Los Angeles: City of Angels? ©

Rising up on the California coast, the metropolis of LA stretches for miles. Concrete and glass unfurl into the hazy distance, interspersed with pockets of mesmerising beauty and glamour. Epicentre of all things showbiz, LA’s reputation precedes it: home of Hollywood, Beverly Hills and Malibu; location of endless film and TV productions; magnet for the beautiful, the famous and the very rich.  Less a city than one big movie set, less a population than a posse of aspiring actors and singers, there’s nothing quite like LA. But far from being a living embodiment of the American Dream, the dark side of the city is never far from view—and the gulf between those that have made it and those that have not seems wider than ever.

Hovering above LA, my first glimpse of the legendary city was row after row of houses and the aquamarine of the ubiquitous southern California swimming pool. The landscape was a dull yellow, the sky overcast. As we pulled into the city proper, we saw dusty side streets and cracked paving slabs. Scrawny palm trees soared upwards to greet high-rise flats. A stroll to Hollywood boulevard revealed a strip of neon lights, retro diners and street vendors selling their wares. The Walk of Fame stretched the length of the road with Marilyn Monroe plonked unceremoniously outside the local McDonald’s. Homeless people roamed aimlessly. There was a seedy undercurrent; a flip side; a harsh reality.

A trip to Mulholland Drive, Beverly Hills and Rodeo Drive promised to reveal glitzy LA so we hopped onto a tour bus and off we went. Up a few shady side streets and across a few intersections and we were suddenly looking up at the current abode of Ryan Gosling and Eva Mendes. Nestled in the rocky mountainside, their futuristic home was all glass and curving roofs, just high enough to frustrate prying eyes. We circled the hairpin bends of the mythical road with Tom Petty’s Free Fallin’ blasting through my head as we passed surprisingly normal homes belonging to the LA glitterati.

Up ahead we pulled into Beverly Hills and Rodeo Drive. Gone were the cracked pavements, gone were the withered palm trees. This is the flip side of the coin. Glittering cars sat in the shadow of palatial homes, each more stunning than the last. They lined the roadside in every colour of the rainbow with no apparent security and seemingly normal inhabitants. Except that their neighbours were Hugh Hefner and his bunnies reclining beyond the high-rise walls of the mythical mansion, and the address read Rodeo Drive. How’s that for street cred’?

Further along the road, we trundled into the Rodeo Drive made famous in Pretty Woman. Shiny boutiques lined the roadside and tourists took pictures as a handful of white-clad women marched out of Gucci bearing bags. The Beverly Wilshire Hotel reared up ahead. Flags the size of football fields hung above the opening and striped canopies decorated the windows. Doormen stood to attention. Ferraris and Aston Martins rolled past. But the surrounding streets and boutiques were strangely quiet, absent the frenetic buzz of Hollywood.

Anxious to enjoy the ‘complete’ LA experience, we made our way to the famous Sprinkles Cupcakes shop, ducking in and out of boutiques and keeping our eyes peeled for A-listers. Sure enough, no sooner had we parked ourselves outside Sprinkles than Kendall Jenner of Kardashian fame stepped out of a blacked-out 4x4 and a posse of photographers lunged towards her—and us as it eventually turned out. After much chasing, ducking and diving, Jenner was papped in her white-denim ensemble with myself and my friend sitting proud in the background. An appearance in the Daily Mail sidebar of shame—you couldn’t make this stuff up!

Our next stop was Santa Monica and it couldn’t come fast enough. As we pulled onto the quaint-sounding Ocean Drive, I was instantly smitten. Our hotel was a charming Art-Deco building facing a line of palm trees and the Pacific. Clutching our cameras, we excitedly made our way down to the beach. I’m not a swimmer or a sunbather but I love the sea. There’s nothing like the rhythmic sound of the waves and the water stretching out into nothingness. As it happened, the sunset that night was spectacular. Our time in Santa Monica moved at a slow pace as we adapted to the small-town feel of the place. Days were spent strolling the palm-lined streets and the boardwalk, checking out the shops, and eating and drinking—the food here is great.

