First say, "Please . . . "

I hadn't expected to send you another letter on the subject of orbs.  But may we consider this fascinating subject once again?
Not only have I some incredible photos that I want to share, but, if it doesn't sound too far-fetched, I  would also like to explore the concept of a relationship with orbs.

What are orbs?
I don't know.  With every orb photograph I take, it's my sense of awe and wonder that expands, not my knowledge.  True, I can now identify three different types of orbs, and know that some move more swiftly than others.  But, when it comes to the nature of their being, their role in creation, for me they remain a powerful and intriguing mystery.

There is, however, one thing that I've learned during what I can only call our six-year relationship.

Let me explain.
Not long ago I was invited to a Beethoven concert at The Royal Albert Hall.
After a brilliant rendition of the Fifth Piano Concert, the pianist and orchestra left the stage.  As we've already discovered, orbs are attracted by music and strong emotion.  Surely, I thought, taking out my camera, there'll be plenty on display after such a moving performance?

I took three photos . . . not an orb in sight.
This was hard to accept, I was disappointed and puzzled.
"Please . . ." I pleaded under my breath . . . and took a fourth photo.

When this amazing orb appeared on my camera I was stunned.
A muttered, "Thank you . . . " seemed the only appropriate response.

I'm not suggesting that the orbs literally heard my mumbled request (although maybe they did). The change was brought about by my shift in attitude.

This message was endorsed last week when a friend invited me to a concert at The Chapel Royal of St Peter ad Vincula, the historic chapel at The Tower of London.  It was years since I'd been to The Tower, I'd never been to the chapel.
"Don't forget your camera," said my friend, "there are bound to be throngs of orbs!"
Her certainty left me a little anxious . . . I  just hoped that my camera was listening and that the orbs would collaborate!

The chapel was beautiful and historic, the concert truly memorable.  Once it was over I took out my camera.

Maybe the occasion, and my friend's expectations, had left me over-confident.
The singing had been so beautiful . . . surely no orb could resist?

Was it also possible that I was seeking for the orbs through the mind, whereas I needed to be searching through the heart?

Whatever the reason, to  my shocked surprise, the first few photos produced absolutely nothing.

Recalling my recent experience at The Albert Hall, I belatedly muttered, "Please . . . ".
Then, once again, pressed the shutter.

In the resultant photo you can see a cluster of shadowy orbs circling above the heads of the departing concertgoers.

I was grateful . . . but, I must admit it, a little disappointed.
I had expected more of the orbs at The Tower of London

The concert over, we left the chapel and made our way slowly across the courtyard.  Faced with such a magnificent, iconic view, I reached once more for my camera.

I wasn't thinking of orbs, I was thinking of Tower Bridge in the moonlight, so I was totally unprepared for the shock that the orbs had prepared for me.
The sky was alive with them!
(Unfortunately, this reproduction doesn't do the photo justice.  In the print I've had made you can count well over twenty orbs - many of them way in the distance over the river.)







But the final surprise was still to come, and it came when I returned home.  I'd never thought to check the photo I'd taken on arrival at The Tower.  Only when downloaded onto the computer did I discover that the earlier photo revealed a welcoming committee of orbs gathered to greet us!

Let's enjoy this amazing sight . . . brilliant orbs, spinning in the night sky, outshining the distant lights over The Thames.

We don't need to ask why, or how . . . we do need to be grateful.

So, under what conditions have I found that orbs reveal themselves in a photograph?
It would seem that orbs cannot be summoned to order (you can't bully an orb!), but they do respond to a polite request.  And, whilst they are clearly attracted by music and powerful human emotions, they retain an infinite capacity to surprise.

Perhaps, in our relationship with the infinite wonders and mysteries of creation, we ought to say, "Please . . . " and "Thank you . . . " more often!

We will remember them

This isn't really a letter, it's more an accompanying line to a photograph. To try to provide any words of explanation would be beyond me.

Suffice to say that my camera captured this picture shortly after the two-minute silence on Remembrance Sunday, ten days ago. Throughout the service I felt that orbs were present. This photo confirmed it.

Why do orbs respond to my camera?

The simple answer is that I don't know. I can only believe that they come in order to be shared. Which is why, rather like the Ancient Mariner, I am left with this compelling need to show the photos to you.

All I would ask is that you let your gaze linger for a few moments on the extraordinary profusion, intensity and size of orbs in this photo . . . remembering the day and time that it was taken.

I wouldn't presume to speak for the orbs . . . they will do that for themselves . . .

Calling all orbs!

What is it about a good book that instantly converts its reader into an evangelist?

A book that's fired me is the one I've just finished, "Countdown to Coherence" by Hazel Courteney.

I say that I've finished it, but that's not strictly accurate. I may have reached the final page, but this is by no means the end. This book is, in itself, a launch-pad . . . a launch-pad to a continuing spiritual journey.

Hazel Courteney takes her reader on an intriguing scientific and spiritual quest, during which she travels worldwide in search of luminaries in the many fields that she investigates. All the interviews are absorbing, much that she covered was totally new to me, but, after my own experience with orbs, it was her enquiry into this phenomenon that particularly captured my attention.

Amongst many other things, I learned that orbs appear eager not only to make contact, but also to respond to our requests for their presence.

