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Part of my Surfcoast /Great Ocean Road trip. Landed in Torquay and the weather had been ordinary for a couple of days, luckily this particular morning the weather was kind and gave me a chance to take a few shots.
An aerial view of the mesmerizing sand dunes of Namibia, sculpted by the relentless winds over centuries. The golden hues of the sun bring life to the desert, highlighting its soft curves and intricate textures. A landscape both serene and untamed, where nature paints its masterpiece with light and shadow.
Some of you are very kind, reading the lengthy diversions I accompany my images with, much of it totally irrelevant to the shot itself. I'm not really sure I can drag another story out of Saturday evening to be honest. But you know I'm ready to give it a go. As I walked at an almost Olympian pace to the spot I'd planned to spend the last hours of daylight on, I watched the light spreading over St Ives on the other side of the bay, hanging dreamily over the distant town and illuminating it in a haze of yellow light. I'd tried a rarely used shortcut to get here, which proved a mistake and cost me the minutes that made me know I was going to miss the moment. Why on earth I have these occasional aberrations of the mental satnav I really can't explain - without exception they always fail. As I set up my tripod the sun appeared from behind the clouds which until that moment had brought a lovely diffused sky over to the west and I cursed myself for missing the moment.
I moved my tripod to a spot further along the cliff, exchanging a few words with a chap who'd come to stand on the clifftop and watch the sky change. "Looking promising!" he suggested as he watched me straighten my tripod, possibly looking a bit nonplussed as this grumpy old man complained he'd missed the light he'd been watching as he strode the mile or so along the path from the car park.
Of course I was wrong to grumble. I should have known that a healthy mixture of rain and sun would bring an evening sky like this. I zoomed in on the lighthouse alone and ignored the setting sun, which would have only resulted in a whole heap of lens flare on the left hand side of the image. After all I'm not sure that a collection of red and green blotches is what photographers mean when they refer to the concept of balance in an image. I looked at the 3 inch screen before me and smiled.
And so for a few minutes the sun lit the side of Godrevy lighthouse as fiercely as I've ever seen it. As my unknowing guru Mr Nigel Danson so often likes to say, "It doesn't get any better than this."
A few of you have been kind enough to tell me you were looking forward to the next instalment of my Comet Neowise adventures at Wheal Coates. I hope the sequel doesn't disappoint you. To everyone else, apologies for dragging you through already overgrown ground a second time. If you're wondering what I'm on about, my previous post entitled "Nocturnal Shenanigans at Wheal Coates and Beyond" will hopefully provide the intelligence you're looking for. Or very possibly not.
The early hours of Monday morning had brought an exciting and diverse collection of experiences, not all of them happy ones and I was looking forward to a slightly less incident packed return to the scene 24 hours later. Two consecutive clear nights were coinciding with two days of leave from work and the arrival of a comet in the night skies and it seemed almost careless to overlook the opportunity. Cornwall's leaden grey skies aren't usually this helpful. Remember that eclipse of the sun in 1999 where the world stood on its doorstep watching sky turn black in the middle of the day? I don't. Our day that summer involved staring in frustration at a completely overcast sky from our back garden. Enough said.
I'd arranged to meet with Hudson, the only man I know who has his own Wikipedia entry, earned from a lifetime of service to music. Ok it's a Wikipedia entry and not an MBE, but what he can't do with an electric violin wedged under his chin and a bow in his hand isn't worth doing. From Hudson I learned something new. Ever heard of the 500 rule? I hadn't either. Generally speaking I'm not keen on rules. I should stress I'm not inviting you to visit your local post office with a stocking on your head brandishing a lead pipe, but take the rule of thirds for example. Or the one which says you shouldn't put the horizon on the halfway line. I might use them sometimes, but they seem formulaic to me. I like breaking rules, but the 500 rule is undeniably a good one to follow if you're shooting the stars. Divide 500 by your focal length and that's the maximum number of seconds exposure time to avoid moving stars in your image. Who knew? Well Hudson did apparently. Amazingly, 8 seconds seems to be enough. I've just realised I was at 40mm. I could have had 4 more.
