezes solid.

Record snowfall has arrived across South Central Alaska

Yes, it is cold but the water is four times warmer than the air temperature most days. This day it was almost 38 degrees Fahrenheit, I'll let you do the math on the air temperature. Anchorage (Alaska's metropolis) is only an hour away so this is where you go to dive all winter and train. Yes, Hawaii is only 6 hours away via Boeing 727, but not exactly a Saturday morning destination.

Smitty's cove

Whittier communication systems

Every weekend divers congregate here and don layers of polypro, heated undies, and enough wool to make a highlander jealous. This is drysuit country and those hardy souls splash down in Prince William sound via Smitty's cove are all going in drysuits. I dive here, it is cold, that is all there is to it. Numb hands, face, head, all part of the game. Why would people choose to do this and spend a small fortune in the process? Why climb a mountain, why run a marathon? Because it is suffering, and dedication above all else. Diving the arctic is like running marathons in the desert, if you have to explain it to someone don't bother, they won't get it anyway.

Smitty's Cove in Whittier. Diver's debrief and warm up between dives in this palace with snow as high as the roof.

If you have never contemplated using crampons to reach a dive site, then maybe a trip to Whittier should be in your cards. Take a leap away from comfort and find out what dedication is. If nothing else you can have that badge of a winter dive in the Last Frontier. Just remember night dives end at 10am and begin at 5pm this time of year.

Diver's going out for their second dive on a Saturday, they will do 45 minute diver even this time of year. 

The begining of the story

We live in a golden age of creativity the world has never before experienced and may never again. My creativity ebbs and flows like all artists, it is not a steady stream but a river that will burst dams and dry up within the same season. Lately I've been drawn to far more physical creative projects that require skill and care to avoid injury while bringing ideas to fruition. Then it dawned on me, I miss the physicality of analog photography far beyond any quality argument that can be made. Photography was until recently a hands on experience that resulted in physical objects. Rolls of fim, a sheet of negatives, a contact print, then finally a print that you could hold. I miss that, ones and zeros are fine, but having tangible results that aren't just flickers on a screen are far more satisfying. Then I came across of box of history lodged in the back of my safe. Family photos, momentos, heirlooms (valuable only to me) and holding those prints brought back a flood of memories, ones that can be viewed without power, no upgrades or plugins needed.

Les and Walt Hayes on the homestead circa 1925

I've shared stories of my grandfather Les, and thought it time to share another to mark this occasion of finding an old picture. The image above is of my grandfather Les (on the pony) and his older brother Walt on our homestead near Renner, South Dakota. While undated the image has to be from the late 1920's based on their age. These young boys would see a Hell that couldn't be imagined when the photograph was taken. Even for young men of hard upbringing things would forever change them before we would meet. I knew Les as kindly but stern grandfather that spoiled us grand kids more with every passing year. Walt was different, he was mean and scared me as a young boy. I found out later that while they had both served in Europe during WWII, Walt didn't make it through intact like Les did. He had seen to much horror and his mind had broke. He was forever bitter at the world and all who inhabited it, I cannot fault him, I would have to walk in his shoes to do that.

Almost a hundred years later I hold the image of these two brothers long before all this would happen. Simply two young men awaiting all the promises life has to offer. I fear we will loose this physical connection to the past with the absence of analog photography that seems so prevalent today. Holding the past in our hands is something we should be careful to not give up so easily. I curse a world that makes memories disposable.

Being from the Midwest I cannot help but tell a story about these brothers

Near the end of Walt's life he was confined to the VA and asked Les (his brother) to get him a pack of smokes. Les wasn't about to pay for them and Walt didn't have any cash, but he had some hid at the house. He told Les that there was a gas can out in the shed with some money, he could use that and get the smokes. Mind you Les wasn't hurting for money but wasn't about to part with his funds on this venture. Les went to the house and found the can, but couldn't get the roll of money out so he cut the can open and retrieved nearly $10,000 in cash. He took the money (less a pack of smokes) back to Walt with a receipt and relayed the story about the gas can. Walt demanded Les repay him for the value of the now ruined can.

Knowing how a story ends doesn't matter as much as how it started, I'll continue to hold my memories.  But like I said, we live in a golden age.

Communication Breakdown

4"x5" Dry tintype

Loosing one’s voice temporarily is a traumatic experience, our connection to the outside becomes severed. Even simple tasks become complex and frustrating. But what about loosing one's creative voice? It is infinitely more difficult to define and far more destructive than simply not being able to speak. The worst part about it is you may not recognize its absence. We keep speaking visually but our message is silent, if art doesn’t come from your creative center it is equivalent to showing unexposed film. Everyone looks right through it as there is no image present.

