A Belated Farewell
I want to know who you are
For every second we outrun the moon, dread the sun come up
I want to know who you are
So I don't have to check my stuff's still here when you're gone
I want to know who you are
Why Do We Buy Stuff?
Why do we buy stuff?
Why do I have ten+ bags of coffee in my cupboard?
A kilo of it won’t even be ready to drink for close to a month. And yet—there it is. In fancy packaging, muted aromas drifting through those one-way CO₂ valves.
The Circle of Beans
My brown baby beans. Born from the earth, nourished, picked, roasted, posted, rested, boiled, sipped and swallowed—and soon enough, making their way back to the earth via the sewerage system. Or, as it's summer, perhaps via the hedge and soil of a stranger’s garden, courtesy of Yours Truly in the throes of an alcohol-fuelled binge.
These are getting rarer and rarer these days though so neither the police nor neurotic hedge-owners in South Manchester should be on high alert..
North Manchester? No comment.
Oasis are playing this and next weekend, and with 500,000 fans descending on the northern reaches of the city—hungry for nostalgia, booze, mind-altering drugs, and general good times—well… all bets are off.
Coffee, Capitalism, and Comfort
But let’s not forget the coffee. It deserves its own tribute.
Bags of some of the best coffee known to the human race, readily available at around £1 a cup if brewed at home. Each batch takes its time, going through some arbitrary gestation before it’s finally ready to drink.
Two cups a day. Shipped to my home from Colombia via Canada in just a few days. A surprisingly complex but well-oiled machine, all designed to separate me from my cash and stimulate my nervous system just enough to keep me from falling asleep at my desk—or on the sofa.
The Silent Instruments
And the three guitars (one cased, my first) and pedals strewn across the rug in my room—what of them?
Dead silent for now. Quietly menacing when the red eye of the amplifier flickers on—not unlike the Terminator. For the moment they lie dormant, dead skin accumulating on the strings until they’re replaced by one of the many packs in my guitar drawer. Yet more stuff.
After the Fire
What if it all burned down today?
They would wake me up from sedation with commodity coffee, and maybe I would laugh at them as the liquid burns my hand through the thin plastic of the cup. Maybe I would keep laughing until they sedated me again, the caffeine of their garbage coffee not withstanding a powerful dose of benzodiazepines.
Or maybe I’d just get on with life. After the inconvenience, after the chaos, a year later things might feel eerily back to normal.
Would I rebuy everything?
Maybe.
The One I Wouldn’t Replace
One thing I wouldn’t rebuy—at least not with the insurance company’s money—is my beloved, departed Fujifilm X70. Right—this is meant to be about a camera, not coffee hoarding or hedge urination. So, to refocus: it was the first “real” camera I ever owned.
A YouTuber I follow has a strict one-camera-in, one-camera-out policy. There’s a lot of sense in that. You can only shoot with one at a time, after all. Even if you’re a wedding photographer, two are probably enough—one for the day, one for backup. Or maybe two for the day, two focal lengths, twice as many sweets.
But logic? That’s a funny thing when it comes to gear. Show me a man who’s truly logical about his collecting, and I’ll show you a liar. We’re all swimming in bullshit, maybe more than anyone on this rock.
So why did I sell it, then? My first camera. The one that started it all.
Why do we sell anything? Why do we leave our jobs, our partners, our friends?
Romance is dead and done.
What Made the X70 Special
For anyone unfamiliar with the X70 (you can see it in the photo above), it’s a small fixed-lens camera—around a 28mm equivalent—with a 2.8 aperture and a built-in flash. Not the most pocketable camera in the world, but with a winter coat? Absolutely an everyday carry.
It had one of Fuji’s early sensors—less clinical, with gorgeous colours and a more filmic rendering than many newer digital cameras. The leaf shutter sealed the deal. For a lot of people, it was the perfect street camera.
As much joy as it initially brought me—and as much as it taught me about how to actually use a camera—it was also a practical first step. It had the dials: aperture, shutter speed, exposure compensation. I believe the focus ring could even be assigned to ISO (though I never needed that).
How I Got There
I’d been looking for something like this—small footprint, modest price—because I wasn’t sure how long this photography thing would last. I’d been shooting with my phone for six months at roughly the same focal length. After a while, I borrowed my sister’s DSLR. I’d been liking some of the photos I was taking with the phone, but the image quality just wasn’t there—and, with hindsight, neither was the experience.
