Gwithian Bathed in Blue
"Did I tell you about the time I went to get your whisky glass engraved in town before you left?" Katie, it seemed had forgotten to share an anecdote with me up until now, and for some reason it had just come back to her more than four months later. "The lady who engraved it recognised your name - asked if you were a photographer. She said she follows you on Instagram and loves your moody seascapes."
It's always a delight to pop into my former workplace and catch up with my closest ex-colleagues over lunch, and as my totally indispensable right arm (and left arm too for that matter), Katie was the one who it was hardest to say goodbye to on that September Friday afternoon last year. Nowadays we meet up for lunch every couple of weeks or so, just so she can be sure I'm still alive, and just so I can be nosy about what's going on at Mission Control now that I'm just a dusty old memory to everyone else there. Being invited back to a mini gathering was especially rewarding, all the more so when I'd just been told that at least one person out there in the world recognised the name they were about to etch onto a brand new crystal tumbler and thought to themselves "photographer" and "moody seascapes," instead of "accountant" and "boring" before snoozing off gently for the rest of the shift. To my knowledge this was the first time it had happened, and for the remainder of the visit I had trouble squeezing my inflated head along narrow passageways. Later I heard that the Estates Team were busy applying filler at a height of roughly five feet and six inches above floor level to each side of the corridor I'd walked along just after receiving the accolade. I'm very easily pleased you know.
Another delight is that once my friends had made their excuses and returned to their desks I could simply drive off towards the coast (once I'd manage to shoehorn my head through the car door of course) and set the controls for the heart of Gwithian Beach. Doing this still feels indescribably liberating, and now that the winter evenings are finally beginning to creep out, spring waits in the wings, coughing noisily in an attempt to be invited to take over. I don't know about you, but by the time we get to February I no longer care how amazing the winter light is - I just want to feel the warm sun on my face again at last. My first ever summer of freedom beckons and I'm so eager to embrace sleepy afternoons in the garden pretending to work on the campervan from the comfort of my lounger with my eyes closed, listening to the contented hum of a cloud of busy insects going about their daily routines.
The regular visits to my favourite beach are often made with a clear purpose in mind. If the tide is low at sunset I usually want to break out the wide angle lens and point it towards the sand wherever I can find untouched patterns and textures. If the ocean is in a spicy mood I'll be down near the lighthouse trying to catch the moment the waves break extravagantly over the midground rocks. And if it's calm I might put the big stopper on the front of the lens and flatten out the sea and sky. Whatever the conditions, wherever the tide is, there's always a shot to be had. On this occasion though, I wasn't really sure what my plans were, but I was already out, and it seemed the obvious thing to do - throw the tripod and the bag into the car and see what happens later.
Today there was no such clarity of mission. I'd had a vague intention to return to a composition I'd tried a few years ago, from the clifftop to the east of the lighthouse, shooting back across the island towards the setting sun. I knew it was still too early in the season for the sun to be in the right place, and the PhotoPills planning widget on my phone made it abundantly clear that I was a month early. "But what the hell," I figured as I set off towards that distant cold clifftop, completely forgetting exactly how far it was from the car park. My relatively late arrival should have counselled me against the half hour trek, but it was one of those happy abandoned afternoons when the feet weren't listening to the brain and everything in between was half asleep anyway. Somehow, with less than half an hour to sunset I arrived at the vantage point, looked at the world in front of me and wondered what on earth I was thinking of. The composition lacked balance, with only Godrevy Island itself offsetting the land mass to the left. A strong wind was coming right towards me, carrying a blast of freezing rain, but followed by a dash of washed out light. I took the shot, reminded myself that I needed to wait until the middle of March, looked at my watch and headed back towards the spot where I keep on ending up at sunset at the moment. This spot:
www.flickr.com/photos/126574513@N04/51721959741/in/datepo...
I really like standing here watching the sunset, drinking tea from my thermos and attempting to pull a sharp image from the camera using a ten stop filter in the fading light. I took the same shot several times over, but my adventures at the far cliff had meant I'd missed the sunset sidelight on the lighthouse, and despite some interesting pink clouds in the sky, I didn't feel it was the most rewarding moment I'd spent here - not in a photography sense at any rate.