I lost my voice, lost it for years and only recently realized how truly mute I became. I grasped at every new thing that came along: HDR, three point light, actions, small strobes, giant strobes, they all made their way into my work and replaced my voice with trends. It became about sales averages, print prices, and looking like the popular “successful” photographers. In all reality it was just tamping down my creative voice until it became a squeak and then silent altogether. My work became nothing more than retread ground, an indistinguishable noise in the crowd. I’m not a great photographer, but became infinitely worse when I stopped being true to my creative voice. I will always be a photographer, regardless of technique, equipment, lighting, or sales numbers. It is not something I choose to do, it is something I have to do. Being an artist is about possessing a desire to create and give intangible ideas a place in the physical world, nothing more.

This is not some new years resolution or overnight epiphany, it developed over time like all ideas and finally demanded to be put in writing. My internal focus has been readjusted, now it is time to create and find the strength to follow my ideas.

"Nothing is worse than a sharp picture of a fuzzy concept."--Ansel Adams.

Good Health and Travels
David Hayes
Owner Resolute Visuals

Head colds and Swiss abstract equalls fresh ideas

There is a common thread to these images besides their simplicity.

Alaska is creeping steadily toward that darkest day of the year as the snow piles up and the thermometer plummets down, I find this to be the toughest time of year to find inspiration to begin new projects. Weddings and senior photos are largely over with and family photos for this seasons Christmas cards are winding down. Typically this is the time of year that one relishes in not moving to much and enjoying some much earned downtime. Unfortunately (or not) inspiration has decided to not depart me in this dark season and demanded that I heed the call or forfeit sleep.

Marlboro Ultra Light

Being a visual artist I tend to tell stories that revolve around subjects that have a sense of visual dynamic. I have never attempted to communicate an abstract thought visually but lately have felt compelled to do exactly that. For the record I enjoy all forms of art, but I find it hard to really appreciate art that appears lazy or overly pretentious.  Maybe this is why I have avoided this as it is so easily done poorly.  Abstract work of Paul Klee has always fascinated me by its  apparent minimalism but visual power and presence of placement. Equally true is the work of Irving Penn and his still life's of every day objects observed in such a way as to inspire the viewer anew.

In no way am I comparing myself to these masters of minimalism, just simply stating where visual inspiration for a project based on very simple visual cues is heralding from. My idea started with a miserable head cold caught on returning from Germany, then purchasing of cold medicine and finally debating with my wife if my beloved Klee print would hang in the living room. The idea would not leave even when the cold departed, or the print was voted to stay. I simply had to get the idea out of my head.......this is the joy of being an artist and the pain. We also tend to get away with dramatic statements that a less creative person would be ridiculed for.

Ruger Sp 101 in .357 Magnum, my sidearm of choice

Well yes, winter has its advantages.

These are some outtakes from the sessions in my studio this past weekend. I will be posting the full project next month. The idea is now out of my head and into my hard drives, may sleep return or inspiration anew.

Trial and Error with big cameras

10 Plates exposed, only one produced a usable image, my note book and scribbles about producing ferrotypes.

Unfettered optimism, I’ve been accused of a lot of things, but this is certainly not one of them. Why is it then that I’m surprised when I try something for the first time and fail? Where does this ungrounded confidence come from? I love trying new things and experimenting with different creative processes, and I’m surprised when I fail to achieve stellar results on the first attempt. Probably too many hours spent as being an armchair cowboy and not enough actually in the saddle.

This is why I love Analog photography and the whole process associated with it, it never stops being a challenge and requires far more dedication to achieve passable results versus digital. I love digital, when I need something now, and have to ensure it is the best I can produce quickly……it is digital. But, when I have the time and need to get away from our world of glowing rectangles….bring me analog. I have been learning the art of large format film photography over the last couple years and finally finished my first project “Titans of Industry”. After a couple months off, it was time to get the big cameras out again and go back to square one. This time I decided to learn dry plate Tintype or Ferrotype photography in the 4”x5” format which uses thin metal and special chemicals to produce a positive image directly from the camera. Why would I leap technologically backwards again, because the journey of discovery and trial and error is far more enjoyable to me than buying photoshop actions.