I'd brought a torch with me and announced loudly to the other 5 or 6 photographers who we knew were lurking nearby in the darkness that I was going to put it inside the engine house. I took the non-existent response as agreement and returned to my tripod to take the shot. Once we were both happy that we'd got a photograph or two we could work with, Hudson made ready to leave and I returned to collect the torch from the illuminated engine house, demanding royalties from the apparently happy collection of photographers who'd profited from the unexpected light show.
Arriving home sometime after midnight I stood beneath the neighbour's pine tree to say hello to the juvenile Tawny Owl I'd met the night before, only to be greeted by three of them sitting on a branch side by side, staring back at me. It's a memory I'm going to keep forever. I'm still smiling about it now.
I've just realised that the engine house is more or less on the third and so is the horizon. I'm feeling formulaic now......
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It's been over a week since my last post. Sorry about that. A combination of work pressures, wonderful weekend weather and late evenings out with the camera have combined to reduce my output in these and other pages. Normal service, whatever that is, will be resumed eventually.
Meanwhile, Saturday evening took us up the coast to Bedruthan Steps, a place where giant rocks inhabit the beach and stare out to sea with a watchful gaze. The beach itself is inaccessible at present. Little did we know that a hefty chunk of cliff had slid down onto the beach during the winter. I suspect the National Trust, who own the place have probably had other issues to worry about in recent months, much as we all have, so it seems unlikely that the beach will be open for some time now. It's a shame as I had another idea for a low tide visit - but that will have to wait.
It's also a reminder of how dangerous the coast is around here, with almost vertical and unstable cliffs, promising a permanent end if you happen to be standing in the wrong place at an inopportune moment.
One distinct plus point is that although a small and steady stream of visitors pass by here, taking selfies in front of the scene and pausing for a moment to enjoy the view, not many of them linger because there's little to do when you can't get onto the beach. We ate our pasta and watched as the groups of onlookers arrived and went, before eventually earning the place to ourselves as the golden hour set in. Patience usually pays off in the end.
It's a splendid location as long as you're careful along those crumbling cliff edges. So good in fact that the camera stayed on the tripod until just before 10:30, long after the sun had sunk beneath the horizon, leaving an orange glow behind it.
Glacier National Park never has one moment that cant curprise you...One of the quintessential views of the park...with those beautiful wild flowers
Was walking around in the foggy days of November, when this scene caught my eye. The leaves are still turning, but the brown colors start to dominate. In particular, I like the almost leafless branches and how they appear as sketchy lines in a pencil drawing.
November 2020 | Niefern-Öschelbronn
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Looking back... she was sitting on the river bench, but I didn't found out, what caught her attention.
Found that one shot, that makes a trip to Botswana complete... you just need to come back with a nice Steenbok portrait and this long eyelashes und way too big ears. :)
Neoclassical architecture
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It was a Saturday afternoon and Christmas was upon us. Like all self respecting landscape photographers I'd done the only sensible thing you can do at these times and shunned the town centre festive shopping chaos in favour of something altogether more soothing for the soul. After all, I'd already done my Christmas shopping. Well, sort of. It had involved the purchase of a sturdy carbon fibre tripod, which I knew I would find more rewarding than socks. I really don't need any more socks. I'm good for socks. Thanks for asking.
Holywell Bay, 12 miles or so from home is one of my favourite retreats. In winter at low tide, the huge beach is quite empty and the foreground changes every time I visit. Sometimes there's a river running across the scene in front of you, yet on other occasions it peters out to the right this composition, spreading out like a big sandy delta on its way to the sea. I love not knowing what such a familiar friend is going to look like on each new meeting. It's a bit like knowing somebody who can't stop changing their hairstyle from one week to the next.
