Spring Tide at Dawn
Outside, the first streaks of daylight tapped quietly on the small living room window, announcing the arrival of morning. I'd set the alarm for a little before seven, and then again for a few minutes later in the knowledge that I'd probably fail to move at all. But it mattered not; I was already awake, summoned into conciousness at the prospect of taking the shot I coveted most from this brief visit to Somerset, a hundred and forty odd miles up the road from home. Today was the day that I might get one of those shots I'd envisioned in my mind's eye over and over again. A few weeks earlier I'd met a photographer from Somerset who'd made the opposite journey down to Cornwall and quizzed her on our chances. "It only happens on a spring tide," she said, as sitting a few yards apart we each gazed thoughtfully at the cobbles of Porth Nanven and the Brisons beyond. I nodded earnestly, shrugged and returned to my composition. I wasn't even really sure what elements were needed for a spring tide, and all I knew was that the term itself was a bit of a misnomer. I'd made a mental note to undertake some further research later.
With a few days before our own short trip to go, the Whatsapp group became a hotline of activity, as Dave became excited about the RSPB reserves on the Levels, and I introduced them to Thomas Heaton's YouTube offering on the petrified trees of Porlock Weir. I also decided it was time to educate myself on the subject of spring tides, which I soon learned were the highest tidal ranges of each lunar month, driven by a full moon. I ended up browsing a fishing website of all things, which gave a detailed forecast for the entire month of February before going on to show diagrams of the sun and moon in perfect alignment with the earth, at which point the white noise of science became to much for my limited attention span and I began browsing your pictures on this platform instead. But what I'd also noticed from my PhotoPills app was that the moon would be appearing in full during our visit, before turning into a waning gibbous at the weekend. I only mention this latter information because the phrase "waning gibbous" is mildly amusing to me. The charts on the site designed for anglers, those fellow yet distant creatures of solace confirmed that we could expect a spring tide during our stay, and for both the Thursday and the Friday morning at sunrise there was a chance that the lighthouse of Burnham on Sea might have its feet in the water. I'd been here four or five times before, each time hoping that the pools of standing water might be in fact an entire body of water. The good news was that our temporary home was ten minutes' walk away, but we'd have to get up early and keep our fingers crossed that the combining elements would produce the result we wanted. There was no certainty at all on this - you need to know a place well to fully understand its tides and moods, and the deadly Severn Estuary is a strange and mysterious beast to say the least. We prepared for success, knowing all the time that we might well be disappointed.
Somewhere around 6:30am, Lee and I headed off along the short footpath. Dave was somewhere behind, but this was no time to be waiting and we strode towards the dunes that hid the beach on the other side, more in hope than expectation. The pale blue sky was mixed with a faint pink band, and hanging distantly in the canopy was that cold full moon we'd needed. The tension increased as with every step up through the soft sand we drew closer to knowing whether we were about to be rewarded. And then we saw this. Even with half an hour to go before high tide the feet of the lighthouse were fully immersed, the high shoreline washing away thousands of footprints. Nobody else was around, not even anyone with a camera as we'd expected, and we bounded cheerfully towards our subject, immediately disappearing into our own moments and in my case, firing the shutter over and over again. In my pocket the phone buzzed - the morning alarm I hadn't needed was making itself known. Five minutes later I had to cancel it again as I watched the waves coming sweeping in over my wellies and the feet of my tripod. Dave arrived and joined the party. The occasional morning dog walker or jogger went past - they must be used to seeing photographers here at moments like these. I reflected again at my habitual inability to crawl out of bed in time for these moments more often. It's very rare that I manage to, but the experience is always all the more memorable for that. There's something in the silence of being at large while the world slumbers - or at least while the world is indoors gasping for coffee and wiping sleep from its eyes.
Dave and Lee were done, and returned along the beach towards our quarters for breakfast and discussions on what we might do for the rest of the day. They were both keen to return to the groynes we'd visited on the first evening here. I stayed on, watching the now receding tide as it raced off the beach just as quickly as it had surged towards us before sunrise. Where there had been water, there was now a new kaleidoscope of ripples in the endless sands. The sea, that unpredictable yet brilliant artist had created another masterpiece, but the soft morning light had given way to a harsh brightness that made the lighthouse glare in the early sunshine. It seemed that the adventure was done - and I was excited by what I'd seen on the back of my screen. Reluctantly I traced the footsteps of the others and make my way back to join the planning committee and drink another cup of tea.