We had pencilled in Venice for our penultimate day. I don’t know what I was expecting but the name put me in mind of the elegance and style of its Italian counterpart. Not so. LA Venice is edgy and grungy. Colourful—and often beautiful—graffiti decorates the walls, the smell of marijuana laces the air and skateboarders fly past. At Muscle Beach, body-conscious LA rears its head once more as the city’s men and women exercise in the open-air. You can’t help but wonder if they’re auditioning in their heads, hopeful of getting their big break from a passing movie producer. The sense that you’re on a live movie set never quite leaves you in LA, but that’s the beauty of it. The rest of the day was spent enjoying a glorious brunch at Joe’s on Abbot Kinney and the subsequent purchase of an insanely overpriced Swedish cuddly toy in my mimosa-fuelled haze.

The sunset on Venice Beach that night was pink-, purple- and orange-streaked magic and the highlight of a fascinating trip.

My impression of LA before this trip was glamour, money, fame, luxury and a healthy dose of plastic surgery. And LA is all of those things. But from my (limited) perspective, LA did not appear a cohesive whole, but rather, a collection of jagged pieces that didn’t quite fit together. There was a sense of empty spaces between parts, symbolic of the huge divide in the city.

It is, however, a fascinating glimpse into a fading era and the beginnings of Hollywood, before fame-hungry cast its shadow. It’s an envy-inducing idea of the way the other half live. And it is, essentially, a very beautiful place that averages 329 days of sun per year. And if I had US citizenship, I’d move to Santa Monica tomorrow.

Tweet Pin It Now!

Swedish Utopia ©

Scandinavia is an incredibly well kept secret. As I entered the waterside café in Vaxholm, I felt as though I’d entered the Garden of Eden. The Swedish flag sailed in the gentle breeze and dark blue waters lapped all around. Tanned Swedes sat at white painted tables enjoying the languid Sunday sun as tree branches rustled overhead. Pear cider and a delicious strawberry confections completed the ensemble. "It's perfect!" I said, and so began a surreal experience. Tucked away from prying eyes, this café was as far from the madding crowd as you could ever imagine. Sailboats and yachts drifted past and the sunlight glinted off the waters. People spoke gently or not at all, tipping their faces to the sun in silence. And just when we thought it could get no better, the strumming of a guitar signalled a series of melodic acoustic numbers that melted seamlessly into the surrounds.

The Stockholm archipelago comprises an astonishing 24,000 islands, with the capital itself spread over 14. Tourists naturally head to the latter to enjoy the charms of this peaceful and classy urban space but a journey into the farther reaches of the mysterious navy waters reveals a haven of Swedish utopia. Board the Waxholmsbolaget on a sunny summer day (May to September) and take your place among Swedes heading to their holiday homes. The ferry stops several times, offering fleeting glimpses of storybook wooden houses with verandas and trailing flowers.

An hour into the journey, we disembarked at Vaxholm and did a quick lap of the main town. The sun was scorching and the colours of the houses seared in reds, pinks and yellows. We took shelter under the umbrellas of a small café and enjoyed some traditional Swedish meatballs, lingonberries, pickled beetroot and cider. Venturing back into the burning sun we passed locals, small businesses and telephone boxes that would not have looked out of place in an early 20^th-century tale. The surrounds were so quintessentially perfect that my imagination ran wild as I wondered at the stories playing out behind the walls of the homes lining the gently inclining streets. We reached the harbour and people-watched, dodging energetic sea gulls and XS and XL dogs. Yachts circled blasting the dance music Sweden is known for, while others departed for isolated spots with the weekly shopping. We eventually moved on to a jetty jutting into the waters and spotted the beautiful café–garden that inspired this post.

The golden sunlight, impossibly beautiful Swedes and curious illusion of emptiness give Sweden something of a dreamlike quality. Strolling through the Djurgården island in central Stockholm on a Friday evening, there was not a soul to be found—until we turned a corner and stumbled upon a glitzy nightclub. This archipelago is magic in the way it fuses urban life and nature so effortlessly. The people are polite, fluent in English and among the happiest in the world according to the OECD’s Better Life Index. One taxi driver suggested it was because Swedes had been spared the misfortunes to have befallen many other countries. —Or because the people still make eye contact in the streets. Either way, it is surreal and fascinating.

Some experiences pass us by and vanish before ever forming memories while others remain in our minds in vivid colour. We may even realise mid-experience that it is something and absorb every detail, shoring up our memory bank for a rainy day.

