Coming Full Circle with Medium Format Film

A first outing with the Mamiya 645 Pro at Ayrmer Cove

There’s a certain familiarity in going back to something you once knew well.

Before digital became my main way of working, I used a Mamiya 645E. That camera eventually gave way to newer tools, better sensors, and the convenience of digital. These days, the Fujifilm GFX is my main camera—and I genuinely love the files it produces. It suits how I work.

But recently, I felt the pull back towards film.

Not out of frustration with digital, and not for nostalgia either. More as a way to slow things down. To introduce a different rhythm into how I approach photography. Shooting 35mm on the Voigtländer Bessa R reminded me how enjoyable that process can be—manual, deliberate, imperfect. Medium format felt like the natural next step.

So I picked up a Mamiya 645 Pro with an 80mm Sekor lens and headed somewhere familiar: Ayrmer Cove.

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Familiar Ground

This wasn’t about chasing a portfolio image.

It was a test. A chance to iron out issues and, more importantly, to refamiliarise myself with 120 film. Loading medium format film is a completely different process to 35mm—more steps, more room for error, and less forgiving if you get it wrong.

That’s exactly why I chose a location I know well.

Ayrmer Cove is somewhere I’ve photographed many times. The compositions are already in my head. The way the light falls, how the tide shapes the scene—it’s all familiar enough that I didn’t need to think too hard about where to point the camera.

Instead, I could focus on how I was using it.

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Friction (and a Half Roll Lost)

It didn’t take long for things to go slightly wrong.

One of the quirks of the Mamiya 645 Pro system is its modular design. Mine came fitted with a motor drive—something I’ve never really felt the need for in landscape photography. It adds bulk, noise, and a layer of complexity that doesn’t really fit how I like to work.

Paired with that was a cable release.

Unfortunately, I hadn’t noticed it was set to lock.

So when I pressed it, the shutter fired… and didn’t stop.

The motor drive just kept going.

By the time I realised what was happening, I’d lost a good portion of the roll. Just like that.

It was frustrating, but also oddly fitting. A reminder that film doesn’t forgive carelessness. Every frame has weight to it—financially and creatively.

If anything, it reinforced why I prefer simpler setups. When funds allow, I’ll likely swap the motor drive for a manual crank. Slower, quieter, and more in keeping with how I want to shoot.

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Slowing Back Down

After that, things changed.

Not dramatically—but enough.

I became more aware. More deliberate. Each frame felt considered again, rather than assumed. With fewer exposures left, there’s a natural shift in mindset. You start to question whether a shot is worth taking at all.

That’s something film does well.

It doesn’t necessarily make you a better photographer—but it makes you more conscious of the decisions you’re making.

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A First Long Exposure on Film

One of the images from the roll ended up being a 42-second exposure—something I’d never really attempted on film before.

Years ago, I avoided long exposures entirely. Without a smartphone or a calculator to hand, anything that involved extended shutter times—and the complications that come with them—just felt like guesswork.

Film doesn’t behave the same way as digital during long exposures. As exposure times increase, the relationship between time and light becomes less predictable. This is known as reciprocity failure, where doubling the exposure time doesn’t necessarily double the amount of light recorded. In simple terms, you often need to expose for longer than you think.

This time, I gave it a go.

There’s something different about committing to a long exposure on film. With digital, you check the screen, adjust, and try again. With film, you make your best judgement—and wait.

No feedback. No correction.

Just the process.

The Reality of Film Scanning

One thing this shoot did highlight quite quickly is that I need to work on my film workflow—specifically scanning.

The scans I received back were, if I’m honest, a little disappointing. They came in at around 4700 × 3700 pixels, which is noticeably lower than what I’ve had from 35mm scans in the past—and it shows.

At that resolution, they’re perfectly usable for smaller prints. A4, even A3, would be absolutely fine. But it does make you question the point of shooting medium format in the first place when the final files don’t reflect the potential of the negative.

In fact, when I compare them to files from my 24MP mirrorless camera—or even scans from my 35mm rangefinder—the difference isn’t in favour of the medium format, which feels slightly backwards.

That’s not a limitation of the film, though. It’s the scanning.

In the short term, I’ll likely look at using a drum scanning service to properly see what these negatives are capable of. Longer term, I’m considering a home scanning setup using the Fujifilm GFX100S. That feels like a more controlled way to get consistent, high-resolution results.

Realistically, I think 120 film scans should be somewhere in the region of 50 to 100 megapixels to really do the format justice.

At the moment, I’m not quite there—but it’s all part of the process.

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Different, Not Better

Using the Mamiya again didn’t replace digital for me.

The GFX is still my main tool, and I have no intention of changing that. The files are beautiful, the workflow is efficient, and it fits how I work.

Film offers something else.

It’s not better. It’s not worse. Just different.

A different pace. A different mindset. A different relationship with the image-making process.

And perhaps that’s the real value in it.

Not the look. Not the gear. But the way it quietly changes how you see—even when you go back to digital.

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Closing Thought

This wasn’t a perfect shoot.

I lost half a roll of film to a simple mistake. I fumbled with the camera more than I expected. And I was reminded that film has its own set of challenges.

But that was never really the point.

Sometimes, returning to something familiar isn’t about getting it right.

It’s about remembering why you started in the first place.