How Much?
“How much? I only asked for two pints. I didn’t order a meal as well!”
Well of course I didn’t actually say that – although perhaps I really should have done. I know we have an internationally sized bucket load of inflation right now, but the price I’d been asked to pay for two run of the mill pints of lager really was beyond the pale ale. If I’m ever in London (which I try not to be because I prefer to be surrounded by quiet green things rather than noisy concrete ones), then I accept the fact that I’m about to be subjected to a certain amount of open wallet surgery, but five miles from home is a bit galling. Not long ago we’d baulked at paying not much less than this for our drinks in a rather more upmarket establishment at Marazion, but at least the ambience and the service there had been rather more agreeable. Lee promptly shared the news of this latest affront to human decency with his mates back at his old stomping ground in the West Midlands, who in turn responded with a series of disgruntled electronic expletives. He told me his cousin is currently paying less than half the amount I’d just parted with for his chosen tipple. We really ought to have known better and headed away from the beach to Wetherspoons.
We were at a very well known public house in one of the most popular resorts in Cornwall; yes, the one that everyone seems to enjoy visiting when they’re on the beach, and here my descent into gloom continued further still. I’d already allowed myself a quiet groan when the location had been picked. I was worried that despite the fact we were in early May I still hadn’t managed to get to the bluebells and time was running out. But Lee likes it here, and sees something that eludes me completely, producing a regular stream of very impressive images of people strolling at the water’s edge. He goes there quite often, knows where to park without paying and usually returns with a picture that tells a story. For my part, I struggle here, but I shrugged and went along with it. In fact, in the eight years since this hobby took over so much of my spare time, I’d only been here with photography on my mind three times before, and on two of those occasions the camera never even made it out of the bag. Courtesy of some kite surfers on a lovely summer evening the third occasion was actually rather successful, although two years later the raw files remain untouched, overlooked in favour of visits to other locations where I’m happier.
We’d started on the cliffs, where Lee had discovered his current favourite parking spot. I stared blankly at the beach below us as my accomplice settled down to work. Even on a Tuesday afternoon the place was full of people, littering the sand with a million messy footprints. Right in front of me I noted the perfect tufts of sea thrift, reminding me that I really needed to get my skates on before they too started to wane as summer indolence gets ever nearer. But with nothing to link them to the bigger scene beyond I didn’t even try; simply noting that I needed to be at a place where I could attempt to photograph them successfully soon. Far below in the water a seal was wrestling with an enormous skate (not the wheeled variety) that it had caught for tea, but I was too slow to reach for the big lens to catch the best of the action.
We headed down to the beach to join the masses, where I continued my appointment with confusion. We wandered to the far end of the sands in the afternoon bright light, and then we turned back towards that certain establishment where everyone seems bent on quenching their thirst. They might at least use some of those profits to clean the latrines more thoroughly. With nothing of note on the SD card and an hour before the light would begin to change we repaired to the bar and succumbed to the eye watering prices, before heading outside to an empty bench to discuss football, photography and middle aged men’s ailments – our three favourite topics. Add the forthcoming Iceland adventure to the mix, and that hour soon passed, along with the incoming tide that helped to cull the vast numbers of bystanders who would no doubt otherwise get in the way of any images I might attempt before giving up and going home.
I had at least got a possible composition in mind. The light was still too bright and a dog stood in the middle of the frame for at least 30 seconds to create a ghost that needed to be removed, but with the very big stopper on the front of the lens, this was the result. The Ukrainian flag flew solemnly from the summit of Chapel Rock, which seems so much smaller than it did when I used to climb it on visits to my grandparents here as a child. It was at least some sort of result to mark the occasion.
Maybe I should go back through those images from two years ago. It was the only time I really enjoyed my visit here, and I think there might be a picture somewhere in there if I can just commit myself to sit down and wade through the endless raft of raw files. But it was late June, a Sunday evening with work the following day; probably the reason they were saved to be worked on later and then never quite made it to the top of the pile. Perhaps there’s a bit of redemption in there somewhere.
