View allAll Photos Tagged SummerEvening
I always take the camera with me these days. Ever since that unexpected blood red sunset at Porthtowan early last year when all I had to record the moment were the blotchy pixels of my phone. More often than not at this time of year it stays in the bag untouched, but expect the unexpected and you never know what might happen. Although today, photography was the last thing on my mind. A couple of hours on the beach with my nearly two year old granddaughter, splashing in pools and building a ring of sandcastles that would have sent William the Conqueror green with envy, a spot of bodyboarding, and finally, supper in the van (cheese and ham omelette and baked beans if you were wondering). And for once this summer, Cornwall was bathing in warm sunshine. We’ve had a lot of the other stuff so far. All exactly as prescribed in the textbook.
I haven’t taken quite as many photographs here as normal recently. Many of us landscape enthusiasts complain about boring conditions in summer, but it’s not that really - I've photographed plenty of lovely sunsets here in July and August. It’s not even the fact that the annual siege is well underway, our beaches packed with tourists as they are. If anything, I’m feeling a bit overwhelmed by the number of stories yet to be told from previous adventures, three of them over the last few weeks alone. Thought I’d finished with the Peak District, Dartmoor and Scotland yet? Not a chance. I’m still nowhere near done with Iceland from the year before last. I wasn’t even a grandad when we were over there, and now there are two tiny toddlers running around my ankles. So perhaps I’ve got to the point where I have so many images to work through that I daren’t add to the pile by taking any more for a while. We've been here plenty of times this summer, but it was no surprise to me that the last time I actually took any photos at my local hotspot, we were only just into spring with all of those three recent adventures lying in wait. Time flies when you’re bodyboarding and building sandcastles doesn’t it?
So while there was no hard intention to use the camera that night, as we tucked into our omelettes I could see that the underside of a growing bank of medium level cloud was starting to colour, and coupled with that, the horizon was looking pretty clear. A few minutes later as I cleared my plate and made excuses, the land began to glow under an intense golden light, just as it had when Ali and I overnighted at The Roaches on the way home from Scotland three weeks earlier. It was a sure sign that things were about to get interesting. Happily, the small travel tripod appears to have taken up permanent residence in the cab these days, and so I began the short yet purposeful march up to the cliffs. I knew exactly where I wanted to perch, passing by a number of sightseers who’d already settled into their own spots in the grandstand for the evening show.
One thing you don’t really want to be doing when the grass is bone dry is charging down steep slopes in your inappropriate footwear. Quite why I hadn’t left a pair of walking boots in the van I cannot say, but my very elderly and much loved deck shoes, with soles as slippery as a pair of Atlantic conger eels were more of a hindrance than help, and I was soon on my backside feeling sheepish. Fortunately I was still some distance from the edge, and even more importantly, my secret spot was out of everyone else’s view, so nobody was able to witness my embarrassment. I removed my shoes, set up the camera and watched the changing colours in the sky. By now the horizon wasn’t quite so crystal clear as it had been earlier, but still there was that soft glow on the clouds as the setting sun lit them up from below. I was pretty sure that we were in for some pinks after sunset, but even if not, it was good just to be here again, enjoying this view alone. As a flock of gulls raced around the clifftop and past me at eye level, the pinks began to spread across the sky, lighting up with the band at the horizon, sandwiched between the dark blues of the approaching night. It was a good job the camera had been on board. I wouldn’t have been happy recording this on the phone.
It feels like a long time since I was last here behind the camera. Maybe I should just keep taking pictures for the enjoyment of it and stop fretting about the backlog, because skies like this one don't happen every evening around here.
No messing about this time with fancy vouchers for fancy food in fancy restaurants. If food were football formations this would be a no nonsense 4-4-2 featuring two full backs sporting prison haircuts and a pair of centre halves the size of shire horses with keenly sharpened size fourteen boots. Behind them, a goalkeeper that bears an uncanny resemblance to a bulldozer with shovel-like hands to match. None of your tika taka interchangeable diamonds in the midfield - just a pair of ferocious terriers flying into tackles - that sort of thing. On the wings, a couple of turbo charged whippets with blinkers on and an over reliance on either the left or right peg, depending upon which side of the pitch they’re stationed. Up front, a hefty lump with a prodigious leap, several missing teeth and a forehead shaped like an industrial steam iron. Just behind him, the only one who can actually play football, a Will O’ the Wisp waif whose job it is to dance through the opposition and give the ball to the big lad.