On this occasion it was windy. Very windy. I'd had a notion of trying to catch the sand being blown straight at me across the beach with a shutter time that would need the tripod. Picking my spot I set the tripod up and turned to unzip my bag to bring out the camera. Turning round, the tripod was lying on its side, blown off its feet by a heavy gust of Atlantic air. At times I was also finding it hard to stay on my feet, almost finding myself lying beside the abandoned length of carbon fibre on the sand more than once. I started to wonder whether the trip had been worth the effort when it was clear that my plan wasn't going to work.
And then the light came down through an opening in the clouds and bounced right off the beach in front of me. It didn't last for long - it never does when it looks like this, but it's the light I love the most that I always hope for at the edge of a storm.
Happy Sunday everyone.
The horizon exhales its last breath of color,
a shoreline caught between memory and forgetting.
Tourists and locals pause together at the edge of light,
witnesses to the day’s surrender.
What remains is not the day itself,
but the echo of its passing.
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“Oh no here we go again. He’s finally lost it. Three shots already uploaded from that infernal ridge walk and yet he still manages to find another one to rattle on about!” is what you might be thinking. I’m starting to have the same thoughts myself. It doesn’t help that I’ve done so little photography since that adventure. Ok so there’s a van related wild camp caper on Dartmoor the week before last to report tales of yet to come, but I’m still to work those raw files into shape. The thing is, that afternoon on the high ground of the Brecon Beacons in South Wales brought one composition after another as the landscape gradually revealed new secrets with each phase of the trek. All of them taken with a lens that really deserves a bit more love in return for its efforts. This one brought the peaks of Fan y Big, Cribyn, Pen y Fan and Corn Du into a single frame, with an illuminated bonus foreground designed by the icy architects of this landscape to offset the four dark shrouds behind.
Like so many of us I started out with a modest assembly of tools for my induction into this world that we share. A midrange camera, a couple of reasonably price lenses sourced from your favourite auction site, a cheap tripod, an even cheaper bag and some very inexpensive filters that would be better suited as coasters for tea cups. And then I got carried away – a sorry tale of obsession, a descent of the senses so steep as to be matched only by the plummeting bank balance as a full frame camera and professional lenses were added to the bag, itself replaced by a new model of course. The cheap filters gave way to the same set that Nigel Danson swears by, and then of course a carbon fibre tripod was a must wasn’t it? Not long ago I looked at the collection, did some mental arithmetic, and decided it was best not to mention the final score to my better half, who has far more modest tastes. A new pair of knitting needles is as racy as she gets when it comes to freeing up budget for luxuries. When people take her to task on her innate sense of thrift, with metronomic consistency she replies with “how do you think I managed to retire in my fifties on what I was earning?” She has a point. You become so much wealthier by desiring less in life.
But in that bagful of precious things lies the lens that so often gets overlooked – only really brought into use at moments when lugging the others around is going to prove challenging. I think of it as my adventuring lens. After all I’d have needed a team of sherpas to roll my 100-400mm lens up the first slope of Fan y Big on a series of felled tree trunks if I’d wanted to take it with me. So for long arduous treks, the lightweight lens with the huge focal length gets its day in the sun; and the rain too for that matter. I used it a lot that day as you may already be aware from a surfeit of previous posts. When I uploaded the raw files from the hike onto my computer at home my first reaction was one of enormous disappointment – so many of them were fuzzy and grainy and I found myself heading down the familiarly dangerous route of eBay as I blamed the lens once more for its inadequacies, while stubbornly ignoring my own shortcomings. Misplaced vainglory is such an unattractive web in which to entangle oneself.
Eventually, after much soul searching and further experimenting at 300mm on the tripod in my living room I concluded that the maligned lens was entirely free of blame – it was me who was at fault. I resolved to learn to use it properly and stop poring over alternatives on the internet each time I fail. In fact it went to Dartmoor with me so you’ll be able to judge for yourself which one of us has performance issues to come to terms with in due course. I think we both know already it’s me and not the lens.