Spring Tide at Dawn
Outside, the first streaks of daylight tapped quietly on the small living room window, announcing the arrival of morning. I'd set the alarm for a little before seven, and then again for a few minutes later in the knowledge that I'd probably fail to move at all. But it mattered not; I was already awake, summoned into conciousness at the prospect of taking the shot I coveted most from this brief visit to Somerset, a hundred and forty odd miles up the road from home. Today was the day that I might get one of those shots I'd envisioned in my mind's eye over and over again. A few weeks earlier I'd met a photographer from Somerset who'd made the opposite journey down to Cornwall and quizzed her on our chances. "It only happens on a spring tide," she said, as sitting a few yards apart we each gazed thoughtfully at the cobbles of Porth Nanven and the Brisons beyond. I nodded earnestly, shrugged and returned to my composition. I wasn't even really sure what elements were needed for a spring tide, and all I knew was that the term itself was a bit of a misnomer. I'd made a mental note to undertake some further research later.
With a few days before our own short trip to go, the Whatsapp group became a hotline of activity, as Dave became excited about the RSPB reserves on the Levels, and I introduced them to Thomas Heaton's YouTube offering on the petrified trees of Porlock Weir. I also decided it was time to educate myself on the subject of spring tides, which I soon learned were the highest tidal ranges of each lunar month, driven by a full moon. I ended up browsing a fishing website of all things, which gave a detailed forecast for the entire month of February before going on to show diagrams of the sun and moon in perfect alignment with the earth, at which point the white noise of science became to much for my limited attention span and I began browsing your pictures on this platform instead. But what I'd also noticed from my PhotoPills app was that the moon would be appearing in full during our visit, before turning into a waning gibbous at the weekend. I only mention this latter information because the phrase "waning gibbous" is mildly amusing to me. The charts on the site designed for anglers, those fellow yet distant creatures of solace confirmed that we could expect a spring tide during our stay, and for both the Thursday and the Friday morning at sunrise there was a chance that the lighthouse of Burnham on Sea might have its feet in the water. I'd been here four or five times before, each time hoping that the pools of standing water might be in fact an entire body of water. The good news was that our temporary home was ten minutes' walk away, but we'd have to get up early and keep our fingers crossed that the combining elements would produce the result we wanted. There was no certainty at all on this - you need to know a place well to fully understand its tides and moods, and the deadly Severn Estuary is a strange and mysterious beast to say the least. We prepared for success, knowing all the time that we might well be disappointed.
Somewhere around 6:30am, Lee and I headed off along the short footpath. Dave was somewhere behind, but this was no time to be waiting and we strode towards the dunes that hid the beach on the other side, more in hope than expectation. The pale blue sky was mixed with a faint pink band, and hanging distantly in the canopy was that cold full moon we'd needed. The tension increased as with every step up through the soft sand we drew closer to knowing whether we were about to be rewarded. And then we saw this. Even with half an hour to go before high tide the feet of the lighthouse were fully immersed, the high shoreline washing away thousands of footprints. Nobody else was around, not even anyone with a camera as we'd expected, and we bounded cheerfully towards our subject, immediately disappearing into our own moments and in my case, firing the shutter over and over again. In my pocket the phone buzzed - the morning alarm I hadn't needed was making itself known. Five minutes later I had to cancel it again as I watched the waves coming sweeping in over my wellies and the feet of my tripod. Dave arrived and joined the party. The occasional morning dog walker or jogger went past - they must be used to seeing photographers here at moments like these. I reflected again at my habitual inability to crawl out of bed in time for these moments more often. It's very rare that I manage to, but the experience is always all the more memorable for that. There's something in the silence of being at large while the world slumbers - or at least while the world is indoors gasping for coffee and wiping sleep from its eyes.
Dave and Lee were done, and returned along the beach towards our quarters for breakfast and discussions on what we might do for the rest of the day. They were both keen to return to the groynes we'd visited on the first evening here. I stayed on, watching the now receding tide as it raced off the beach just as quickly as it had surged towards us before sunrise. Where there had been water, there was now a new kaleidoscope of ripples in the endless sands. The sea, that unpredictable yet brilliant artist had created another masterpiece, but the soft morning light had given way to a harsh brightness that made the lighthouse glare in the early sunshine. It seemed that the adventure was done - and I was excited by what I'd seen on the back of my screen. Reluctantly I traced the footsteps of the others and make my way back to join the planning committee and drink another cup of tea.