Yes, today we weren’t going anywhere near the upmarket open wallet surgery establishments designed to empty the pockets of wandering tourists in Mousehole or elsewhere. The Morrison’s cafe in Long Rock, a mile east of Penzance awaited our pleasure with its cordon bleu fish and chips covered in a healthy splat of tartare sauce, accompanied by a pot of tea - free refills on hot drinks if you didn’t know. Who needs filet mignon covered in pomegranate seeds and a glass of the ‘72 Chablis when you can have a full size plate of proper grub that’s been prepared by the good fryers of Morrison’s kitchen? Meerkat discount, that’s twenty-five percent off by the way. Two plates of decent nosh and a bottomless pot of tea for twelve quid. Last week we could barely get one starter for twelve quid when we finally used that voucher over at Gurnard’s Head. There’s no denying the quality of the food we had, but fine dining is for people with overflowing bank accounts and cultured palates.
And do you know what? The fish fryer at our chosen establishment does a fine job. Even Ali’s eighty-seven year old mother gushes with praise about the Morrison’s cafe at Long Rock, and she’s notoriously hard to please when it comes to eating out. In those fancy places we’re always on edge, convinced we’re being frowned upon by the waiting staff and our fellow diners, even though it’s probably just our imagination. Here, if you thank the team and tell them how much you enjoyed the fish, it really does seem to make them happy. Our standard tactic, made all the easier by our frankly slovenly attitude to mornings, is to arrive after two thirty, long after the lunchtime rush has been cleared from the tables and settle in for an hour or so, enjoying the peace. This works all the better in the summer months when you’re not in an enormous hurry to get to where you’re bound for. Sunset after nine - there’s really no need to rush.
And where weren’t we rushing to this afternoon you ask? Today we were going “down west” as we call it here, to the wilds of Penwith. A mini Dartmoor-on-Sea with ponies grazing among swathes of bracken, heather and gorse. Only once before had we parked at the old Carn Galver tin mine, and I’d been planning to go back ever since. On that afternoon we traced the natural coastal fortress of Bosigran Head, before following the footpath towards Porthmeor Cove and then back again via the quiet coast road, meeting small groups of ponies as we went. What we hadn’t done that day was to head inland and up the slopes towards the rocky tors of Carn Galver itself. From here, across a field of purple heather that glowed in soft summer sunlight, a series of headlands that ended with Pendeen Lighthouse disappeared into a dreamy blown out haze. And from that moment the deal was done. I’d come here to photograph Bosigran Head at sunset, but instead I’d be yomping up here again later with the camera bag. Ali declared she’d done enough yomping today and would watch the sunset from the van, so I returned alone. I had the place completely to myself. Well, apart from the steady chomping and the occasional whinny from our equine friends as they stomped about the bracken enjoying their own version of fine dining.
After all was done, another gastronomic delight awaited me in the van. Eggy bread and a can of Brewdog Session IPA from the fridge. A very happy ending to this series of tales on the subject of dining out. It doesn’t get more comforting than eggy bread dipped in the contents of a sachet of brown sauce - which was liberated from Morrison’s at lunchtime of course. A fine way to end a day of food and cultural enrichment at the edge of the world in West Cornwall.
I was driving past this field last night, and thought it was worth a snap. Composition was a bit rushed, and would have liked to get rid some of the framing, as I was poking through the hedgerow with the tripod as high as it would go. Might try and clone some out later.
Single RAW, no HDR on this one :-)
The irony wasn't lost on us. Twelve days in Scotland, every one of them bearing quantities of rain that ranged from light drizzle through urgent showers to South Asian monsoon were at an end as we headed towards Gretna and the border. On the way up, conditions had been hot and humid, at least until we reached Cumbria, where everything changed quite dramatically. Now, with the north of England just a few miles away, the rear view mirror showed Scotland, bathed under dreamy cerulean skies balanced on top of pure white mountains of benign looking cauliflower cumulus. Our last stop at a motorway service station just south of Glasgow had been a warm one as we sat at a picnic bench with our sandwiches.
Into Cumbria our journey continued, the rains advancing to meet us from the south. Apparently at home in Cornwall, an urgent deluge was keeping everyone indoors. Hopefully by the time we were back, things might have eased a bit. We considered spending a night or two near Keswick and walking up Helvellyn, but perhaps it was best to leave that for another time. While we’d loved our adventures in Scotland, we were both craving warm sunshine by now. We carried on south, making good progress into kinder weather and soon agreeing that the overnight pub stop near Skipton that was in our sights could be abandoned in pursuit of further miles in the general direction of home. But where? Would we book a site, or could we find a nice quiet layby for the night? But as we pondered the options, the solution came. We’d stopped at the Roaches on the way north, and it was near enough to the M6 corridor to be worth returning to now. Campsites are great and mostly reasonably priced, but there’s nothing quite like waking up to the sound of birdsong in a peaceful spot away from the world.