I’m sitting at my laptop in the aforementioned van, where the strains of the annual music festival that take place on the estate across the road from us are drifting across the trees towards me on the gentlest of summer evening breaths. It might be Razorlight; it might be Goldie Looking Chain I can hear, but this year the neighbours don’t appear to have been invited to the party in atonement for the interruption to our weekend peace so I’ve really no idea. I’ve moved on from indignation to indifference now. We didn’t really want to go anyway. At least it’s nearly over and it’s Bank Holiday Monday tomorrow with its stay of execution from the real world for one more day.
This might be the last image I post from that ridge walk, but the trouble is there’s at least one more of them jumping up and down in the shadows waving its arms about if I can drag another tale out of the adventure. For now I’ll work harder at familiarising myself with that lens.
Beautiful rock formation with the perfect set of colorful streaks on the sky at sunset
Arch Rock, Joshua Tree National Park, California
As the day draws to a close in Santa Cruz das Flores, the sky is bathed in gold and pink, and the horizon is coloured with the softness of the last rays of light. An ephemeral spectacle that reminds us that beauty is in the details and in the moments we know how to appreciate. Who else has lost themselves in these magical colours?
Penny Lane giving me the “I didn’t do anything… but I absolutely DID something” face. Somewhere in this yard, a sock, a stick, or your dignity has gone missing.
Step 1. Drive to the Travelodge at the old Severn Bridge after work on Thursday evening. On the way make a mental note that you don't need to order large chips from Francines at Launceston if you pass that way again. The portions are very generous and a medium serving would still have been plenty. Take so long trying to finish them that Lee eventually decides to start driving while you're still having your tea.
Step 2. Discover quite early that it takes even longer to cross Wales from Chepstow at its South East corner to Anglesey in the North West than even your most conservative estimates allowed for. Everyone knows that the more beautiful a place is, the longer it takes to pass through it. A brunch stop at Rhayader and a couple of very brief interruptions to get out of the car and stare at the wilderness with a huge grin on your face don't really account for the 175 mile journey taking more than 7 hours. My goodness Wales is a gorgeous country though.
Step 3. Arrive at Newborough Beach and discover that it costs a fiver to park there. Step 3a. Discover a while later that your mate Chris, who you haven't seen for more than 30 years has a key to the place, a perk of living nearby.
Step 4. Don't hang around wondering what Dave and Lee have got so excited about on the beach and head directly across it for Llandwyn Island and Twr Mawr Lighthouse before the mountains of Snowdonia disappear into the distant clouds for the evening, taking the backdrop you planned along with them. Now that's a brisk walk if ever you feel the need.
Step 5. Struggle to make any sense of the subject you came here to photograph. The light isn't helping, but the strong winds that precede the arrival of Storm Ciara seem almost deliberately obstructive. Wonder why landscape photography is always so infernally difficult.
Step 6. Give up on the lighthouse and wander around Llandwyn Island with a general feeling of deflation and little sense of direction. Discover a new composition. Notice that the outline of Snowdonia still hangs about vaguely in the background. Set the tripod up and form a human windbreak. I don't often do the sea without a six stop filter attached.
Step 7. Forget to tell the other two about this engaging scene accidentally on purpose. Discover later that Dave found it for himself in any case and managed an Explore with the result. Underhandedness never pays off.
As the sun sets over Paris, the Eiffel Tower is bathed in a warm golden glow, casting long shadows across the city. The tower's steel curves and intricate details are silhouetted against a colorful sky of oranges, pinks, and purples. The tranquil Seine River flows peacefully below, reflecting the tower's brilliance in the water. The iconic tower's intricate iron lattice stands tall and proud, drawing crowds from all over the world. The moment is magical, and captures the essence of Paris - the city of love, romance, and unparalleled beauty.