This statement made me sit up in my seat . . . it perfectly mirrored my own experiences.

Do you remember what happened at the Tyburn Convent? After repeated photographs had revealed no orbs, I pleaded under my breath for them to show up on the camera . . . and, to my amazed delight, they did.

But let's bring the orb story up-to-date. Last month (two years and over three hundred orb photos later) a friend kindly bought tickets for us to attend the Monteverdi "Vespers" at the Albert Hall. It was to be the penultimate concert of the 2010 Proms season. However, a week before the event, her husband was taken into hospital and she urged me to offer her ticket to someone else. Sadly, I agreed . . . promising that I'd take my camera.

If she couldn't be there, I told her, I would photograph the orbs for her to enjoy afterwards.

It was a rash promise . . . a stupid promise. After making it I could have kicked myself.

How could I possibly guarantee orbs at the Albert Hall? My friend didn't deserve to be disappointed on top of all her anxiety.

But, as you can see, the orbs overlooked my stupidity and collaborated. Whether it was in response to my plea, or to the transcendent beauty of the music, they made an appearance and joined the audience in the final rapturous applause.

Orbs, so Hazel Courteney was told, make themselves apparent on digital cameras in response to the photographer's request. It may be hard to believe, but my experience encourages me to believe that this is true.

Last week I was invited to take Chloe to an Animal Blessing at our local church.

"I wonder if there'll be any orbs?" said Shelagh, a friend who has recently photographed some beautiful orbs in France.

"I'll be far too busy keeping Chloe in check to even think of orbs!" I retorted.

But Chloe was on her very best behaviour and, remembering Shelagh's remark, I turned my camera towards the altar and . . . yes . . . in response to my hopeful plea, there were this beautiful orb.

Relationships never stay the same, they grow and deepen or they diminish. My relationship with orbs has grown from initial amazement and disbelief to a stage of profound gratitude and confidence. A confidence that these incredible, radiant presences (what else can I call them?) will respond. A confidence that they are every bit as much aware of me as I am of them.

I say that, and it is true . . . but, nonetheless, it is impossible to be anything other than deeply moved and incredulous each time an orb appears . . . and, surely, that is how it should be?

Wouldn't you agree that to make contact, albeit momentarily, with an invisible body of consciousness is something beyond words . . . something that I can only call an awesome blessing?

Orbs for Totilas!

It's the time of the year for stories.

How would you like a true story? A story brimming over with magic, and with more pictures than text?

Does that sound suitable, undemanding fare for the festive season?

Good . . . off we go . . .

Once upon a time there was a wonder-horse called Totilas. Well, if we're to be absolutely precise, his name is Moorlands Totilas, but, to his admirers worldwide,

his name (whispered in awed voices) is Totilas.

Renowned for his incredible dressage achievements, he was brought to London a few days before Christmas to compete in the International Horse Show at Olympia. My friend, Susan, who was visiting London, kindly invited me to join her for the finals. We were to be part of the privileged audience who would watch the legendary Totilas compete.

Surely, I thought to myself, the artistry, the music, the charisma and the heightened emotion of the audience, would be fertile ground for orbs?

Before leaving home, I put my camera in my handbag . . . just in case.

The Grand Hall was packed and, in the lead up to the dressage, there were other highly enjoyable items on the programme. These included a Shetland Pony Steeplechase.

I took a photo . . .

. . . as you can see (although, in this small version, the details are hard to make out), the excitement of the children, equalled by the excitement of the ponies, attracted several shadowy orbs in the background.

But, once the dressage started, the orbs disappeared. The competition was keen, the atmosphere intense . . . anxious . . . precise and careful. It was all highly impressive, but not, seemingly, conducive to orbs.

Until, that is, the moment arrived. The moment that everyone had been waiting for . . . the climax of the evening . . . the appearance of Edward Gal and Totilas!

And, wait for it . . . as the impressive black stallion entered the emotionally-charged arena, look what came with him!

Look carefully . . . there's nothing shadowy about these orbs, they're large . . . and substantial . . . and brilliant. Orbs that truly reflect the status of the incredible super-star.

And Totilas shone as brightly as the orbs. Rising effortlessly to the exalted heights of our expectations, he proceeded to give a spell-binding performance of effortless technique. In total harmony with his rider, he brought the gift of pure magic to his enchanted audience.

Was this a participant in a competition? That was not how it felt. It was sheer, unequalled artistry on generous display for those of us privileged to watch.

Motionless in our seats, we gazed awestruck . . . then, as Edward Gal and his incredible steed departed, the audience of eight thousand rose spontaneously to its feet and broke into thunderous applause.

Did they win the competition . . . ?

What do you think!

Not only did Totilas win, he gained the highest score of his illustrious career.

As for the orbs, I can't offer any explanation . . . I would never attempt to. Knowledge of what they are resides in the numinous, beyond the realms of mere understanding.

All I know is that when orbs appear there is often music . . . always joy . . . and always love.

One further thing is certain. If we could only make our world more conducive to orbs there's no doubt that we'd be creating a far better place for ourselves.

Those orbs endorsed an incredible evening.

Thank you, Totilas . . . thank you, Edward Gal . . . and bless you, Susan, for inviting me to an event I'll never forget.