The detour to Staffordshire started well, with an easy motorway route across the Manchester sprawl, bringing us towards Macclesfield. But then Bossy Barbara (remember her?) decided to make things interesting, and instead of taking the easy route through Leek towards our target, we were led a merry dance along tiny narrow lanes, past lonely farms that stretched away across the fells. Each new turn led to an even more improbable road than the last, as I wondered why on earth I hadn’t just asked Ali - “How far is it along here, compared to heading for Leek or Buxton?” You see I knew it was my fault all along, but having been to the area just a few weeks earlier, I was sure I could have found the place from either town without consulting the map. Eventually, as we climbed a thin ribbon into not yet blooming heather, I realised what would come next. And soon we saw Roach End Barn, sitting under its companion trees, a lone tog making the most of having the place to himself. I’d only been there myself about six weeks earlier. We’d come to the Roaches from the opposite end of the road.
Parking in the same space as last time, with supper on the go, I gazed out of the window towards the Sutton Moor mast that sits between here and Macclesfield. A heavy looking layer of cloud filled much of the sky, leaving a warm envelope of light on the horizon. Sunset was still almost an hour away, and I thought nothing much more of it. At least the rains had dried up again by now. But later, with my back to the sunset as I began to wash the dishes, the trees and hedges around us began to burn and glow with strong golden light. “Get out there and take some pictures,” came Ali’s instruction, and so I went, snapping away with the camera in my hands - eventually returning to the van for the tripod. If you’re going to do something, at least give yourself a sporting chance. Belt and braces.
By the end of the show, the sky, lighting up the clouds had moved from golden to bubblegum pink, and then to a deepening blue. The only focal point was that mast, but it was good enough for me. Ali came outside to watch the colours change. It seemed she’d finished the washing up while I was absent. Amazing what a bubblegum sunset sky can get you out of sometimes.
A shared world is the best world.
I'm sitting behind the ferns in my garden for this shot of this baby getting a drink. I love the green of the ferns framing the raccoons. I do also love the little face of a sibling in the background.
Since my father didn't mow down the marguerites in front of our house, there is currently a small patch of those beautiful flowers right next to our driveway. Luckily, there was also some beautiful sunset light yesterday and since I didn't take much photographs lately, I grabbed my camera and hoped for some nice images. The sun was gone pretty quickly and hence I took only a few images, but this one turned out pretty beautiful in my opinion, especially because my trusty old Helios introduced some flare rays. Hope you like it too! :)
Sutton Bank, north Yorkshire
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After a tough couple of weeks for the family (my son had a kidney transplant, with my wife donating a kidney), things are looking positive and I ventured on to the hills for the first time in a while. It was a joy to walk amongst the flowering heather and see the late, golden light streaming along the valley floor below. Image take with a long lens from Millstone Edge.
A little past 8:00 in the evening and the sun will finally slide behind the trees in just a few minutes. The steamy, hot air is sweet and thick with moisture and tiny insects that shine in the light.
There's barely a breeze, but the rising hot air currents give lift to the birds and small insects who ride them to fly more efficiently...or maybe just for fun!
But honey bees don't care about air currents - their focus is nectar and pollen which they'll continue gathering until they head back to the hive to drop off their goods and then to sleep.
Another perfect Summer day. :)
Have a great day everyone, its the longest day of the year here in the Northern Hemisphere. I have been enjoying the light evenings and so I have brought you an image of a Summery Solstice Fence just as the Sun begins to set. May you have a magical Summer Solstice Evening ~ KissThePixel2019
Image taken with the Helios 44M-4 58mm f2 Vintage Lens on the Nikon DF
I will catch up with your images later, i'm quite behind due to work and a very busy garden :))
..plötsligt en ljusöppning i molnet vid 18-tiden..
...suddenly there's a bright opening in the clouds at 6pm..
A tranquil summer evening as the sun dips behind the hills, casting a golden glow over Træla. A lone boat leaves a sweeping wake towards Tønsberg, with Nøtterøy to the left and the historic canal ahead—a peaceful moment on Norway’s oldest town’s doorstep.
Fun Fact:
Tønsberg, often called Norway’s oldest town, was founded around 871 AD and has been an important maritime hub for over 1,150 years.
.. why would I want to live anywhere else! Taken from the doorstep, just now. #summerevening #Dubhard
#Explore
The sun sets to the west, over Assateague Island with the beach and Atlantic Ocean to my back. The scene was fantastic and I wished I'd had a tripod with me.
In the foreground are marshy brackish waters (mostly saltwater, really).
I don't know about you, but I'm trying to spend those last summer days, a little bit more outside, catching the last warmth and light. This particular evening was beautiful and me and one of my sisters sat watching the light falling, waiting for the Gotland ferry to come, and while wating catching up with each other. That's what I call quality time :-)
I added some poppy-like blobs! (I know). There were a few poppies thee but I added just a few more. I was going to go over them and add a black dot in the middle so they looked more like poppies....but, well.... I think that might have overdone things!