With a cider in hand and the sun and sea at my back, last Sunday afternoon at Vaxholms Hembygdsgårds Café was the standout memory of a wonderful stay in Stockholm; a memory to light up a dark winter’s day with the welcome promise of Swedish utopia.

Tweet Pin It Now!

City of Lights ©

As I leave Paris the City of Light

I leave behind the light of these glorious summer days

When the sun burns away the traces of winter

And all is left is lazy park days

Refuge in the shade

And the light of those summer evenings

The twlight

When all is magic and maybes

The best time of day

I leave behind the twinkling Eiffel Tower

A beacon in the night

Reflections in the Seine

Of quayside life

And the light of an autumn day

Golden like the leaves

The muted shades of winter

When all is bright white

In Paris the City of Light

Tweet Pin It Now!

The Ones Left Behind ©

 Standing tall on Liverpool’s famous waterfront lies the majestic Royal Liver Building, crowned by two enormous birds. Legend has it that one of the Liver Birds looks out to sea keeping watch over its prosperity, while the other turns inland, a protector of the people. The mythical Liver Bird is the unlikely protagonist in myriad legends of romantic intrigue but to most, the lofty bird is the symbol of Liverpool. Erected in 1911, the birds have stood tall during triumph and disaster, the years stripping the shiny copper finish but not the immense 18-foot structure. A century on, the noble form of the birds silhouetted against the Liverpool skyline speaks of pride and resilience.

Today marks the 25^th anniversary of the Hillsborough disaster. And with the new inquests underway, it’s once again making news headlines around the world. As the days go by, more and more personal tributes flood in, giving faces and identities to each of the 96. This does not make easy reading – 78 of those to die were under the age of 30 and many left spouses and young children behind. And yet it is wonderful to honour these people, taken before their time, in the pursuit of something they loved.

I hesitated before writing this post. This is my third Hillsborough tribute and I wasn’t sure I had anything new to say. However as the inquests began, I realized that my focus had shifted to the families of the 96, the survivors, and all those left behind. The story of the hundreds if not thousands of campaigners who have spent the past 25 years in pursuit of that most fundamental commodity: justice. As Hillsborough was not an accident. Hillsborough was a catalogue of errors, negligence and contempt resulting in carnage. But the disaster that took place on 15 April 1989 was sadly only the beginning of the tragedy. As the cover up which later emerged was so watertight and slick an operation that attempts to seek the truth were batted away with ease. The ordinary public took a sceptical stance – after all, what the families pleaded was so improbable, and the unjust reputation of football fans as drunken hooligans did nothing to strengthen the case. The senseless cruelty of loss was thus compounded by suspicion and damaging slurs.

On 19 April 1989, as that notorious headline first hit newsstands, the Anfield dawn was laced with the scent of a million flowers, lying in silent tribute. The visual impact of those scarves and flowers was startling. Kenny Dalglish claimed it was “the saddest and most beautiful” thing he had ever seen. A haunting show of solidarity in the face of blackness; a theme that would continue over the years. But if the families and campaigners had known of the long road ahead on that cold Wednesday morning, the hopelessness may have defeated them. For it would take 23 years for the light to break free.

15 April 1989: The worst stadium-related disaster in British history as (an eventual) 96 Liverpool fans were crushed to death and hundreds more seriously injured.

19 April 1989: The sun publishes infamous front page article entitled ‘The Truth’, accusing fans of attacking and urinating on police officers and pick-pocketing the dead.

January 1990: The Taylor Report judged failure of police control to be the main reason for the disaster.

March 1991: A verdict of accidental death is returned at the inquests, ruling that all supporters were dead by 3.15 p.m. in spite of claims to the contrary.

August 1998: Home Secretary Jack Straw rules out a new inquiry, while the Hillsborough Family Support Group brings private manslaughter charges against the men in charge on that day: Chief Superintendent David Duckenfield and his deputy, Superintendent Bernard Murray.