Finally I decided to wander back towards the car. Maybe the sky would turn pale pink behind me like it sometimes does on a clear winter evening. But at low tide there were too many distractions cluttering the beach. Slowly back to the car I wandered, content just to sit and watch the day turn into night from another favourite spot above the beach. And then I looked down to where I could see the last of the yellow light, surrounded by a world that had suddenly been painted in shades of blue, bouncing off the sand and back into the sky. Like a sailor enchanted by mermaids I clambered down the steps and over the rocks to a pristine beach. The curve of the Red River in its last few yards before the ocean, the ripples on the sand, the lights of Carbis Bay and St Ives across the bay and those reflections were utterly mesmerising, drawing me in and finding me planting the tripod onto the ground and reaching into the bag for the camera that one last time. Yet again I was amazed at how many different colours and moods this amazing beach brings into my life. And yet again I was amazed that in that entire three miles of sand at low tide, the only other people still out on the amazing beach were heading straight towards me, in the company of a pair of dogs. One was on a lead. It seemed the other was on a diet of caffeine and Lucozade tablets.
If you read my last post, you might think this was my reward for ranting about dog owners and paw prints on hitherto flawless beaches just a few hours earlier. And you'd probably be right. At least the owners apologised as Fido came racing straight towards me, scattering prints across the untouched vista in my viewfinder. For a second time in just over a week I groaned inwardly and swore quietly to myself, repositioning the tripod as I did. At least this time there was so much ground that even this overexcited Spaniel couldn't have decorated all of it. As the moment of disruption passed I chuckled quietly to myself and focussed my attentions on the view, starting at a perfect patch of ridges and ripples, surrounded by a million moats right in front of me. I looked at my watch. It was after 6pm and I was still on the beach taking photos. It seemed that winter was almost over at last. Not quite, but nearly. Bring on the insects and the sun loungers!
Gwithian Bathed in Blue
"Did I tell you about the time I went to get your whisky glass engraved in town before you left?" Katie, it seemed had forgotten to share an anecdote with me up until now, and for some reason it had just come back to her more than four months later. "The lady who engraved it recognised your name - asked if you were a photographer. She said she follows you on Instagram and loves your moody seascapes."
It's always a delight to pop into my former workplace and catch up with my closest ex-colleagues over lunch, and as my totally indispensable right arm (and left arm too for that matter), Katie was the one who it was hardest to say goodbye to on that September Friday afternoon last year. Nowadays we meet up for lunch every couple of weeks or so, just so she can be sure I'm still alive, and just so I can be nosy about what's going on at Mission Control now that I'm just a dusty old memory to everyone else there. Being invited back to a mini gathering was especially rewarding, all the more so when I'd just been told that at least one person out there in the world recognised the name they were about to etch onto a brand new crystal tumbler and thought to themselves "photographer" and "moody seascapes," instead of "accountant" and "boring" before snoozing off gently for the rest of the shift. To my knowledge this was the first time it had happened, and for the remainder of the visit I had trouble squeezing my inflated head along narrow passageways. Later I heard that the Estates Team were busy applying filler at a height of roughly five feet and six inches above floor level to each side of the corridor I'd walked along just after receiving the accolade. I'm very easily pleased you know.
Another delight is that once my friends had made their excuses and returned to their desks I could simply drive off towards the coast (once I'd manage to shoehorn my head through the car door of course) and set the controls for the heart of Gwithian Beach. Doing this still feels indescribably liberating, and now that the winter evenings are finally beginning to creep out, spring waits in the wings, coughing noisily in an attempt to be invited to take over. I don't know about you, but by the time we get to February I no longer care how amazing the winter light is - I just want to feel the warm sun on my face again at last. My first ever summer of freedom beckons and I'm so eager to embrace sleepy afternoons in the garden pretending to work on the campervan from the comfort of my lounger with my eyes closed, listening to the contented hum of a cloud of busy insects going about their daily routines.
