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When it comes to wild animals, I would be lying if I said I ever had a plan when it comes to getting photographs. I don't have a blind and would never bait the animals. I never even know where they are going to be.
Serendipity rules... often I return home empty handed but other times something magical happens. On this occasion, I was just slowly cruising along a gravel road and as I crested a hill, this dark shape popped out of the bushes right on the side of the road. I probably muttered something profound to myself, like 'Holy ****, a bear!'
She was on the right shoulder of the road. I rolled down the passenger side window, grabbed my camera off the car seat, the bear popped her head out between some branches and posed and I took this shot, one handed.
Could have been a bit sharper but considering it was getting dark, I was pushing my camera to ISO 1000 and I had to reach across the truck and shoot this one handed.... well, can't complain.
(Does this color balance look ok?)
View looking downstream of Kinuseo Falls, British Columbia.
I think I found the optimal date and time for the rainbow in this view. On more viewing, this falls bow seems really strange to me. If you look at the tree shadows, you can tell the sun is more to the right, but with the rainbow there, the sun should be directly behind me. I cant figure out the science and math of that.
Wales is deceptive. A bit like France in miniature it takes longer to navigate your way across it than even your frankest assessment of the map in front of you allows for. As we finished what passed for our breakfast in the Travelodge (our provisions not theirs) next to the old Severn Bridge we knew the 170 odd miles to the opposite end of the Principality was going to take longer than your average journey of this sort of length - but we should have added on a couple of hours for good measure. There were a lot of tractors making steady progress along narrow roads, where often we would find ourselves crawling to a halt as we waited for red lights to change to green. The highway maintenance teams of Wales certainly appeared to be fully occupied as we slowly continued towards Anglesey.
Mind you, there were plenty of distractions, and I'm not just talking about the beer aisle in Aldi at Abergavenny. Once we'd got past the environs of the Brecon Beacons I was in completely uncharted territory, and I liked it very much. Suddenly Builth Wells and Rhayader were real towns in handsome surroundings rather than simply names on a map. We stopped at the latter for a coffee and what was either an early lunch or a second attempt at breakfast. I don't remember which. I'd never heard of Clywedog Reservoir until I was gazing down at it from a thoughtfully placed car park. It really was all rather splendid. How on earth had I advanced into middle age without having seen these places before? It's not that far away from Cornwall.
Further north we persevered and for the first time there were dark brooding mountains on the horizon. I love mountains - I'd never seen a proper one until I was well into my thirties and I've been obsessed with them ever since. It's just that it's a long journey from home to see them, and my better half doesn't share my enthusiasm, which doesn't really help to be honest. We'd come for a three night stay near Caernarfon and the Snowdonia national park was to be our playground for the long weekend ahead - we were getting close. But before all of this our plan was to get to Llanddwyn Island on Anglesey to photograph Twr Mawr lighthouse.
By the time we arrived at Newborough Beach the February light was already beginning to fade, taking with it those beautiful mountains, which now lay to the south. While Dave and Lee stopped on the beach, distracted by what I still have no idea, I pressed on against a strengthening wind towards the island. A storm was due over the weekend and was letting us know early, shaking my tripod with every restless gust from the west. The cold wind coming in hard from the Irish Sea, the lack of time to absorb the place as the darkness approached and the sullen bank of cloud did little to help my composition and after a few shots I moved on and found another view. The famous lighthouse hadn't been a success. Sometimes you have to just walk away.
A year later I decided to have another try at the raw files I'd made that day. Lockdown in the UK has meant that some of our YouTube gurus have been producing rather more educational content than they normally would, and I hoped I might have absorbed something that would help me to revisit old images. I'd also invested in the Topaz utility suite, which is often helpful in removing indiscretions - camera shake in this case - and bringing a little sharpness to a previously blurry image. I'm afraid I'm a sucker for trying to grab 1.3 seconds in a gale and sometimes I don't get away with it. But those moving grasses were just begging to be captured.
So now I'm at peace with this image. I managed to catch the backdrop of those shadowy beasts of Snowdonia before the distant clouds stole them for good, and although there was none of that classic sunset stuff that you look for in a scene like this, it brings to me that sense of a big storm approaching. Storm Ciara did arrive later, and much of Sunday was lost as we decided not to take any silly risks with flying debris sailing past our rented cottage all morning, while we cowered inside with coffee watching Whisky Galore. It was brutal and the nation was advised to stay indoors. Sadly much of the time we'd planned among the mountains was lost to the storm.
We returned home from Wales on the Monday via the North West of England and the motorways. Despite the snowstorm it was a much faster route, but nowhere near as appealing. Next time I'll stick with the scenic route and get stuck behind all of those tractors again. But it'll be worth it.
I think we're all pretty much agreed that 2020 isn't going to be a year that too many people look back upon fondly. No doubt some of us have experienced the odd landmark moment that will make the year more memorable for them personally, but for most people, it's been a stinker. For some it's been a lot worse than that.
In our own little world of insignificant first world problems, our plans to spend a fortnight in South Western Spain had been long since shelved when we decided that a few days in the remote Somerset Levels would make a pleasing change of scene. During the first half of last week, the weather in the UK had been unusually hot, a sure sign that thunderstorms were on the horizon. Earlier in the day we'd had lunch at a very exclusive looking nearby hotel before hiking up onto the cooler climes of the Quantock Hills to gaze down over the Bristol Channel beyond the twin islets of Steep Holm and Flat Holm towards the haze of a not too distant South Wales.
After agreeing that Steep Holm would offer better natural protection (the clue is in the name) in the event of an apocalypse where we were among the few survivors we strolled happily back down the slope to the car and headed for the coast at nearby Kilve. We've reached the age where we have started to take camping chairs along with us on our outings, and so we sat by the low cliffs above the beach and watched the sun change colour from yellow to orange and then red as it sunk into the sea near the coast of Exmoor. Needless to say I took photos. We agreed it had been a good day; in fact the most enjoyable day of the year we decided after a little more thought on the subject. Not that it's had much competition of course, but there you go.
I'm never one for leaving immediately after sunset - it's often the best time to take photos. Pink cumulus had formed above us in a manner that both threatened and excited at the same time, and before long, the occasional flash of lightning flickered menacingly behind them. Surely rain was on the way? We watched and waited, spellbound by the unfolding drama as the light gradually faded and the lightning began to spread westwards along the Welsh coast on the opposite side of the estuary. It was getting late, but still we stayed, riveted by the show and expecting to get soaked by the urgent rainfall that never arrived. At some point it occurred to my slow witted brain that putting the camera on the tripod and pointing it across the Severn Estuary might be an idea. I'd always had an idea as to how it might be possible to photograph lightning, but the opportunity had never arisen; at least not until now it hadn't. With a series of 25 to 30 second exposures I hoped that what was mostly sheet lightning might produce the odd fork, which it eventually did - close to the resort town of Barry, which for those of you who are British will know is the home of a much loved sitcom of recent years - hence the title. I was very happy. An already excellent day, completed by watching a thunderstorm from a safe, dry location in the comfort of a cheap folding chair. What's not to love about that?
Explored 31st August 2015. Thank you my friends x
Burghley House Stamford. The sculpture Gardens. I think this is wonderful work and really connect with it.
Being in the woods to me feels like a natural comforting place, the place of our past, when this small island was covered with one great forest.
For clarification, the tree is real, look for the Tree People :-)
Looks good in Large x
The work is entitled Balance by Sophie Dickens
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......
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."