I promised you a magical story . . . did you enjoy it?

Should Totilas return to London . . . well, what about it . . . ?

Orbs at St. Paul's

If your eye has wandered down this page, and you've seen the photo waiting for you at the end of the letter, well . . . you'll be wondering how I've the nerve to precede it with any pedestrian prose!
You're perfectly right. Words rarely enhance pictures, and, in this instance, words are completely unnecessary.

But, may I offer you a small touch of the ridiculous before you enjoy the sublime? Let me, at the very least, tell you just how I managed to take the photo.

A friend of mine is a member of the Esterhazy Singers, a choir that was invited to take part in Evensong at St. Paul's when the regular choir was on holiday. My friend wondered whether I'd like to attend the service.

I love St. Paul's . . . I'm also a great admirer of the Esterhazy Singers . . . and, well, you can guess the other thought that went through my mind. Might there, I wondered hopefully, be the slightest chance of photographing orbs in this superb setting?

Before the guest choir filed in, some of us, those who had arrived early for the service, were invited to occupy the remaining seats in the choir stalls.
I was delighted at this chance to participate from such a privileged viewpoint. However, there was no doubt that this move greatly diminished any chance of trying to take a photo afterwards. It would be almost impossible to take an unobtrusive photo whilst being chaperoned out of the choir stalls in procession.

The service was truly beautiful . . . the singing was glorious . . . a responsive and worshipful congregation added depth to the experience. The perfect setting, I thought wistfully, to attract the most wonderful orbs.
So . . . in between participating in the service and appreciating the singing, I hatched a cunning plan!

What if, instead of filing out of the choir stalls with everyone else, I could delay my departure a little?
What if I intentionally 'forgot' my handbag?

The service, which seemed all too short, was over. The choir had departed. Those of us remaining in the choir stalls rose to our feet and started to file out in their wake. Obediently, I shuffled out with the others . . . only to come to a halt as we approached the nave.
"Oh dear," I apologised to those on either side of me, "I seem to have forgotten my handbag . . . I'm afraid I'll have to go back . . . "

Smiling helpfully, they moved to one side, enabling me to return to the choir stall.
Seconds later . . . . there I was . . . alone in the chancel, able to retrieve my handbag and, at the same time, to take this snatched photo!

Now you can gaze, in peace, for as long as you like. Should cunning plans be rewarded? This one most certainly was!

An orb at the Opera

Have you ever been to an opera by mistake? Come to that, have you ever had a birthday present five months in advance?
Since this week's surprising events, I can answer ‘Yes’ to both those questions.
If you've a moment to spare, you might enjoy this story . . .

I’m very fond of Angela, but even she would agree that her IT skills are spasmodic. Some days everything works perfectly, other days . . . well, this is an entertaining example of what I mean.

Angela had a cousin, a talented musician, who, for many years, performed regularly at Covent Garden. On account of this, she had been privileged to know the Opera House as an insider. She had loved the building, loved going backstage . . . the community had felt part of her family.
When her cousin died, Angela retained her love of The Royal Opera House and, a few weeks ago, having received exciting news from her daughter, felt a need to celebrate. What better form of celebration than a visit to the ballet? She went on-line to book herself a ticket.

As I say, Angela's IT skills are spasmodic. Having, so she thought, booked one ticket for the ballet, it came as a considerable shock when, two days later, two tickets arrived in the post!
It was far too late to do anything about it.
She thought quickly and, soon afterwards, I received a phone call.
"Er . . . look . . . ," she said, "I know that your birthday's still a long way off . . . :
"Yes," I agreed, puzzled.
"I was wondering," said Angela, and it all came out . . . the mistake . . .the two tickets . . .
"It's a ballet," she concluded, "quite short . . . but I think you'd enjoy it . . . I'd love to take you as a sort of birthday present in advance . . .?"
I assured her that, never having been to Covent Garden before, I could think of nothing more enjoyable.

A week later we took the bus to The Strand and wandered happily through the side-streets up to the theatre.
Oh, what an incredible building! Do you know it? It felt a privilege just to be able to wander around inside . . . admiring, marvelling . . . regardless of any performance on offer. We had half-an-hour in hand, and, with considerable pride, Angla took me on an extensive tour.
Finally, a little later than we intended, we reached our seats in the auditorium. The lights were dimming, and the overture was about to start. As we settled down, I gave a quick glance at the programme. It was only then that Angela's spasmodic IT skills became fully apparent!
We weren't about to enjoy a short ballet . . . the pleasure that lay ahead was three hours of Verdi's dramatic opera, 'Un ballo in maschera'!
Angela looked at the programme in bewilderment, "But it was supposed to be the ballet . . . ?" she whispered, "Is this all right for you . . . ?"
The curtains pulled back on the opening scene.
"Wonderful!" I whispered back.
And it was!

I need hardly say that the singing was superb . . . the sets visually stunning . . . the direction highly imaginative. It was wonderful. . . of course it was wonderful . . . it was Covent Garden at its very best.

And a highlight of this totally unexpected, advance birthday treat?
I couldn't share it with the other opera-goers, but I can share it with you.
At the first interval, just after the house lights had gone up, a moment when the sense of heightened excitement was palpable and the packed audience sat back to reflect on all they had heard . . . I took a photo . . .