The DSLR didn’t fare much better in that regard. It’s the only one I’ve ever used, and compared to mirrorless, it felt pretty joyless. A revolution in digital photography that arrived slowly, and then—like a wave crashing down on a hapless surfer—swept the DSLR era out to sea.
Decision made: ditch the DSLR. Ditch the phone.
Betting on the Ricoh
I initially leaned toward the Ricoh GR—it was the “street camera,” with a loyal cult following and a reputation forged in blog posts, YouTube rants, and grainy shots of strangers in crosswalks. The Fuji, by contrast, had a more muddled identity. Some people swore by it, others seemed unsure. Was it a proper street camera? Or just a nice little thing Fuji made once and quietly forgot about?
Still, I pushed my chips forward and called the bet—“put it all on red.” I placed a bid on a Ricoh GR on eBay—and won. Victory was in sight. The camera was just days away, and I was already playing out the walks I’d take, the shots I’d land, the feel of it resting in my hand.
The Pivot to Fuji
And then… silence.
The seller cancelled the order. No explanation. Just gone.
I stared at the screen in disbelief—somewhere between crushed and weirdly resigned. A dream, killed by a stranger on the internet.
But then, as if on cue, a Fuji X70 popped up on eBay.
I pivoted. Somewhat reluctantly… I bought it.
Not without disappointment—but not without curiosity, either.
First Impressions
That all changed a few days later when it arrived.
Built like a tank, with its magnesium alloy body, the Fuji made a strong first impression. I took it to a friend’s house—she’s a photographer too—and she showed me a couple of things to get started. The next day, I brought it out onto the streets.
A New Way of Seeing
Shooting with a real camera, as opposed to the stealth of a phone, was a completely different experience. Even compared to my sister’s DSLR, it was night and day. Those DSLR lenses were longer—more distance between me and the subject. But with the Fuji’s 28mm equivalent, there was nowhere to hide.
The saving grace—and the one thing it really had over the Ricoh in terms of specs—was the tiltable screen. It let you shoot from the hip, adding a layer of discretion that made all the difference. Without it, those first few outings would’ve been a lot tougher.
The First Frame
Even so, on that first day I only took a handful of frames. One of them, snapped on the way from work to the tram stop, is the photo below. I didn’t think much of it at the time. Barely registered. But in retrospect? Not a bad early shot.
I didn’t post it for ages—until a friend told me she really liked it. The reaction on Instagram was insane. I mean, by my standards back then, it blew up. Honestly? Even by today’s standards, it got about three times the likes I usually get.
Early photo from the x70
What My First Camera Taught Me (Farewell, Fuji X70)
The major thing the X70 gave me was its colour rendering. You could take the JPEGs straight out of camera with no real adjustments—just exposure or contrast to taste. The colours just looked great. (see below photos, I stress early photos!)
Years later, I bought a Ricoh, and while its colours weren’t bad, they didn’t quite reach the Fuji’s level. During the time I owned both, I saw the Ricoh more as a black-and-white machine. It had the edge in form factor, but the Fuji had soul.
Learning With My Hands
I really enjoyed using the dials on the Fuji. As a beginner with only a basic understanding of the exposure triangle, having physical controls made things click—literally and mentally. I could see what I was doing. It felt more intentional. More hands-on. It helped me take ownership of the process and build muscle memory early.
Since I got it in winter, the camera’s compact form factor was a real benefit. As I mentioned earlier, it was just the right size to slip into a winter coat pocket—though, with its magnesium body, you definitely felt the weight. Not quite a set of keys — it had the heft of something built to survive a small war. I didn’t want to carry a man bag everywhere, so this was the perfect compromise between functionality and convenience.
Establishing the Habit
That first year of shooting was crucial for me in two ways: first, it instilled the habit of carrying a camera at all times; second, it showed me how easily photography could be integrated into everyday life.
Whether I was in town for work or meeting friends, the X70 meant that if I saw something worth shooting, I had a camera on me that could do it justice. And as I started making friends in local photography circles, that became even more important. If someone DM’d me a spontaneous invite for a photo walk, I didn’t have to hesitate—I had my camera, always.
Sure, I could’ve just turned up with a phone, but it’s not quite the same. There’s something more intentional—more unifying—when both of you are carrying dedicated cameras. Phone in pocket, both hands on your gear. It says, “We’re doing this properly.”
At the time, I was in the office full-time. On my lunch breaks, I could wander and shoot. After work, same thing. In those days, I was very aware I was carrying a “real” camera—something that, post-smartphone revolution, made me feel a bit anachronistic. Slowly, that self-consciousness faded.