Supplies: Rockaloid Bulk Tintype kit, everything you need to get started (sans camera supplies)
The tin plates arrive pre coated black so all you need to do is trim it to fit in 4x5 film holders if you are using them.

Trimming Plates to fit 4x5 film holders

Prep: Next is the fun part, coating the plates in a darkroom with Ag Plus emulsion. Learning curve time. Put too much on them and they produce foggy, crystallized images, not enough and you don’t get no image. How much you ask? Just enough….12 frames later, I have only one passable image and nothing clear. Pour a spot in the middle and then roll it around quickly to cover the plate, but you don’t want any extra thick areas that show up “white”, you are aiming for a consistent thin covering turning the black metal a light gray. Not surprisingly, this is really difficult and I’m still working on figuring this part out.




Exposure: “Expose like photo paper, not film”—Jill Enfield offered me this advice. My first batch I exposed at ISO 20 and failed to get an image, so taking Jill’s advice I lowered my exposure to ISO 8. I use a Sekonic 358 light meter for exposure times and a little Kentucky windage as well.

Rolling the emulsion onto the plate for even coverage.

Drying emulsion covered plates

Gear: Tin doesn’t fit in standard film holders, it is too thick. I picked my worst condition film holders and used a regular screw driver to expand the film rails on both sides giving me more clearance. I use needle nose pliers wrapped in electrical tape to extricate the plates….not pretty but it works.

Graflex Speed Graphic with 178mm Aero Ektar and JoLo custom add ons

Camera: Modified Graflex Speedgraphic with tilt and shift.
Lenses: Kodak Aero Ektar 178mm F2.5 also a 5” Brass Petzval f4 (can be modified to a meniscus)
Tripod: Huge bogen that nobody would dare steal
Light: Impact Fluorescent head with 30” Octobox –so far exposures need to be doubled or tripled versus what the meter says. This is probably due to the lack of blue spectrum that the emulsion is sensitized to.

Another 10 plates, this is my first keeper, black bear skull with notes. Everything dies, not everything becomes a trophy.

Hiking and Kayaking in Cassis

Sunset on the Med at the Port of Cassis

Port Miou

Our perception of the environment we travel through has much to do with our chosen mode of transportation. When leaving the Dordogne Valley we traveled by bus (since the rail station was unexpectedly closed we traveled more specifically by school bus) on a road that wound its way along the same stretch of river we had been paddling. From this view higher up the valley wall, the river appeared surrounded by houses and very much domestic and boring, but the river we knew from the kayak was just the opposite. We rarely saw houses from the river and when we did they were large, chateau’s built upon hilltops and ridgelines. The river we experienced was wild and appeared much the same as it has for eons, a clear waterway teaming with fish and very few people outside the villages. The two different perspectives are both correct, the river is at once remote and pristine and surrounded by farms, only the viewers perspective changed. I prefer the river we knew intimately, full of fish that alternated pebbled bottoms and limestone cliffs above and below the water line. All too often we rush from one place to the next and forget that the journey in between really grounds our perspective. My misfortune of getting pick pocketed in the Paris Metro threw our travels plans into chaos and caused us to miss the “highlights” of our journey, but we experienced many more different and equally important moments as a result.

Hiking the Calanques

 From the Perigord Region we traveled south to the Corte de Azure (blue coast) to get my passport
replaced at the Marseille consulate or suffer Paris again. We had originally planned on skipping the bustle of Marseille but now we had to spend a day in the town and far from expectations, it was quite enjoyable. We took in the fish markets on the docks, the citadel overlooking the harbor and even managed to convince my wife to buy some clothes. Truth be told, our closet is 75% mine and getting her to buy clothes is an accomplishment. Marseille is a large port city that has a reputation for being rough (and is deserved). After we left the consulate with my temporary passport, several hundred demonstrators were gathering down the street at a government building, which was being defended by riot police in batman like armor. Whatever was going to happen hadn’t begun but was heating up and the police brought in another 15 vehicles including armored personal carriers. We didn’t let curiosity get the better of us and headed out of town and back the sleepy village of Cassis. In the train station, police and military personnel with rifles were stationed everywhere and detaining young men. Several people exited trains to be only be detained by police soldiers, some were interrogated on the spot and others subdued and taken away. Heads down, cameras stowed, we found our commuter train and got out of Dodge while the getting was good.