. . . see for yourself . . . orbs clearly enjoy the atmosphere at Covent Garden!

A very dangerous man?

I forget, have you met Donald Reeves? We've certainly talked about him, and I know you'll enjoy this story.

When, in 1980, Donald arrived at St. James's in Piccadilly, I was a member of the congregation. The next decade proved to be a memorable time at the church. A time when, along with Donald, we all felt that we were breaking challenging and exhilarating, new ground.
Eighteen years after his arrival, leaving behind a parish transformed, Donald moved on.

By then, I, too, had moved, but I continued to hear of Donald's achievements. Of how this irrepressible individual, a man of amazing energy and compassion, had founded The Soul of Europe, and sent himself on a mission to bring healing and reconciliation to the Balkans.

Only Donald could have done it . . . only Donald did it!
This year he was honoured with an MBE for his achievements.

Why am I reminiscing about Donald? Because he has written his memoirs, an absorbing and inspirational book entitled The Biography of ‘A Very Dangerous Man’. The other week, feeling both a little nostalgic and very privileged, I attended its launch at the Bosnian Embassy.

Little did I ever imagine that I would be invited to the Bosnian Embassy. But there I was . . . all thanks to Donald.

It was moving . . . and memorable . . . and highly idiosyncratic . . . just like Donald!
The Bosnian Ambassador gave a speech. The Publisher, from Continuum, also gave a speech.
And Donald . . . ?
Oh no, Donald couldn't give anything as orthodox and simple as a speech! Scorning the microphone used by the others, he wandered happily amongst his guests chatting to them, acknowledging them, and thanking them as he recounted his colourful story.

Was this to be his swan song? Was Donald about to retire?
Far from it! He was off to Bosnia the following week. He had great new plans . . . people to meet . . . books to be written . . . this was merely the start!

The affection for him in that room was palpable. His friends had gathered not out of a sense of social obligation, but because this man was dear to them. They loved him . . . and they wanted to say so.

Afterwards, Donald willingly signed copies of his book and, as he did so, I took a photo. It wasn’t until I returned home that I discovered the orb.
Can you see it?
There it is, exactly where you would have expected it to be . . . hovering, like a button-hole, directly over Donald’s heart.
'A very dangerous man . . .' ? No, Margaret Thatcher was misinformed.
More likely, wouldn't you agree, that the orb is paying tribute to a truly remarkable and unforgetable friend?

Orbs - An empty room

Have you a spare moment to reflect on orbs? There's no hurry, but this is a story I would really appreciate sharing with you.

Remember my friend Christine, the friend who died suddenly on Easter Sunday? I don't think I've mentioned her much before, but Christine was an outstanding person . . . compassionate, generous, talented . In addition, she was someone very special to me. In the course of a lifetime you don't form many friendships like that. Not only were we very close, but we shared the same values. Our friends were all-important to us. Her beloved dogs meant to her what Rupert means to me. We giggled at the same stupid jokes, shared the same sense of the ridiculous. But, most of all, we travelled on similar spiritual journeys . . . we recognised the same God.

Christine was fascinated by the orbs that, over this past year, have begun to appear in my photographs. I would phone her and tell her about them. Later, I'd send her copies so that she could enjoy them for herself. One of her favourites was the photo of the orbs amid the snowflakes, and, being a musician, she was delighted when orbs started to appear in photos taken at The Barbican and The Albert Hall.

A few days before her funeral a thought struck me, and it struck me forcibly. In our mutual quest for orbs, surely Christine would have wanted me to photograph her coffin?
I was certain she would support the idea, but it posed problems. Flash photography isn't something that can be done unobtrusively. I needed help. Accordingly, I phoned the person who was organising the funeral. It seemed wisest not to reveal the reasons for this unexpected request, so I told her that this was what Christine wanted, and offered no further explanation.

It turned out that the coffin wouldn't be waiting in the chapel before the service. It was going to be carried in after we'd gathered, and carried out again before we left. There would be no opportunities for photography, however discreet. But the kindly funeral organiser was anxious to be helpful. Very generously, she invited me to lunch, saying that we could pay a visit to the undertaker in advance of the funeral, and I could spend some time on my own in the chapel with the coffin.

Driving down the motorway, I found myself smiling. All the ramifications of my unexpected request, together with the secrecy, would have appealed to Christine's sense of humour.

The small chapel at the undertaker's was tastefully decorated. The closed coffin was on its own in front of an altar. I was left in peace to do whatever it was that I needed to do.

It was strange. I didn't feel Christine's presence with me there in the chapel. It was calm and peaceful, but I was on my own. Taking out the camera, I took six photographs, meditated for a few moments, then rejoined the others who were waiting outside in the spring sunshine

The service was beautiful and moving. A fitting tribute. I left soon afterwards and headed back to London. On reaching home, the first thing I did was to connect the camera to this computer and wait impatiently as it downloaded. At last . . . there they were, the six photographs taken in the chapel . . . I looked . . . I searched. But I searched in vain. There was not a single orb to be seen. Not even a shadow that could be mistaken for an orb.
Yes, you can imagine how I felt! I was bitterly disappointed. Somehow I felt cheated. Why on earth had I been so sure that Christine wanted me to photograph her coffin?