July 2000: At the end of a six-week trial, Mr Murray is found not guilty of manslaughter while the jury fails to reach a verdict on Mr Duckenfield. The judge refuses a retrial, ruling that a fair trial for Mr Duckenfield would be impossible.

~~~

As one decade and then two crept by, the families were staunch in their fight for justice. But what about behind the scenes? How much happiness was lost? How much simple contentment was tinged with the bitterness of injustice? How many families buckled under the strain and how many survivors struggled with feelings of trauma and guilt? Cries of 'Justice for the 96' rose regularly from the stands and those in possession of the truth aired it with passion. And yet door after door was slammed in the faces of families and campaigners, key documents languished under a veil of deception and Tony Blair dismissed the case with the simple scrawl of 'what’s the point?' When the breakthrough came in 2012, the sense of triumph was overwhelming. Margaret Aspinall’s rousing, heartfelt speeches and Sheila Coleman’s impassioned words were as moving as they were awe-inspiring. And who could forget the steel in Anne Williams’ voice as she claimed, 'I will never go away'. Time sadly did run out for Anne who passed away last year, but not before she saw the light at the end of the tunnel. The bravery and sheer dignity shown by the Hillsborough families is incredible. They are an example to us all.

~~~

April 2009: The Hillsborough Independent Panel is set up following government minister Andy Burnham’s call for previously unreleased documents relating to the disaster to be released.

September 2012: After a long inquiry, the Hillsborough Independent Panel report finds that police orchestrated a cover-up, altered documents and blamed innocent supporters for the disaster. The document states that 41 lives could have been saved and absolves fans of any wrongdoing.

March 2014: New inquests into the disaster begin in Warrington. The inquests are expected to last nine months.

Hillsborough and the Justice campaign are examples of the darkness and light inherent to life. It is a saga that moves like nothing I have ever encountered. As a mourning Merseyside laid scarves and flowers, grown men sobbed. That people could die while part of something so joyful was perverse. Everybody knew somebody suffering at the hands of this unnecessary tragedy. And the years may have passed but the suffering did not. There was the devastation recorded in the newspapers and then the private devastation that was never aired. The type that keeps you awake in the dead of night and casts your life in grey. Too many tears have been shed in the hours since those cars, buses and trains set out for Sheffield. Tears of loss and abandonment. Tears of anger and frustration. Tears of wonder at the bravery shown by these exceptional people who would not give up.

The families of Hillsborough have long been admired on Merseyside. They were collectively named the Greatest Merseysider of All Time in a 2014 Liverpool Echo Poll; the annual memorial service is always packed to the rafters; and Justice for the 96 stickers can be found as far away as Australia as fans seek to spread the message. But since the revelations of September 2012, the world has stood in recognition. The Hillsborough charity single was the 2012 Christmas number one and Anne Williams was honoured at the 2013 BBC Sport’s Personality of the Year awards for her incredible commitment to uncovering the truth of what happened to her son Kevin. 'They're wearing me down,’ she had said. ‘But I'll wear them down before they wear me down’. And that she did.

~~~

It’s been a long road but the end is in sight. A spirit of optimism can be felt around Merseyside. The tide has turned and the truth is out. The 96 are being recognized as the men, women and children they were – a most basic right. And as we take our hats off to them, we turn to their mothers, fathers, brothers, sisters, husbands, wives, sons, daughters, grandchildren, grandparents and friends and honour them too. The people who affirmed, 'we will never go away – until we find Justice for the 96'.

~~~

And as the salty tears of Hillsborough washed over the land, the Liver Birds stood tall, as did the city: strong, resilient, protectors of the people.

Tweet Pin It Now!

Wanderlust ©

Wanderlust

[MASS NOUN]

a strong desire to travel: a man consumed by wanderlust

What a great word that is. It has the spirit of adventure to it. Utter it and you can almost picture Christopher Columbus navigating high seas or the buccaneering Hiram Bingham storming his way through the dense Andean jungle. The French translation “envie de voyager” or “desire to travel” lacks the passion and poetry contained within that one word: wanderlust.

As a child I wasn’t consumed with a desire to see the world. In fact my world was the typically narrow one of a child and it was reading that I turned to to satisfy my appetite for adventure. Family holidays took place in Spain, Turkey and Greece in holiday resorts and the big wide world didn’t really exist for me. Until I heard of gap years that was. Back then, the gap year wasn’t too common and only for the fact that I stumbled across a copy of a gap year brochure, am I writing this now. But once the idea of visiting Argentina entered my head, I couldn’t really shake it. One thing led to another and before you knew it, I was in Heathrow airport with a horde of strangers at my side, passport in hand and a 24-hour journey to Andean Argentina ahead of me.