How Much?
“How much? I only asked for two pints. I didn’t order a meal as well!”
Well of course I didn’t actually say that – although perhaps I really should have done. I know we have an internationally sized bucket load of inflation right now, but the price I’d been asked to pay for two run of the mill pints of lager really was beyond the pale ale. If I’m ever in London (which I try not to be because I prefer to be surrounded by quiet green things rather than noisy concrete ones), then I accept the fact that I’m about to be subjected to a certain amount of open wallet surgery, but five miles from home is a bit galling. Not long ago we’d baulked at paying not much less than this for our drinks in a rather more upmarket establishment at Marazion, but at least the ambience and the service there had been rather more agreeable. Lee promptly shared the news of this latest affront to human decency with his mates back at his old stomping ground in the West Midlands, who in turn responded with a series of disgruntled electronic expletives. He told me his cousin is currently paying less than half the amount I’d just parted with for his chosen tipple. We really ought to have known better and headed away from the beach to Wetherspoons.
We were at a very well known public house in one of the most popular resorts in Cornwall; yes, the one that everyone seems to enjoy visiting when they’re on the beach, and here my descent into gloom continued further still. I’d already allowed myself a quiet groan when the location had been picked. I was worried that despite the fact we were in early May I still hadn’t managed to get to the bluebells and time was running out. But Lee likes it here, and sees something that eludes me completely, producing a regular stream of very impressive images of people strolling at the water’s edge. He goes there quite often, knows where to park without paying and usually returns with a picture that tells a story. For my part, I struggle here, but I shrugged and went along with it. In fact, in the eight years since this hobby took over so much of my spare time, I’d only been here with photography on my mind three times before, and on two of those occasions the camera never even made it out of the bag. Courtesy of some kite surfers on a lovely summer evening the third occasion was actually rather successful, although two years later the raw files remain untouched, overlooked in favour of visits to other locations where I’m happier.
We’d started on the cliffs, where Lee had discovered his current favourite parking spot. I stared blankly at the beach below us as my accomplice settled down to work. Even on a Tuesday afternoon the place was full of people, littering the sand with a million messy footprints. Right in front of me I noted the perfect tufts of sea thrift, reminding me that I really needed to get my skates on before they too started to wane as summer indolence gets ever nearer. But with nothing to link them to the bigger scene beyond I didn’t even try; simply noting that I needed to be at a place where I could attempt to photograph them successfully soon. Far below in the water a seal was wrestling with an enormous skate (not the wheeled variety) that it had caught for tea, but I was too slow to reach for the big lens to catch the best of the action.
We headed down to the beach to join the masses, where I continued my appointment with confusion. We wandered to the far end of the sands in the afternoon bright light, and then we turned back towards that certain establishment where everyone seems bent on quenching their thirst. They might at least use some of those profits to clean the latrines more thoroughly. With nothing of note on the SD card and an hour before the light would begin to change we repaired to the bar and succumbed to the eye watering prices, before heading outside to an empty bench to discuss football, photography and middle aged men’s ailments – our three favourite topics. Add the forthcoming Iceland adventure to the mix, and that hour soon passed, along with the incoming tide that helped to cull the vast numbers of bystanders who would no doubt otherwise get in the way of any images I might attempt before giving up and going home.
I had at least got a possible composition in mind. The light was still too bright and a dog stood in the middle of the frame for at least 30 seconds to create a ghost that needed to be removed, but with the very big stopper on the front of the lens, this was the result. The Ukrainian flag flew solemnly from the summit of Chapel Rock, which seems so much smaller than it did when I used to climb it on visits to my grandparents here as a child. It was at least some sort of result to mark the occasion.
Maybe I should go back through those images from two years ago. It was the only time I really enjoyed my visit here, and I think there might be a picture somewhere in there if I can just commit myself to sit down and wade through the endless raft of raw files. But it was late June, a Sunday evening with work the following day; probably the reason they were saved to be worked on later and then never quite made it to the top of the pile. Perhaps there’s a bit of redemption in there somewhere.