It was then, and only then, that the truth hit me.
Of course! How could I have been so stupid? Extremely stupid and extremely blind.
This very absence of orbs, this emptiness, was, I now realised, the precise reason why I'd needed to take the photos. It was the story of the empty tomb on Easter Sunday . . . Christine, the essential spirit of Christine, had gone. The total absence of orbs proved it.
Not only that, this very absence of orbs was notable in itself. Coming, as it did, so soon after the plethora of orbs in church on Easter Sunday. Here, in a chapel that seemed, on the face of it, to be an ideal setting in every way, there was not an orb to be seen.
Not only had this experiment proved that my camera wasn't faulty, that the so-called orbs weren't caused by specks of dust which would occur at any time, anywhere, it had also proved conclusively that Christine's spirit had left her body and moved on to a different realm.

I deleted the photos, they no longer exist. But their message remains and will always remain.
A treasured final gift from a much-loved friend.

Thank you, Christine . . .

. . .and thank you, too, thank you for sharing the story.

Orbs . . . unanswered questions

I hadn’t intended to write to you again on the subject of orbs. To send you photos, yes. But to write? No.
What more can be said? They call for silent wonder, not for words. I’m also aware that I don’t want to argue about orbs. I’m not an evangelist. There are plenty of people, people whom I respect, who dismiss them as no more than the product of faulty cameras. There are others who say they are dust particles caught in the flashlight, or smudges on the lens. They may be right. I don’t think they’re right, but I’d be the last to deny them the right to their opinion.

Then all these good intentions were swept away just before Christmas when I went to a Christmas concert at The Grosvenor Chapel. Sally had invited me. Sally, who is also very taken with the orb photos, insisted that I took my camera.
“You never know,” she said hopefully, “there could be orbs.”

It was a wonderful and moving concert - a packed chapel, a fine choir, outstanding readers, an audience enraptured by it all. It had that elusive quality of innnocence and magic that somehow triumphs over jaded spirits. When it was over, and the audience was slowly departing, I took out my camera. But I didn't want to be conspicuous . We were surrounded by Sally's friends, I didn't want to disgrace her by taking what might seem inappropriate photos.
So . . . the first ones I took were taken discreetly from the side . . .








. . . as you can see, not a sign of orbs . . .



. . . I then moved a little closer to the front of the church, but remained under the overhang so there was no view upwards . . .






still no orbs . . .

I took three more photos from this same position, with exactly the same result.




But Sally wanted orbs, and I was determined that she should get them. Abandoning discretion (and I really don't think that anyone noticed what I was doing) I moved to the back of the church and turned the camera up towards the ceiling . . .



. . . and there they were . . .




. . . do you see them? I took three more photos and, in each of them, throngs of beautiful, translucent orbs soared above our heads.



From my experience, there seem to be three varieties. There are the substantial radiant orbs that often come singly. These are usually pale blue or green, sometimes with touches of pink, and, if you examine them under a magnifying glass, each one has an unique, geometrical pattern. Then there are the shooting orbs. These, again, come singly and are smaller, but very bright. You can tell they are moving swiftly because their bright light is repeated along the line of movement.
Finally, and most frequently, there are the beautiful, shadowy, translucent orbs. These frequently generate in clusters, attracted by music, worship or mass emotion.
At The Grosvenor Chapel it was the translucent orbs that held sway.

How can this be a faulty camera . . . or dust on the lens . . . or a trick of the light . . . ?

They're so beautiful . . . so awesome . .. I had to share them with you.

But why my camera . . . why me . . . ?
Why do the orbs seen to be proliferating . . . ?
Might a publisher like to have them for a book . . . or a calendar . . . ?
I only wish that I knew.
The one certainty? This is a fascinating subject!


PS
A final question . . .
What about these incredible visitors, viewed from my window at sunrise, the week before Christmas . . . ?




(See London's Orbs, click here)

Orbs - Strictly Unorthodox!

Oh dear, I'll get myself arrested one of these days!

I was chatting with a friend last week and she happened to mention the Russian Orthodox Cathedral in Ennismore Gardens. Needless to say, I pricked up my ears. A Russian Orthodox Cathedral in Kensington? This was news to me. You can imagine where my thoughts went next . . . might it have any orbs . . . ?

So this morning found me setting off for Ennismore Gardens. I don't know whether you know the Orthodox Cathedral of St. Sophia? It's an immensely imposing building tucked away in an unlikely setting. Rather hesitantly, I pushed open the door and went inside.

It was beautiful . . . shadowy, serene and numinous. There were icons everywhere. It was also totally free of any commercialisation. No post-cards, no booklets, no CDs, no counter near the door with a vigilant church watcher. It was a sacred space in which everything appeared sacred. From my point of view, the chief drawback was that, unlike in an Anglican or Catholic cathedral, there were no rows of seats where you could sit quietly and remain unobserved. Chairs ringed the walls, but to sit in them was to be extremely conspicuous.

A robed man (was it the bishop?) was standing praying at the central altar. Another priest was praying in front of an icon on the far wall. A cleaning lady in a demure headscarf, who looked very Russian, was hard at work polishing the brasses. An opportunity to take photos seemed remote. You couldn't take a photo of a priest at prayer, it would be an intrusion. Yet the whole atmosphere was so conducive to orbs . . . I felt very frustrated.