I'd intended to get some sun set shots, against the railway tracks, but instead captured this tractor coming towards me slowly (as they do), and thought it might make a good light trail due to it's slow movement.
he doesn’t move. the ocean, the breeze, the sailboats — none of it touches him. bent over a glowing screen, with his face in shadow and light behind him, he becomes the emblem of now. he sits like punctuation at the edge of the frame: a full stop at the end of the day, waiting for something that won't return.
I knew where it was. It was just that I had little idea of how I was going to get there. Courtesy of the major road upgrade right on our doorstep that’s gathered pace this summer, I’d already been forced along two diversions I hadn’t been too wild about following. By the time I arrived at the outskirts of St Agnes I was beginning to lose heart. And now things got worse. The road I’d planned on taking when I looked at the map appeared to be a very narrow bridle path, and so I continued to the next likely looking route, only to find myself crawling along a classic Cornish lane, barely wider than the car and flanked by bracken that did little to hide the bruising granite walls on either side. And of course it was as I was almost a quarter of a mile along it that a car appeared, coming from the other direction. A few minutes of irritable backtracking to the unbroken sound of my car’s complaining reversing sensors later, followed by an apologetic thank you from the grateful occupants of the offending obstacle, I gave in and turned around, finally arriving at a layby beside the main road where I stopped to inspect the map once more. The last mile took me down another narrow winding lane, but at least this time I didn’t meet anyone coming in the other direction. The track from the road to the car park was a series of ruts, rocks and potholes, but finally I was here, ready to explore a space I’d never brought the camera to before. I was only six miles from home, but the drive had taken me almost an hour. On the plus side, apart from me there were just two vans in the car park. Presumably everyone else was stuck in that narrow lane waiting to see who’d engage reverse gear first.
It was Marcus and his YouTube channel, Cornwall on Camera, that had brought me here. Somewhere in the afternoon the idea had taken root that I needed to get out for a couple of hours, just to breathe in the air and watch the sea. Of course I’d have the bag with me, but photography wasn’t the main purpose. As I often do when I haven’t really made plans, I’d already half resolved to go to Wheal Coates, the nearest coastal beauty spot. But then I looked at the tide times and considered the options again. It was a mild afternoon, devoid of purposeful conditions, and I do generally prefer Wheal Coates when things are a bit nasty. Nasty was the last word I’d use to describe this gentle September Sunday afternoon, and as I continued in the current vein of indecision, Trevellas Cove suddenly leapt into the forefront of my ambitions and shouted “remember me with my twin sea stacks?” And so the deal was done. It was a perfect day to try something new.
Unlike the drive here, it didn’t take long to get my bearings, although I was immediately distracted by a small group of people on the beach who were all staring out across the water. What on earth were they looking at? It took a while for me to realise that their friend, swimming close to the shore, had been joined by an inquisitive seal, edging ever closer to him until it was almost within touching distance. For a few minutes I sat and watched, entranced, intrigued and full of envy. I made a mental note to bring my wetsuit and the underwater camera next time. And with that thought in mind, I continued along the narrow clifftop path towards where I hoped I might find the sea stacks.
It was only after I’d set up the tripod and began to try and make sense of the clifftop composition that they walked past, him barely registering me, her offering a smile as I nodded hello. And within seconds they’d vanished, before I caught a glimpse of them on the rocks below, donning wetsuits and jumping into the sea. I’d assumed I was standing as close as you could get with high tide approaching, but by watching their progress I was already beginning to learn something about the place. Following their route took me to a rocky platform. And there was the scramble to the side of me - a diagonal traverse that would allow anyone brave enough to descend the few metres to the shelf beside the sea. It wasn’t for the faint hearted, but just about navigable if taken methodically and slowly. After a bit of huffing and puffing and searching for suitable holds, I was soon on the smooth grey rocks where a whole new world opened up in front of me. Now I could stand close to the water, with lots of delicious textures right there in front of me.
Unlike many of Marcus’ shots here, I completely ignored the right hand stack and brought the edge of St Agnes Head into the frame, the small dot known as the cow and calf on the horizon. You’ll need to see them from Perranporth to make sense of that descriptive title. And although I hadn’t consulted the relevant apps, I’d evidently chosen a good time of year to come here, because the sun was setting in exactly the right place. I’d come here armed with the B team, the crop body and ragtag lens collection, including that one - the Tokina wide angle affair that had arrived from Pakistan and broken down on its first outing. But those debut nerves seemed to have been banished to the wings, the lens working without complaint and performing rather admirably considering how little it cost in comparison to the rest of them.
The return journey was rather less eventful, even though the clamber from the rocks to the grassy safety above felt marginally more hair raising than the journey down had. I need a pulley system installed for next time. Either that or a raft to get me back to the beach, very possibly with a playful seal in hot pursuit. Whether or not I’m brave or daft enough to take on that traverse again, I was glad I made the effort. I will be back. I think this place has another ace or two up its sleeve, waiting to be discovered.