The regular visits to my favourite beach are often made with a clear purpose in mind. If the tide is low at sunset I usually want to break out the wide angle lens and point it towards the sand wherever I can find untouched patterns and textures. If the ocean is in a spicy mood I'll be down near the lighthouse trying to catch the moment the waves break extravagantly over the midground rocks. And if it's calm I might put the big stopper on the front of the lens and flatten out the sea and sky. Whatever the conditions, wherever the tide is, there's always a shot to be had. On this occasion though, I wasn't really sure what my plans were, but I was already out, and it seemed the obvious thing to do - throw the tripod and the bag into the car and see what happens later.
Today there was no such clarity of mission. I'd had a vague intention to return to a composition I'd tried a few years ago, from the clifftop to the east of the lighthouse, shooting back across the island towards the setting sun. I knew it was still too early in the season for the sun to be in the right place, and the PhotoPills planning widget on my phone made it abundantly clear that I was a month early. "But what the hell," I figured as I set off towards that distant cold clifftop, completely forgetting exactly how far it was from the car park. My relatively late arrival should have counselled me against the half hour trek, but it was one of those happy abandoned afternoons when the feet weren't listening to the brain and everything in between was half asleep anyway. Somehow, with less than half an hour to sunset I arrived at the vantage point, looked at the world in front of me and wondered what on earth I was thinking of. The composition lacked balance, with only Godrevy Island itself offsetting the land mass to the left. A strong wind was coming right towards me, carrying a blast of freezing rain, but followed by a dash of washed out light. I took the shot, reminded myself that I needed to wait until the middle of March, looked at my watch and headed back towards the spot where I keep on ending up at sunset at the moment. This spot:
www.flickr.com/photos/126574513@N04/51721959741/in/datepo...
I really like standing here watching the sunset, drinking tea from my thermos and attempting to pull a sharp image from the camera using a ten stop filter in the fading light. I took the same shot several times over, but my adventures at the far cliff had meant I'd missed the sunset sidelight on the lighthouse, and despite some interesting pink clouds in the sky, I didn't feel it was the most rewarding moment I'd spent here - not in a photography sense at any rate.
Finally I decided to wander back towards the car. Maybe the sky would turn pale pink behind me like it sometimes does on a clear winter evening. But at low tide there were too many distractions cluttering the beach. Slowly back to the car I wandered, content just to sit and watch the day turn into night from another favourite spot above the beach. And then I looked down to where I could see the last of the yellow light, surrounded by a world that had suddenly been painted in shades of blue, bouncing off the sand and back into the sky. Like a sailor enchanted by mermaids I clambered down the steps and over the rocks to a pristine beach. The curve of the Red River in its last few yards before the ocean, the ripples on the sand, the lights of Carbis Bay and St Ives across the bay and those reflections were utterly mesmerising, drawing me in and finding me planting the tripod onto the ground and reaching into the bag for the camera that one last time. Yet again I was amazed at how many different colours and moods this amazing beach brings into my life. And yet again I was amazed that in that entire three miles of sand at low tide, the only other people still out on the amazing beach were heading straight towards me, in the company of a pair of dogs. One was on a lead. It seemed the other was on a diet of caffeine and Lucozade tablets.
If you read my last post, you might think this was my reward for ranting about dog owners and paw prints on hitherto flawless beaches just a few hours earlier. And you'd probably be right. At least the owners apologised as Fido came racing straight towards me, scattering prints across the untouched vista in my viewfinder. For a second time in just over a week I groaned inwardly and swore quietly to myself, repositioning the tripod as I did. At least this time there was so much ground that even this overexcited Spaniel couldn't have decorated all of it. As the moment of disruption passed I chuckled quietly to myself and focussed my attentions on the view, starting at a perfect patch of ridges and ripples, surrounded by a million moats right in front of me. I looked at my watch. It was after 6pm and I was still on the beach taking photos. It seemed that winter was almost over at last. Not quite, but nearly. Bring on the insects and the sun loungers!