It was then that I realised that, if I moved slightly, my view of the two priests would be blocked by a pillar. The picture wouldn't be very revealing, you wouldn't see the altar - so often the place where an orb is to be found - but at least I could take a photo without anyone noticing or being disturbed.

I moved . . . I quietly took out my camera . . . I took a photo from this unpromising position . . . and I hastily returned my camera to my pocket.

Second later the priest at the main altar walked quietly out of the cathedral. Moments afterwards, the second priest did the same. Now there was only me and the cleaning lady. Greatly heartened, I crossed to the other side of the cathedral where I would get a much better view. I hoped to take at least four photos to give the orbs a chance.

Hardly had I had time to settle in my new seat than a total newcomer entered the cathedral. He was a big man, a rather burly man. He walked across to me in a purposeful fashion. Clearly he spoke no English, but his miming was universal! With eloquent hand movements he showed me in no uncertain terms that photography was not allowed!
"No photographs . . . ?" I enquired, a little nervously.
He vigorously shook his head.
Then, along with the cleaning lady, he, too, left the room.
I was all on my own.
You've no idea how sorely I was tempted. It would have been so easy to take a few photos, there alone in the cathedral. No-one would have known. But I had given my word, not only that, I suspected that the orbs would not co-operate if I were to be wilful!
Sadly, reluctantly . . . feeling that I had missed a golden opportunity . . . I left the cathedral and headed home.
Past experience has now taught me that you rarely get an orb from just one photo. The chance of that one, snatched effort at St. Sophia's producing anything was remote.
I arrived home and, with little hope, connected the camera to the computer . . .

You can imagine my delighted amazement at seeing a beautiful orb over the central window, another fainter one on the pillar. and several shadowy ones in the background!

Thank you, St. Sophia!!

(a week later)

And that isn't all, just look at these photos - taken shortly afterwards at the annual Animal Service at Christ Church.











We've already discovered that orbs are attracted by happiness, by worship, by music . . . I think, don't you, that we can now safely add that orbs share our affection for animals!

(See London's Orbs click here)

Orbs - In search of the numinous

This gets better and better! Please share some more incredible orb exploration.
I don’t want to sound fanciful, but I’m beginning to believe that you really can ‘feel’ when orbs are present.
In this first instance . . . but, no, we’ll let it speak for itself . . . it’s far more eloquent than I am . . .

Isn’t that breathtakingly beautiful? It was taken in Westminster Cathedral. Moving around very quietly so as not to distract or disturb anyone, I took several photos - all of which had orbs. I’m still marvelling at those photos. But in a strange way they didn’t come as a surprise. The whole building was redolent of spirit, you could feel it as you entered. To find orbs there was not unexpected, it was inevitable.

But all this exploration had been in Christian churches. I thought I would broaden my range of places of worship. Why not a synagogue?
Have you visited the magnificent New West End Synagogue in St. Petersburgh Place? Apparently it was built by the Rothschilds at the end of the nineteenth century, and is a Grade 1 Listed Building. I discovered that it is open to visitors between ten and one o'clock daily.
So, with my camera in my handbag, I set off.
On the web-site I had also discovered that visitors were requested to go round the back of the building and ring the bell.
This I did.
The door was answered by a very pleasant-faced rabbi.
"May I come in and see your beautiful church?" I asked
"Synagogue . . . " he corrected mildly.
It was not an auspicious start! But things could only get better, and get better they did. He was a delightful guide, not only was I allowed to take photos, I was actively encouraged to do so.
The interior is magnificent, but, more than that, it exudes happiness, well-being and loving care.
Hardly surprising that it should boast resident orbs - I can make out three in this picture . . .

I know that many of my theories about orbs have come to nothing, but of one thing I am absolutely certain . . . orbs and tourists don't mix.
There were no orbs at St. Martin's-in-the-Fields (and I've been there three times), no orbs at St. Mary Abbott's, nor at St. Margaret's, Westminster. All are beautiful buildings, national treasures, but when I visited each one of them I encountered sightseers, not worshippers. I'm sure that they were respectful, interested and knowledgeable. But it would appear to be worship, music and happiness that attracts orbs . . . not curiosity.

Yes, I know, this doesn't explain the orbs at the school prize-giving (proud parents, happy students?). . . nor the orbs on the ceiling at The Ritz . . . but who ever said that mysteries need simple explanations!

(See London's Orbs click here)

Orbs . . . ? Music made manifest . . . ?

I'm lost for words . . I don't know whether I'm excited . . . or overwhelmed . . . ? Whether I'm delighted . . . or totally confused . . . ?
Has the Large Hadron Collider collided with my camera?
But enough of inadequate words. I'm going to give you the bare facts and let the pictures speak for themselves.

As you know, I went to the Albert Hall the other night. A kind friend, who hadn't been able to use her tickets for the Proms, had given them to me. I'd invited Anna to join me.

There were three parts to the programme. The first was Vaughan Williams' 'Sinfonia antartica'. Then after an interval, came 'Pleiades', a contemporary composition by Xenakis, written for percussion. Finally, after another interval, there was 'The Planets' suite by Holst. I anticipated enjoying the first and last items, whilst sitting baffled and ear-battered through the second.