Let me stress that I was as far from the intrepid traveler as you could get. As a young 18 year-old, I had virtually no experience outside the classroom and the homes of family and friends. But over the next five months, something shifted in me. My youth and inexperience gave the trip a sharp and fleeting sweetness that I’ve been seeking ever since. It wasn’t plain sailing but somewhere between the bus rides to work, the newly formed friendships and my fledgling Spanish, I fell in love with Argentina. I learned to my surprise that I liked the tactile way the people would reach out to you. That I enjoyed being the centre of attention when it was kind-hearted and curious. That you didn’t have to earn friendship by being the funniest or the coolest – the people there offered it for free. I learned that all experiences are good experiences in the end. And finally, that passion and warmth are two of my favourite qualities in a person.

I returned to the UK a changed person with renewed interest in the world and a hefty dose of idealism that I’ve had to water down over the years. But those were my formative years and my opinions have remained essentially the same ever since. In the past ten years, my appetite for travel has taken me to France, Spain, Iceland, Portugal, Italy, Morocco, Switzerland, the USA, Belgium, Holland, Sweden and back to where it all started, but I’ve never quite managed to recapture the heady feelings of my early days in small-town Argentina.

These days I am consumed by wanderlust. I look out the window and imagine myself zooming down an American highway on the way somewhere… in this sense there’s a bittersweet edge to wanderlust – that idea of seeking ‘a great perhaps’, the rainbow’s gold. Or maybe it’s just that once you’ve whetted your appetite and experienced the freedom offered by extended travel, you realize the limitations of staying in one place. And yet the idea that homesickness cannot take up residence within one consumed by wanderlust is false. That is the great irony.

As I sit here now, my beloved passport is about to expire and so comes the end of an era. The gold crest on the cover is no more and the whole thing has the ragged, worn appearance of a well-loved teddy bear. One that you should throw away, but you can’t because of the memories. Those stamps represent a time when the number one concern was how many places we could fit into six weeks’ travel. A time where a passport was all you needed in life.

It may be that nothing will ever match Argentina 2004. Maybe it shouldn’t. Maybe once-in-a-lifetime trips are just that. But I’ll keep looking! I’ve got a lot of blank pages to fill.

Tweet Pin It Now!

Aboard the Bernina Express ©

Shortly after the announcement that we would soon be crossing the famous Landwasser viaduct, I dived across the train and hung out the open window as we rushed over the spindly bridge towards the opening in the mountainside. The wind roared in my face and I felt quite the intrepid explorer as I snapped the scarlet carriages curling their way across the tracks. It was Friday afternoon and my friend and I were travelling towards Poschiavo, a small Italian-speaking town in the farther reaches of the Graubunden canton. Starting out in Basel, we had already passed through Zurich but it was the enigmatic face of Switzerland that was beckoning this time. Lakes lined the tracks and the Alps reared up in the distance cradling tiny villages miles from civilisation as the little red train crept on.
 
World-famous, the Bernina Express route is a Unesco World Heritage site and the stunning viaduct is, quite literally, one of the high points of this magnificent journey. Passing at high-altitude through forestland, snow-capped mountains and stretches of icy blue water, this is considered by some to be the number one train route in the world. Connecting Chur with Torino in Italy, the four and a half-hour trip is best enjoyed through the enormous curved windows of the panoramic carriages stretching up into the roofs of the trains, affording unbroken views of the surrounding landscape. Red as a London bus, the Bernina Express is an incongruous sight at the heart of such unspoilt beauty but as its carriages twist and turn, coiling across the land, it is clear that it works with rather than against the natural splendour.

It was a crisp Saturday afternoon in early November but snow blanketed the earth and the sky hung low in matching white. Our train stopped for five minutes at an isolated station where we spied a wood cabin overlooking the tracks. So removed from civilisation was the scene, it was easy to let my imagination run wild as I pictured the occupant of the cabin clad in fur battling four-legged beasts and other mystical creations in a Game of Thrones-style spectacle. Shortly afterwards, the shocking emerald green waters of the lake caused quite a stir among passengers who scurried about the carriage, noses and cameras pressed up against the glass, gaping in wonder.

