Cold June
Sometimes it’s quite amazing what difference three days can make. We’d been here on the Tuesday evening, up at the big field for the summer solstice. Not dressed as druids, dryads or dragon tamers before you start asking though – that’s not really our thing. But it had been another warm day and we’d decided to head down to the sea, passing through the purple fields of phacelia that suddenly become visible over the hedgerows when you’re driving a van instead of your car. We’d arrived a couple of hours before sunset to a very full parking area. “Not to worry,” we consoled ourselves, “they’ll all be clearing off for tea soon.” But they didn’t clear off at all in fact. After a long low tide paddle at the water’s edge, we’d slowly made our way back up across the clifftop path towards the van, alongside the single track road where a steady stream of vehicles continued to arrive. I guess that on reflection we don’t usually make an effort to get out for the Midsummer sunset, and maybe if we did, we might have been prepared for the throng of humanity that seemed to have camped their vehicles over every available square inch of parking space. Ali’s sister had arrived with some friends and managed to squeeze in next to us, so even though the camera was in the van and the golden hour was looking promising, I decided it wasn’t going to be worth the bother of shouldering the masses to one side and planting my tripod somewhere along the clifftop. I stifled a sigh of disappointment as the sky coloured interestingly and settled into an orange haze behind the lighthouse. Sometimes, they just get away from you.
On Friday things were altogether different. The recurrence of a niggling right knee had seen me bow out of five a side football for the week, releasing me to the joys of Godrevy for a second time. Excitedly I’d checked the Magic Seaweed app and learned that low tide and sunset weren’t a million miles apart from one another, and I had little hesitation in picking my spot long before I’d even arrived. Funny how sometimes I can come here with no particular plan of what’s going to happen, while at others I arrive with a clearly defined vision. Low tide so often brings me to the edges of the Red River, as far out as possible on the big empty beach where the foreground changes with every visit. It was a while since I’d done this, and I’d never tried it so close to the middle of summer before. In my favour was an unusually cold and wet June evening, laced with the possibility of further showers. In fact as I arrived I found myself sitting in the car for fifteen minutes as another blast sprayed across the land and sea on its way east. But in comparison to Tuesday, the car park was practically empty, just a few hardy kite surfers and dog walkers braving the strangely Arctic evening. To think that just three days earlier we’d paddled idly along the water’s edge in shorts and tee shirts at 9pm. Now I was fully attired, with a very rainproof coat protecting me from the elements, and yet still I was feeling the chill. Maybe I’d arrived in a parallel universe. Behind me above the dunes, a vibrant rainbow pierced the slate grey sky. Further over, a pair of horse riders trotted benignly over the huge expanse of wet sand. Interesting subjects seem to like appearing in the wrong place don’t they? The pony club might at least have plotted a course in front of the rainbow for me!
Quite often, the season decides which side of the Red River I’m standing on. In winter the sun sets over the distant bluff where Carbis Bay and St Ives huddle under often dramatic golden afternoon skies, sending me to the right hand side to use the ever morphing bends of the river with the light in the background. In spring and summer, I’ll generally paddle over in my wellies to where I can include the lighthouse in my compositions. Nothing like turning up in your wellies in summer to draw bemused expressions from others you know. And that river itself seems to shapeshift of its own will. At low tide it so often expands across the beach into a broad delta, bringing a bewildering complexity of textures and dynamics in both the water and the untouched sand. It’s a spot where more often than not I’ll focus stack to try and deliver as much sharpness as possible throughout the frame, meaning that every third photograph is of my fingers placed artfully over the sun to act as a bookmark and remedy any lens flare. I love it when something so tedious has a dual purpose.
All the while, the beach remained fantastically empty. Just a couple of kite surfers raced along the water and the odd figure appeared in the distance, shuffling along the cliff path. Typically, the moment caught me unprepared when several things seemed to happen at once, and all of those carefully prepared focus stacks have been overlooked in favour of the single shot when it all kicked off as a kite surfer moved into the frame and scattered the gulls on the shoreline. At some point another tog appeared not far to my left, somehow having arrived without me noticing - evidently I was completely engrossed in my subject. In one final effort I moved behind her and headed towards the edge of the now returning sea, but the sun had set and there was no real sign of a blue hour spectacular. Content that somewhere among the twenty or thirty groups of three, I headed for the car and home.
In truth it’s already started, but now we’re just a hair’s breadth from the annual invasion. The schools break up for the summer at the end of the week, and soon the beaches will be chock full of visitors every day. Not much chance of grabbing a scene like this then – you can imagine the footprints for starters. I’m just hoping this spell of good weather delivers one thunderstorm and sky extravaganza before they arrive and take up residence until early September. Then it’s theirs for the summer, and I’ll be back in the autumn for the next Godrevy instalment. Meanwhile, there are plenty of shots in the archive that are still waiting to see the light of day.