In the hope of maybe photographing orbs, I'd taken my camera. After the opening symphony I took a photo, which later proved to be unremarkable. Then came the first interval. Anna and I went out and stretched our legs, returning for the 'Pleiades'.

At first I was totally blown away . . . the frantic rhythm . . . the incessant vibration . . . the sheer volume of noise. Then, slowly, it began to win me over. More than that, I totally succumbed . . . it was utterly magnificent! Six young percussionists, 4-Mality, and O Duo, working in utter unison . . . the vitality . . . the discipline . . . the energy . . . the dedication . . . I was utterly enthralled. It lasted for forty minutes - forty amazing, quivering minutes - then it was all over and the audience relaxed into ecstatic clapping.
I took out my camera . . . .










Can you explain it . . . can you understand it . . . ?
What are they . . . ? Sound waves . . . ? Angels . . . ? Musical notes made manifest . . . ?













Not knowing what incredible 'things' I was recording, I continued to take photographs.







The next one, of the audience, was taken minutes after the ones you've just seen. Clearly the amazing energy was still in the air, lighting up the hall (in fact, I was surprised at the time that there seemed little or no need for the flash, even though the hall appeared as dark as before). Can you see the orb just infront of the pillars?


It wasn't until after the interval that I looked into the viewer. You can imagine my incredulity!
Had my camera gone beserk?
I showed them to Anna. She was equally stunned.
Tentatively, I took a photo of the audience reassembling . . . the camera showed nothing unexpected.




Finally, after The Planet Suite, I took my last photo of the evening. Everything was reassuringly back to normal, with nothing more spectacular than a beautiful, ordinary orb.

Ridiculous, isn't it, to describe the marvel of orbs as 'ordinary', but that was how they felt after the amazing sights that had gone before.

I don't know . . . I just don't know . . . I'm lost for words.

Bless you for sharing my amazement.


(See London's Orbs click here)

Brief encounter

Remember how I told you that I was going to St. Ethelburga’s today? How I’d read their web-site and was going for the mid-day meditation, as well as seeing if I could photograph any orbs? Little did I anticipate what was going to happen . . . who I was going to meet . . .
No, I'm not going to tell you. I've no intention of spoiling a good story by giving away all the highlights in advance . . . you'll just have to read on!

I arrived at St. Ethelburga's at twelve-fifteen. This, so I thought, would give me time to look around and take photos before the meditation started. I nearly missed the church, such a small door tucked into the wall. Luckily, it caught my eye and I entered through the iron gate and up the passage into the garden.
The whole place appealed to me at first sight, it exuded peace, and welcome. It also had the sense of being the hub of a working community. However, as I entered the building, I was reminded of the story of 'The Marie Celeste'. The table by the door was piled high with food. There was a steaming thermos of coffee, and another one of tea. Alongside these, there were plates of cakes, and other plates of biscuits. There were cups, and saucers, and napkins - but not a soul was to be seen or heard. The smell of coffee was very tempting - particularly as I'd come out in a hurry and forgotten to bring any lunch. As a distraction from all this bounty, I decided to go and investigate The Tent.

What a wonderful concept. I loved the windows - extolling every faith - the comfortable seats, the instruction to remove your shoes, the traditional construction. I sat down and quietly meditated for a moment or two before going back into the church.

Once back in the main building my attention was caught by the scraping sound of chairs being pushed back. Curious, I went towards the chapel - and there I had a shock.
As you know, the chapel is behind a plate glass wall. A passage runs along the near side of the glass, from which you can see in. Standing in this passage I was surprised and disappointed to see a gathering of people in the chapel. Clearly I'd misread the announcement on the web-site. The meditation started at twelve-fifteen, not twelve-forty-five. I was cross with myself for having made such a stupid mistake, but all wasn't lost. If I walked very quietly down the passage alongside the glass wall, I could sit in the comfortable chair that was positioned at the end of the passage and feel that I was a part of the group. As quietly as I could manage, I crept along the passage. It was a very comfortable chair positioned at the end, it looked just as though it was sitting there awaiting someone. Gratefully, I sat down and started to meditate.

After no more than five minutes I once again heard the scrape of moving chairs. I opened my eyes to see that all those in the chapel were now on their feet. I, too, rose to my feet as the door from the chapel into the passageway burst open . . . a figure was hurrying towards me . . . to my total astonishment I found myself face to face with Rowan Williams . . . !

It was one of those bizarre moments. A moment when a face, so familiar through television and the Press, suddenly, and unexpectedly, takes on physical reality . . .