Main beach in Cassis

Arriving back in Cassis felt like coming home, the crescent shaped village spread out below the train
station begins at the water line and crawls up the slopes where vineyards replace houses. Cassis is a
small port that has existed for millenia because of the limestone rich cliffs and Calanques (small fjiord) that make natural harbors. Limestone could be quarried and loaded directly to the ships in the protected waters cutting out the laborious overland transportation. Shipwrecks from before Christ litter the bottom of the Calanques with goods from all points of the Mediterranean trade routes, the local museum houses many of these treasures and maritime artifacts and is worth a visit. These white cliffs draw the tourist hordes in Cassis at 10am and they head strait for the waiting boats to take them on a calanque tour which is shorter than a French lunch date and they can check that off their list of places visited. We approached it with our usual zest for activity in warm weather, slow, human powered locomotion.

Our fist venture out was to hike the first two calanques, and get a bird’s eye view of Cassis. The first
calanque is Port Miou which has served as a natural harbor for at least 2000 years and is still home to
many small craft. Port Pin is next and does not have any permanent anchorages but many boats lie to in designated spaces for transient craft. These calanque walls range from 100 to about 300 feet tall and are the Mediterranean as I always envision it. White cliffs dotted with ancient pines twisted by the constant winds that combine the scent of pine and ocean to produce a scent that causes one to instantly become content and unhurried. We did our best to honor this region’s lethargy with lunch picnics and regional red and white wines to accompany our outings.

Launching the Super Lynx at Port Miou

Our swimming hole and favorite picnic spot.

Side street bakery in Cassis

Dinner in Cassis

 To gain further appreciation we put our kayak together and ventured out from Port Miou to explore
the region by sea. The Aire Super lynx was lightly loaded and performed like a champ even in heavy
wake from the cursed floating cattle cars full of tourists. Our perspective of the calanques was of quiet beauty, with clear waters containing clouds of sardines and limestone cliffs that disappeared into azure waters. Caves dot the waterline and coves provided our kayak with perfect spots for resting our arms and straining our necks. The only difficulty was trying not to get vertigo looking straight up from the kayak to the top of the cliffs more than 500 feet above us. We lunched on the beach at En Vau followed by a swim and resting before heading back to Cassis at a leisurely pace in the sun. We landed on the main beach near the port to rinse the salt water off everything and enjoy a cold beer while drying everything out in the sun.

Our days in Cassis followed much the same pattern, early morning breakfast at an open air café, picnic lunch on the beach or cliffs then afternoon naps on the beach. Can you explore Cassis in a day….yes, if you have too. But, to rush a sleepy village that has rebuilt itself time and again through the ages is to commit heresy. What would your perspective be: tour bus, packed boat, visit a shop or two along the water front and finally hustle out of town. Yes, we live in a busy world where you can take around the world tours on private jets and “see” the worlds wonders in a week, but what does that add to your life other than to say “I’ve been there”. That is it, you’ve been there, check it off the list. Travel should be about the experience and being apart of a place, not just a check list.

Typical French Breakfast

Cassis streets leading down to the Port

Castles, history and hounds (Epic honeymoon part 3)

La Roque Gageac upstream of Domme

Troglodyte village in cliffs above La Roque Gageac

Growing up on Midwest plains did much for my work ethic but little for my sense of geography and history past the mid 19^th century. My family came west in the late 1800’s from Northern Europe and the oldest relic I can point to is an aged tintype and what is left of the family homestead that was built at the turn of the twentieth century. Most Americans have little since of history and who can blame us; we tear down the “old” and build new whenever we get the chance. Blocks of disposable subdivisions all set in the neatest grid one can imagine. Upon announcing that we were headed to walled villages and ancient fortresses, the response was “With those funny narrow streets.” Yes, we were in search of narrow streets where Americans can barely waddle through let alone drive our behemoth automobiles. Even so they were much wider than places in Morocco’s ancient medinas where houses come so close to that young lovers can kiss without leaving home. History in textbooks is valuable but no replacement for the 3-D experience of breathing it in, hiking the hills and setting foot where kings and troglodytes once stood side by side (although centuries apart). Even the famous English King Richard “The Lionheart” roamed this landscape (he didn’t speak English and only spent 6 months in Britain) and now it was our turn to stride through history. 

La Roque Gageac has been inhabited for 30 centuries in the limestone cliffs and along the Dordogne River

Entrance to Domme that once held the Knights Templers and still bares their cryptic inscriptions.