Cold June
Sometimes it’s quite amazing what difference three days can make. We’d been here on the Tuesday evening, up at the big field for the summer solstice. Not dressed as druids, dryads or dragon tamers before you start asking though – that’s not really our thing. But it had been another warm day and we’d decided to head down to the sea, passing through the purple fields of phacelia that suddenly become visible over the hedgerows when you’re driving a van instead of your car. We’d arrived a couple of hours before sunset to a very full parking area. “Not to worry,” we consoled ourselves, “they’ll all be clearing off for tea soon.” But they didn’t clear off at all in fact. After a long low tide paddle at the water’s edge, we’d slowly made our way back up across the clifftop path towards the van, alongside the single track road where a steady stream of vehicles continued to arrive. I guess that on reflection we don’t usually make an effort to get out for the Midsummer sunset, and maybe if we did, we might have been prepared for the throng of humanity that seemed to have camped their vehicles over every available square inch of parking space. Ali’s sister had arrived with some friends and managed to squeeze in next to us, so even though the camera was in the van and the golden hour was looking promising, I decided it wasn’t going to be worth the bother of shouldering the masses to one side and planting my tripod somewhere along the clifftop. I stifled a sigh of disappointment as the sky coloured interestingly and settled into an orange haze behind the lighthouse. Sometimes, they just get away from you.
On Friday things were altogether different. The recurrence of a niggling right knee had seen me bow out of five a side football for the week, releasing me to the joys of Godrevy for a second time. Excitedly I’d checked the Magic Seaweed app and learned that low tide and sunset weren’t a million miles apart from one another, and I had little hesitation in picking my spot long before I’d even arrived. Funny how sometimes I can come here with no particular plan of what’s going to happen, while at others I arrive with a clearly defined vision. Low tide so often brings me to the edges of the Red River, as far out as possible on the big empty beach where the foreground changes with every visit. It was a while since I’d done this, and I’d never tried it so close to the middle of summer before. In my favour was an unusually cold and wet June evening, laced with the possibility of further showers. In fact as I arrived I found myself sitting in the car for fifteen minutes as another blast sprayed across the land and sea on its way east. But in comparison to Tuesday, the car park was practically empty, just a few hardy kite surfers and dog walkers braving the strangely Arctic evening. To think that just three days earlier we’d paddled idly along the water’s edge in shorts and tee shirts at 9pm. Now I was fully attired, with a very rainproof coat protecting me from the elements, and yet still I was feeling the chill. Maybe I’d arrived in a parallel universe. Behind me above the dunes, a vibrant rainbow pierced the slate grey sky. Further over, a pair of horse riders trotted benignly over the huge expanse of wet sand. Interesting subjects seem to like appearing in the wrong place don’t they? The pony club might at least have plotted a course in front of the rainbow for me!
Quite often, the season decides which side of the Red River I’m standing on. In winter the sun sets over the distant bluff where Carbis Bay and St Ives huddle under often dramatic golden afternoon skies, sending me to the right hand side to use the ever morphing bends of the river with the light in the background. In spring and summer, I’ll generally paddle over in my wellies to where I can include the lighthouse in my compositions. Nothing like turning up in your wellies in summer to draw bemused expressions from others you know. And that river itself seems to shapeshift of its own will. At low tide it so often expands across the beach into a broad delta, bringing a bewildering complexity of textures and dynamics in both the water and the untouched sand. It’s a spot where more often than not I’ll focus stack to try and deliver as much sharpness as possible throughout the frame, meaning that every third photograph is of my fingers placed artfully over the sun to act as a bookmark and remedy any lens flare. I love it when something so tedious has a dual purpose.
All the while, the beach remained fantastically empty. Just a couple of kite surfers raced along the water and the odd figure appeared in the distance, shuffling along the cliff path. Typically, the moment caught me unprepared when several things seemed to happen at once, and all of those carefully prepared focus stacks have been overlooked in favour of the single shot when it all kicked off as a kite surfer moved into the frame and scattered the gulls on the shoreline. At some point another tog appeared not far to my left, somehow having arrived without me noticing - evidently I was completely engrossed in my subject. In one final effort I moved behind her and headed towards the edge of the now returning sea, but the sun had set and there was no real sign of a blue hour spectacular. Content that somewhere among the twenty or thirty groups of three, I headed for the car and home.
In truth it’s already started, but now we’re just a hair’s breadth from the annual invasion. The schools break up for the summer at the end of the week, and soon the beaches will be chock full of visitors every day. Not much chance of grabbing a scene like this then – you can imagine the footprints for starters. I’m just hoping this spell of good weather delivers one thunderstorm and sky extravaganza before they arrive and take up residence until early September. Then it’s theirs for the summer, and I’ll be back in the autumn for the next Godrevy instalment. Meanwhile, there are plenty of shots in the archive that are still waiting to see the light of day.