Panic took over. . . !
The chair . . . ? The chair that I’d been sitting in . . . ? Surely this was the rightful occupant of the chair . . . ?
The Archbishop looked at me, and smiled . . . clearly he thought I was part of some reception committee. I smiled back . . . it didn't seem the moment to tell him that I was there
by mistake . . . that I had nothing whatsoever to do with St. Ethelburga's . . . and that I only wished I'd never sat in his chair! He continued to smile, his eyebrows raised enquiringly . . . I continued to smile apologetically . . . heaven knows how long we'd have stood there - our smiles becoming more enquiring, more apologetic - had not the vicar put in a merciful appearance.
The vicar pulled the Archbishop to one side and I tried to make good my escape. It was useless, they were blocking the way. The vicar then turned to me. Clearly, having found me with the Archbishop, he, too, thought I was someone of note.
"I'm so sorry," I blurted out, still convinced that I’d missed the meditation group, "I mistook the time . . . I arrived late . . . "
"But you made it!" exclaimed the vicar enthusiastically, clasping both of my hands in his, "I'm so pleased you made it!"
This time I did manage to get away. Not before I'd looked back and been tempted by a thought. Had I the audacity to go back to the Archbishop and say, "Please your Eminence (or whatever you call an Archbishop), may I take your photo?"
You'll be grateful to hear that I lacked the nerve!
As I came out into the courtyard I was approached by a very pleasant, fresh-faced woman.
"Have you come for the meditation?" she asked, "It's starting in a moment. We have it in The Tent."

And so it was that I ended up in The Tent. What the other service was I've no idea - it didn't seem the moment to enquire. The Tent was bright and welcoming, there were ten people for meditation, and it was a wonderful and profound experience - by this time I felt truly in need!
I did return to the chapel before I left. As one would expect after the visit of an Archbishop, there was a beautiful bright orb at the top left of the picture (just to the right of the light) and more can be seen against the woodwork behind the altar.

A memorable day . . . ? Definitely a memorable day!

Orbs - A scientific study . . .

All right, I know that you want to remain open-minded on the subject of orbs. In many ways, it’s helpful that you should. It makes me all the keener to be sure of my facts.

With this in mind, have you the time to share a scientific experiment?
Well . . . perhaps not strictly scientific, but it was as fair and free of influence as I could make it. After all, I can’t influence my camera.

This morning I determined to see what a photographic survey of well-known establishments in Piccadilly would produce. So far, orbs have favoured churches, they also seem to be attracted to music. But what about shops . . . or galleries . . . ? Do people need to be happy or worshipful to attract orbs . . . ? They were at Farm Street . . . would they be at St. James's? And what about Fortnums . . . or Hatchards . . . or the Burlington Arcade . . . ? I got on a bus and set off to find out.

I know it sounds silly, but it’s years since I went on what you’d call a sight-seeing trip on a bus. I didn't just find orbs. I discovered all sorts of changes along the way. Buildings that had gone . . . new buildings that had appeared . . . crocuses in the park . . . blossom on the trees . . . a University of Malaysia most surprisingly in Piccadilly . . . many more cake shops . . . and coffee shops . . . and did you know that there is now a boat ferrying passengers across the Serpentine? I was every bit as intrigued as any tourist! At the Piccadilly end of the Burlington Arcade there was the most wonderful, golden, French, chocolate shop, dealing exclusively in the most beautiful and appetising chocolate and strawberry meringues . . . a dream of a shop. I'd never seen that before.

And so I took photographs . . . I rather like this one of the Burlington Arcade (you can see the golden, French, 'chocolatiere' on the right . . .

- and I photographed Hatchards, and Fortnums's and the Piccadilly Arcade.

Finally, I reached St. James's. Here, my anxiety levels heightened, for this was what it was all about. I didn't really expect orbs in the Burlington Arcade, but surely . . . in St. James's . . . and it didn't fail me . . .


- can you see it? Above the altar, on the right . . . ? And I think there's another small one near the bottom, also on the right.

Needless to say, there were none in Hatchards or Fortnums - although I'm fast accumulating a collection of photos of London commerce that I'm rather pleased with. Do you think anyone would like them for a web-site . . . ?!

I've returned feeling rather like an explorer returning to base camp - glad to be home, but very pleased that I went!

(To see London's Orbs click here)

Orbs . . . ? (2)

Yes, I know what you’re saying . . . and I can understand you being sceptical . . . but, please, look at this picture. . . . look at it quietly for one minute. Look at the larger orb, which looks for all the world like a stained glass window . . . and the smaller, brighter orb to its left (you can ignore the silverpaper star made by the Sunday School!) . . .

If, at the end, you say to yourself, "Refractions of light in the lenses!", then so be it. But, if you do, may I ask you to consider that I've taken over eight hundred photos on this camera. The only times that I've had problems with refractions on the lenses have been at St. George's, St. Bride's and Farm Street (with the single exception of that photo of the sunset on Christmas Day). In over seven hundred and eighty photos there has been no refractional trouble at all. I've sent you a great many photos, look back at them and see for yourself.

Now your friend may well be perfectly correct. I may be utterly delusional and gullible. The whole subject may be moonshine. No-one likes to think of themselves as credulous and gullible, but if that's the case, I accept it.

On the other hand, what if I’m right? Just think about it, what if these refractions are orbs? Then it's something quite amazing . . . quite mind-blowing . . . quite incredible.
And, if there's the slightest possibility that I am right, can't you understand my anxiety that you should share this excitement and this wonder?

One last request. Look at the second photo, same place, same angle . . . look at the 'shooting orb' . . . can you really call that refraction?

Be a Doubting Thomas by all means, you are fully entitled to be, but please allow me the very smallest possibility of being right.


(to see London's Orbs click here)