Stone streets of Domme

Our fist encounter was the walled fortress of Domme, which resides high on the hill above the Dordogne Valley. When I say American’s have no sense of history, it is because we have no physical reminders of how young our country is in a broader sense of the world. Domme’s main fortified entrance was once a prison for the Knight’s Templar after King Phillip IV reneged on his debt and used the fall back accusation of blasphemy against the order. This was 1307 and the walls still bear the inscriptions and secret codes that the Templers scribed into their cell while awaiting torture and trial for lending to the wrong guy. Eventually the pope excommunicated the whole order, and then pardoned those still alive once the debt was erased, and the remaining Templers were inducted in the Sovereign Military Hospilatier Order of St. John of Jerusalem of Rhodes and of Malta. Fascinating story and only one of many that shares the tiny streets that make up Domme’s thoroughfares. Shortly after the Knights Templar episode the Dordogne became the front line for the 100 Years War 1337-1445 between France and England, hence the castles on every strategic outcropping or river crossing. North shore was French territory and the south was held by England. Beynac was one such stronghold and was directly opposed by Castlenaud (they could see each other). Eventually the wily French bought the commander off and took the castle by financial storm. Beynac should be a bucket list item for anyone that loves history or just a good castle.  

View of the Dordogne Valley from Domme looking toward Beynac

Symmetry in Domme

Castle Beynac's ramparts above the village

Beynac lies just downstream from the former English castle of Castlenaud and is one of the most awe inspiring locations I’ve had the good fortune to visit. The main town lies directly on the Dordogne River and is only wide enough for one street and a row of houses before the village climbs the cliff toward the fortress of Castle Beynac. Stretch your calves out, the climb up is steep, but you will only stop at every turn to admire the stone houses, walls, streets, ramparts (everything including the roofs is stone here) in addition to the Dordogne Valley itself. Arriving at the castle is epic, as you know I don’t get excited about much, but I was running around and smiling like a six year old at Christmas morning. The interior is sparse, cold, and dark and feels like the lord of the manor has just stepped out on vacation. Tapestries dominate the walls and authentic furniture line the living quarters making the experience that of walking into the wrong century. For all of its grandeur and authentic plague ridden fortifications, it was a dog that dominated our visit. Unlike America, France loves its pets. From cafes to 4 star restaurants to castles, hounds abound. 

Approach to the Castle through Beynac

Village Beynac at night sans tourists hoards

Castle Beynac with ramparts and archers emplacements

This particular hound was perfectly proportioned for a meeting in a 12th century castle it was a Leonburger that stood almost a meter at the shoulder. Bred to resemble the lion of the Leonburg crest in Germany it is the finest looking castle dog I’ve ever met. The owner’s friend spoke perfect English and we were allowed to meet the regal hound in the main hall of the castle and get a brief history of the breed. Unfortunately, the dog discovered we carried no snacks and the castle, fireplaces, kitchen wares, also contained no snacks and he lost interest in Beynac. I now want a castle just to justify owning one of these gigantic hounds, the wife agrees that we need a castle and more hounds. Hey, every winery needs a mascot. That night after a luxurious dinner where my apple pie was served on a piece of raw slate (yes it is a tough life) we journeyed back up the alleys and through the centuries of the now deserted village. We did most of our exploring after dark, when things quiet down and the lighting presents a much more vivid experience in these fabled places. Alleyways became hiding places for conspirators, assassins crept in obscured doorways, archers watched Castlenaud for invaders, history lurked in the shadows, enjoy the narrow alleyways and let your imagination fill the time between you and their builders.

Ancient lanterns hang in the caste with dim light now provided by electricity, swords are at the ready by the table.

Castle Beynac a bucket list must for travelers and history buffs. 

16th century canon at Castlenaud

Trebuchet at Castlenaud

The following morning we walked three kilometers to the opposing fortress of Castlenaud. After the lived in authentic feel of Beynac, Castlenaud felt very modern and unmoving. I recommend a visit to Castlenaud first as it is more of a museum of weaponry and siege fighting than how castle would feel like to visit in the 1300’s. Rare and unique weapons, including full size trebuchets and siege mortars make it a grand experience, but the lived in feel of Beynac was much more. There was even another leonburger at this castle, but plastered walls and no tapestries made it more of a recreation experience. Follow the rivers advice and visit downstream from Domme to Castlenaud and finally Beynac. After traveling a rather short distance by kayak we had followed the Dordogne and it eons of humanity from limestone cliffs and caves to medieval fortifications and now it was time to move on. 

Artillery sized crossbow with hand held models in the case

Siege mortar and full sized trebuchets complete with siege coverings. Standing where the siege machines are really put into perspective how close combat was then and how effective archers would be on the battlefield.