Being in a big city helped. Cameras weren’t that unusual—tourists carried them, and street photography was having a bit of a renaissance (a wave that continues to this day). Eventually, I didn’t feel like I stood out at all.
The 28mm Dilemma
That 28mm equivalent lens was both a blessing and a curse. On one hand, it forced me into the world of proper street photography—close, intimate, often awkward. On the other, I hadn’t built the confidence to get right in people’s faces, and my friends were all shooting with longer lenses. Trying to learn from their compositions often meant I had to get much closer than they did.
It was exhausting. The social discomfort, the need to be ready for questions—or confrontation. It takes a toll.
So I balanced it out. More cityscapes. More sunsets. More architecture. Stuff I was never amazing at, and it never gave me the same buzz as street—but it helped. It rounded me out as a photographer. You have to try it all to understand your gear, your preferences, and where you want to specialise.
A Novice’s Journey
By the end of that first year, I was gravitating hard toward street photography. But the X70 had its limitations: a fixed wide lens, poor low-light performance (a deal-breaker for someone now obsessed with colour), and a fairly sluggish autofocus.
A friend had a Fuji X-T2, and that inspired me to get its baby brother—the X-T20, paired with a 50mm equivalent lens.
At first, that focal length flummoxed me. It felt so zoomed in compared to the 28mm I was used to. But I adapted quickly. Before long, the X70 was gathering dust.
The Years After
I kept the X70 for years, using it occasionally—especially after picking up a Ricoh GR II just before the pandemic. The Ricoh was even more portable and became a loyal walking partner during those strange, gloriously warm, yet lonely early spring days of the pandemic.
Still, I never fully gelled with the 28mm focal length—it always felt a bit awkward. And with the Ricoh’s non-analog controls, I was constantly second-guessing which dial adjusted which part of the exposure triangle.
The Ricoh was ultimately sold not long after. As much as I’d originally wanted it—and as well as it performed as a dedicated street camera—it never quite clicked for me. It wasn’t great at much beyond street.
Even after stepping up to a Fuji X-T3—a true “professional” camera—and really committing to this weird niche of photography, the X70 stayed in rotation. I used it for a short-lived documentary project on my local area (maybe I’ll write about that one day). But in the end, I kept coming back to the same equation: portability vs. image quality and versatility.
And the X70 didn’t quite have enough of either.
(Some early X70 street photos below)
The Rise of Fuji Fever
Eventually, it wasn’t just me and a small cult of photographers worshipping Fujifilm. A viral TikTok trend sent the X100 series—especially the X100V—into the stratosphere. Sellouts. eBay bidding wars. “Fuji” became synonymous with a fun, analog-style experience for hobbyists, content creators, and even pros.
Prices soared across the board—even for older models like mine.
At that point, I owned three cameras. The X70 was sitting unused. I’d always thought I’d keep my first camera forever. But if I was honest, the X-T20 had become my “real” first camera. That’s where the bond had formed. That’s where the bulk of my Lightroom catalogue lives when the output of those two cameras are compared..
So I listed the X70 on eBay—and got double what I’d paid for it.
A hell of an investment, all things considered.
The money? A bonus. But the lessons—those were priceless. The X70 taught me how to see light, how to expose a photo manually, how to recognise when to shoot and when to wait. It taught me the value of always being ready, and of carving space for creativity within an everyday routine.
So Long, and Thanks for the Photos
So this article is a tribute—to the camera that taught me about colour, settings, and the very idea of an everyday carry. It helped me overcome my reluctance to bring a camera everywhere, a resistance now replaced by a dedicated backpack that’s always with me (plus a book, in case I’m not in the mood to shoot).
It’s been nearly a year since I sold the Fuji. Do I have regrets?
Sometimes—slightly. You only get one first camera in the truest sense. That can’t be recreated. I’m not unsentimental—I still own my first guitar, and always will. But I think it’s better someone else gets to enjoy the X70 while it’s still relevant. I hope it’s gone to a good home.
Ultimately, I think I made the right call. As good a servant as it was, I never fully bonded with it. But it was the right camera at the right time.
Your Turn
Given the subject—and the wave of nostalgia it’s stirred—I’d love to hear your stories. What was your first camera? What did it teach you? Maybe that’s a future blog post in itself.
As for mine… well, it’s gone now. But not really. The photos are still here. The lessons too. That camera gave me a way in—and I’m still walking through the door it opened.
So—farewell, X70.
And thank you.