I’ve long loved trains. Their far-flung destinations kindle in me the spirit of adventure and the old worldy glamour of the Orient Express and other luxury trains hint at sophistication and utter relaxation. The Bernina Express was high up on my holiday wishlist and it didn’t disappoint. Relaxation, however, is impossible if you’re anything like me and apt to leap up with your camera at the slightest provocation. It’s also very expensive and although the elongated windows of the panoramic carriages are undeniably impressive, the standard carriages are much cheaper with essentially the same view (if you ignore the disgruntled sighs of your fellow passengers, you might even pull the windows down at strategic moments).

Built over 100 years ago, the Bernina Express route is an incredible feat scaling mountains and gently bringing us face to face with the authenticity of this beautiful but isolated part of the world. In the age of stress, a trip into nothingness aboard the little red train is the perfect remedy.

For more information, click here

Tweet Pin It Now!

Shutterbug ©

I’ve got really into photography over the past couple of years. I remember looking at the photos of some Facebook friends and being amazed at the quality and professionalism. Some of these photos weren’t even photos to me but works of art. I believe that good photography really can stir up emotions as the photographer decides what they wish to evoke and little things like the lighting, the people caught “accidentally” in the background and the tone of the photo all contribute to the end result. When I compared my own uninspired photos to theirs, they seemed a million miles away but then a close friend of mine started “One a Day”: an album of everyday objects and scenes with the intention of seeing the magic in the ordinary and unleashing latent creativity. I loved the concept and began one of my own and it didn’t take long before I became accustomed to seeing everyday life through my own personal lens.

Since then, I have changed camera several times, moved away from Auto mode into myriad and sometimes baffling settings and begun to take much more of interest in photography as a hobby. I have also become passionate about the very act of photo taking and I often find myself rushing impatiently towards the scene of a photograph, anxious to get started. Through a combination of intelligent cameras, diligence and the inspiring photos of others, I have begun to take photos that I feel proud of and am continually amazed what our cameras are capable of if we really use them to their full potential.

I’m now considering a photography course to get to grips with the technical side of my DSLR and start taking people photos, something I’ve always shied away from before due to the trial and error approach I usually adopt. Trial and error is, however, a great way of finding out what works and what doesn’t. Here are some of the most useful things I have picked up over the past couple of years:

1)   How good is your camera? I’ve laughed with some friends over the past couple of weeks discussing how horrendous we’ve looked in certain people’s photos. We’ve all been there. We’re tagged on Facebook, we click with trepidation and are greeted with a less-than-flattering picture from a night out where we thought we looked nice.  Fear no more. It’s not you – it’s the camera! Good cameras have settings that are designed to flatter rather than deform, and they’re not even particularly expensive. I swear by my little Canon Ixus that I purchased a few years ago for around £120 on Amazon.

2)   The settings are crucial. Even inexpensive cameras take excellent photos these days but the Auto setting is only ever going to take what’s in front of you in the cold light of day with nothing to highlight or soften. Explore the settings, however, and you will be surprised at the difference it makes. My Ixus has a brilliant setting where you can highlight or accent one colour and turn the rest of the photo to black and white; this was a great feature to have when photographing London buses or New York cabs. The miniature setting which softens is also great for taking the edge off of a harsh scene. Other settings include black and white, super vivid and nighttime.

3)   Is it straight? It sounds basic but when I look a lot of my worst photos, they’re completely wonky which distracts the person viewing the picture. If you have a flash camera or photo editing software, this can be edited afterwards but either way, before publishing a photo, check how straight it is.

4)   In the same vein, when you look through your lens, what does the scene look like? Is there a dustbin or some other eyesore on the edge of your photo? Has someone hijacked it? Is a huge expanse of grey sky or concrete visible in the photo? If so, zoom, wait until the scene is clear, re-focus and take it again!

5)   Photo editing software may sound like a cheat and maybe it is but it’s amazing what a difference it makes to photos and in all honesty, how likely is it that professional photographers send a photo to a client without fiddling with it beforehand? There is always something that can be corrected and since I’ve started using iPhoto I’ve had a lot of fun altering the colours and changing the tone and feel of my photos. Again, I don’t really know what I’m doing and it’s all trial and error but it is an excellent tool.

These days with fantastic phone cameras, Instagram, Facebook, Twitter, Pinterest and the like, everyone is documenting their lives and people are taking much more of an interest in photography. While Instagram has its critics, I think anything that encourages people to experiment with their creativity is great and I’m sure many an amateur photographer will turn professional thanks to their exposure on social media.

Happy clicking shutterbugs!

Tweet Pin It Now!