No!
“Come to Crosby,” they said. “See the famous statues, brainchild body casts of one of the world’s leading sculptors, eye catching and thought provoking as they gaze enigmatically out to sea. Then take a photograph of the sewage pipe instead.” And there was the word “No,” emblazoned upon the object of my attentions. What can it mean? Obviously I haven’t troubled myself too much in seeking the answer with the assistance of Google - that would almost spoil the fun wouldn’t it? What were we doing here? An equally valid question that I was having trouble answering as another blast of wind came hammering down the beach from the direction of Blackpool and beyond, carrying a billion droplets of cloudburst in its fury. This was a tough outing back at the coast, after four relatively agreeable days in the gentler climes of the Peak District. Just last night we had enjoyed a glowing sunset at Roach End Barn, soft orange light filling the horizon as the first instalment of our adventure came to its conclusion. But this morning all of that had changed, a steady drizzle building into something rather more forthright as we approached the Merseyside coast. By the time we arrived at Crosby, the warm May sunshine of recent days had fizzled out, extinguished by a weather system that marched in from the north, sending temperatures plummeting and raincoats rustling as we took our chances on the beach.
I love moody conditions. I don’t even mind a white featureless sky if I think I can use it. Rain is often an ally if tackled with the right mindset. Often, but not always, and this was starting to feel like one of those “not always” moments. I’d made a conscious decision to use the telephoto lens for this shoot, and once that particular bargain had been struck, there was no going back. And while this was giving me the compositions I’d been hoping for, the wind and rain were combining to make taking photographs very difficult, especially long exposures with a hefty focal length. I’d already lost a lens cloth, which had ghosted away on the wind without me even noticing its urgent departure, and the makeshift bin liner rain protection had failed at the first attempt to use it. With my back to the weather I could shoot directly south with reasonable results, but pointing the camera out to sea was going to be a bit of a challenge. Especially when the lens hood was going to be needed to have any chance of escaping with something more than a collection of drizzly smudges for my efforts. A big tottering assembly on a windy beach with a grumpy old soul doing his best to protect it with his not very imposing bulk. A portable brick wall or the front row from the local rugby team might have been handy here today. Even one of Mr Gormley’s sculptures, if strategically placed, might have helped, but none of them were willing to abandon their positions and lend me a hand. I asked one of them whether it was a case of upsetting the aesthetics, but he ignored me and carried on watching whatever had been holding his attention out there on the Irish Sea for all of these years. He didn’t even blink. It was taking a while to get into a rhythm here, but despite the conditions, the possibilities seemed almost without limit.
And if you don’t keep trying, you won’t get anything at all, so without the assistance of anyone or anything else, I persevered. Twenty of thirty failures would be fine - only one of them needed to pass the blur test. Just a brief pause in the Arctic blast and things might be ok. By now the rain had done everything it was going to, and I wasn’t going to get any wetter. But I was getting hungry - we hadn’t stopped for lunch on the way here from Buxton and the afternoon was ticking by on this freezing cold expanse. I carried on for as long as I could, conscious that Dave and Lee were almost certainly waiting in the car. Eventually the time to retreat had arrived. It was difficult to tell from the back of the camera, but hopefully at least some of the shots I’d taken would be passable.
Happily, it seemed that persistence had paid off. Somehow, but don’t ask how, I managed to come away with one acceptable long exposure of the rickety old structure and the mid-tide ladder to the sea. I never even noticed the simple one word command on the subject itself until reviewing the raw files later on. Does it say “yes” when the sun is shining? Does whoever drew the short straw from among the bright eyed young apprentices at the local council have to paddle out and change the sign each time the weather takes a turn? Why does the sewage outlet temple vaguely resemble a large plastic water bottle? On reflection, I don’t want to know - I kind of like the mystery.
No!
“Come to Crosby,” they said. “See the famous statues, brainchild body casts of one of the world’s leading sculptors, eye catching and thought provoking as they gaze enigmatically out to sea. Then take a photograph of the sewage pipe instead.” And there was the word “No,” emblazoned upon the object of my attentions. What can it mean? Obviously I haven’t troubled myself too much in seeking the answer with the assistance of Google - that would almost spoil the fun wouldn’t it? What were we doing here? An equally valid question that I was having trouble answering as another blast of wind came hammering down the beach from the direction of Blackpool and beyond, carrying a billion droplets of cloudburst in its fury. This was a tough outing back at the coast, after four relatively agreeable days in the gentler climes of the Peak District. Just last night we had enjoyed a glowing sunset at Roach End Barn, soft orange light filling the horizon as the first instalment of our adventure came to its conclusion. But this morning all of that had changed, a steady drizzle building into something rather more forthright as we approached the Merseyside coast. By the time we arrived at Crosby, the warm May sunshine of recent days had fizzled out, extinguished by a weather system that marched in from the north, sending temperatures plummeting and raincoats rustling as we took our chances on the beach.
I love moody conditions. I don’t even mind a white featureless sky if I think I can use it. Rain is often an ally if tackled with the right mindset. Often, but not always, and this was starting to feel like one of those “not always” moments. I’d made a conscious decision to use the telephoto lens for this shoot, and once that particular bargain had been struck, there was no going back. And while this was giving me the compositions I’d been hoping for, the wind and rain were combining to make taking photographs very difficult, especially long exposures with a hefty focal length. I’d already lost a lens cloth, which had ghosted away on the wind without me even noticing its urgent departure, and the makeshift bin liner rain protection had failed at the first attempt to use it. With my back to the weather I could shoot directly south with reasonable results, but pointing the camera out to sea was going to be a bit of a challenge. Especially when the lens hood was going to be needed to have any chance of escaping with something more than a collection of drizzly smudges for my efforts. A big tottering assembly on a windy beach with a grumpy old soul doing his best to protect it with his not very imposing bulk. A portable brick wall or the front row from the local rugby team might have been handy here today. Even one of Mr Gormley’s sculptures, if strategically placed, might have helped, but none of them were willing to abandon their positions and lend me a hand. I asked one of them whether it was a case of upsetting the aesthetics, but he ignored me and carried on watching whatever had been holding his attention out there on the Irish Sea for all of these years. He didn’t even blink. It was taking a while to get into a rhythm here, but despite the conditions, the possibilities seemed almost without limit.
And if you don’t keep trying, you won’t get anything at all, so without the assistance of anyone or anything else, I persevered. Twenty of thirty failures would be fine - only one of them needed to pass the blur test. Just a brief pause in the Arctic blast and things might be ok. By now the rain had done everything it was going to, and I wasn’t going to get any wetter. But I was getting hungry - we hadn’t stopped for lunch on the way here from Buxton and the afternoon was ticking by on this freezing cold expanse. I carried on for as long as I could, conscious that Dave and Lee were almost certainly waiting in the car. Eventually the time to retreat had arrived. It was difficult to tell from the back of the camera, but hopefully at least some of the shots I’d taken would be passable.
Happily, it seemed that persistence had paid off. Somehow, but don’t ask how, I managed to come away with one acceptable long exposure of the rickety old structure and the mid-tide ladder to the sea. I never even noticed the simple one word command on the subject itself until reviewing the raw files later on. Does it say “yes” when the sun is shining? Does whoever drew the short straw from among the bright eyed young apprentices at the local council have to paddle out and change the sign each time the weather takes a turn? Why does the sewage outlet temple vaguely resemble a large plastic water bottle? On reflection, I don’t want to know - I kind of like the mystery.