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Hot Creek, Mammoth Lakes
There are certain places which is totally worth going repeatedly till you get the perfect shot..It was 15F and my camera stopped working and had to head it in my vehicle and get it working in this cold and ended up seeing one of the best scenes ever you can imagine in this friggin cold...Winter just gets magical in the eastern sierras if you get lucky
Also one of the fellow photographer did help in getting someone to stand there in the cold
Nestled in the heart of Islamabad, the breathtaking Margalla Hills offer a serene escape into nature. With lush green trails, panoramic views, and diverse wildlife, these mountains are a haven for hikers, photographers, and adventure lovers. Whether you're exploring the famous Trail 3 or enjoying the sunrise at Daman-e-Koh, Margalla Hills never fail to mesmerize. 🌿️
Midsummer is a double edged affair I often think. What could be better than to still be at large with your camera comfortably after 10pm, unable to tear yourself away from moments like this one, when all but the hardiest few surfers have left the sea, and only one party remains on the beach beside the glow of a distant fireside? Evenings such as this are the ones that find me eventually returning to the car with a happy smile, although with the one drawback that the light lingers for so long I know it will be almost 11pm by the time I'm home with work in the morning and no real chance to view the results until the weekend. Still, it's hardly anything to complain about.
On a few recent outings I've been accompanied by my partner Ali, and her sister's dog, a cocker spaniel called Rosie who for every mile that we complete covers at least 15 of her own in her endless search for rabbits along the dunes behind the beach. She caught one once, which was an uncomfortable moment in front of families with young children returning to their cars.
At least we never arrive until late. Later in fact than I ever plan to because Ali is one of those people who arrives for absolutely everything just when you think she's decided to stay at home, whatever the time of day. Recently I've taken to telling her that we need to be somewhere at least half an hour earlier than we really do. It's the only hope of getting there on time. It's Saturday tomorrow - I think I'll sneak out of the house when she's not watching as I've an urge to head west beyond Penzance again and if I take her with me we won't arrive until Sunday.
This was Tuesday, and my turn to be late back to the car. The tide was on the way out, the sky turned to pastel pink and at the end of the evening it suddenly struck me that Godrevy Lighthouse was reflected onto onto the wet sand in front of me. It must happen all the time, yet for some inexplicable reason I've never noticed this before in 40 years of coming here.
And I guess that's the special thing about favourite places. You keep going back, yet still you notice new things among the familiarity of it all. That's a happy thought with the weekend in front of us. Enjoy the weekend Flickr friends.
At times Tuesday evening was beginning to feel a bit frustrating. We'd arrived a couple of hours before sunset in the hopes of catching surfers in front of Godrevy Lighthouse at high tide with the long lens, but neither of us had thought to check the sea conditions. The water was unusually flat and limpid, even for a summer evening. One or two regulars sat astride their boards in the sea chattering to each other, but nobody was surfing in the true sense of the word.
So we waited for sunset to catch more images to add to what I've rather lazily entitled my "Silhouettes on the Shore" collection. To my enduring surprise I've actually started to sell one or two of them. As the backdrop went bright orange I waited for someone, anyone to walk across the wet sand which had so recently been submerged under the now retreating tide.
Nobody had the good grace to stroll across the scene looking enigmatic, preferably carrying a surfboard at a pleasing angle for this particular onlooker. Two young lads went past with skimmer boards, but settled on a spot to the left of the best patch of light. The two young ladies who'd been entertaining themselves with a paddleboard for some time eventually emerged from the sea and walked across the scene, perfectly reflected in the wet sand. I'd been waiting for this moment for ages, but with one at each end they struggled with the enormous board as if they were carrying a heavy wardrobe. For a moment I could hear Bernard Cribbins singing "Right Said Fred" in my head as I watched them. It wasn't quite what I was looking for. Eventually I decided that I would become the subject of my own composition and left Lee to operate my camera as well as his own as I strode heroically across the viewfinder in the fading light. But it was too dark and side on I look like a duck anyway. Finally I had given up and took a photo of Godrevy Lighthouse in pastel pink shades instead.
Happily one of two earlier passers by had made eye catching subjects, especially this young chap running effortlessly at the water's edge, who was good enough to ensure that both of his feet were off the ground as I hit the shutter on my camera. That never happens when anyone photographs me running. On each such occasion I've been replaced by a grimacing middle aged man dragging his feet along the ground looking like someone needs to prop him up rather urgently - but that's another story.