At the Edge of Eternity
I was watching young Henry Turner on YouTube recently, who was bursting with rampant enthusiasm as usual. I don't know what he's taking, but I often wonder whether it's available on prescription from the local branch of Boots. I'll never forget the recording of his first visit to Luskentyre on the Isle of Harris, when he wept with joy on arriving there. I felt quite emotional too. I have a special fondness for Henry, at least in part because he's roughly the same age as my children. His sheer zest for what he does shines through in just about every film he makes, although on this occasion our young charge confessed that even he struggles at times. We all go through those phases when the creative juices seize and congeal into moribund clots, refusing to budge one way or the other as in soft alarm we wonder what's gone wrong and whether the sense of creative flow will ever return. Henry said that whenever he feels that way, he either chooses somewhere he feels comfortable, such as his local woodland, or somewhere epic on a grand scale. For him that's the Lake District, Snowdonia or the Scottish Highlands at a push.
Henry's offering came to mind as I sat here on a cold Saturday afternoon recently. A family gathering had prevented my arrival until just an hour before sunset, and as soon as I was able I jumped in the car and headed west towards the Edge of Eternity where the Atlantic stretches almost endlessly away to distant Newfoundland on the east cost of Canada. Another hour to stand and stare at the timeless vista would have gone down well, but as I watched, it struck me that I was in a familiar place where I felt comfortable, that also happened to have the grand scale appeal. And if the notion hadn't dawned on me before, I realised that when you live in a place like this, you have less excuse to be uninspired than you otherwise might. It's a composition I've shot several times before, but never on such a long exposure, something I save for calm seas from time to time. Gradually, as the golden hour arrived and went, a band of soft orange formed between the complimentary blues. From here you can pixel peep into the distance and see Longships Lighthouse and its collection of rockly islets, 1.4 miles from the tip of Land's End. Look beyond that and you might just make out the form of the lonely Wolf Rock Lighthouse, 9 miles from the coast. Quite how they were constructed in such remote locations surrounded by the notorious ocean swells is a testimony to those brave souls who put them there. On clear days you can add the Isles of Scilly to your clifftop panorama, 28 miles from the mainland, floating like distant ships on the horizon. We've even witnessed a pod of festive dolphins lazily tracing the coastline below us one Christmas a few years ago. The remoteness of the place means you'll often have it entirely to yourself, especially on winter afternoons. As long as you don't disappear over the edge of the cliffs a wondrous time is guaranteed, and taking shots here is as easy as stealing sweets from small children - not that I've ever done that of course - although I did used to demand a levy from my own offspring before they dived into their goody bags, just to preserve their shiny teeth you understand.
It's been a strange few weeks, with family commitments meaning I haven't had quite as much free time as I was expecting when I hung up my abacus for good at the end of September. Lee and I have been managing to escape with our cameras now and again, although my failure to capture what passes for autumn around here has been disappointing to say the least. Next week will bring what will almost certainly be my final attempts among the late seasonal golds and oranges, after which it will probably be coast, coast, coast all the way through to springtime. At least I've half an idea of what I'm doing at the coast, and when it's both familiar and epic, I really ought to get a shot or two worth sharing.
At the Edge of Eternity
I was watching young Henry Turner on YouTube recently, who was bursting with rampant enthusiasm as usual. I don't know what he's taking, but I often wonder whether it's available on prescription from the local branch of Boots. I'll never forget the recording of his first visit to Luskentyre on the Isle of Harris, when he wept with joy on arriving there. I felt quite emotional too. I have a special fondness for Henry, at least in part because he's roughly the same age as my children. His sheer zest for what he does shines through in just about every film he makes, although on this occasion our young charge confessed that even he struggles at times. We all go through those phases when the creative juices seize and congeal into moribund clots, refusing to budge one way or the other as in soft alarm we wonder what's gone wrong and whether the sense of creative flow will ever return. Henry said that whenever he feels that way, he either chooses somewhere he feels comfortable, such as his local woodland, or somewhere epic on a grand scale. For him that's the Lake District, Snowdonia or the Scottish Highlands at a push.
Henry's offering came to mind as I sat here on a cold Saturday afternoon recently. A family gathering had prevented my arrival until just an hour before sunset, and as soon as I was able I jumped in the car and headed west towards the Edge of Eternity where the Atlantic stretches almost endlessly away to distant Newfoundland on the east cost of Canada. Another hour to stand and stare at the timeless vista would have gone down well, but as I watched, it struck me that I was in a familiar place where I felt comfortable, that also happened to have the grand scale appeal. And if the notion hadn't dawned on me before, I realised that when you live in a place like this, you have less excuse to be uninspired than you otherwise might. It's a composition I've shot several times before, but never on such a long exposure, something I save for calm seas from time to time. Gradually, as the golden hour arrived and went, a band of soft orange formed between the complimentary blues. From here you can pixel peep into the distance and see Longships Lighthouse and its collection of rockly islets, 1.4 miles from the tip of Land's End. Look beyond that and you might just make out the form of the lonely Wolf Rock Lighthouse, 9 miles from the coast. Quite how they were constructed in such remote locations surrounded by the notorious ocean swells is a testimony to those brave souls who put them there. On clear days you can add the Isles of Scilly to your clifftop panorama, 28 miles from the mainland, floating like distant ships on the horizon. We've even witnessed a pod of festive dolphins lazily tracing the coastline below us one Christmas a few years ago. The remoteness of the place means you'll often have it entirely to yourself, especially on winter afternoons. As long as you don't disappear over the edge of the cliffs a wondrous time is guaranteed, and taking shots here is as easy as stealing sweets from small children - not that I've ever done that of course - although I did used to demand a levy from my own offspring before they dived into their goody bags, just to preserve their shiny teeth you understand.
It's been a strange few weeks, with family commitments meaning I haven't had quite as much free time as I was expecting when I hung up my abacus for good at the end of September. Lee and I have been managing to escape with our cameras now and again, although my failure to capture what passes for autumn around here has been disappointing to say the least. Next week will bring what will almost certainly be my final attempts among the late seasonal golds and oranges, after which it will probably be coast, coast, coast all the way through to springtime. At least I've half an idea of what I'm doing at the coast, and when it's both familiar and epic, I really ought to get a shot or two worth sharing.