View allAll Photos Tagged exploremore
Follow me on Instagram:
Walking along the peninsula at Cape Bridgewater, Victoria, Australia. Surrounded by wind farms and the ocean, this place is one of the most beautiful places I have visited.
A big pride killed that elephant the night before. We just arrived after the main dish, but everyone was havin a little desert.
That one lion, lying on top of the carcass was a bit scary of water and tried to stay as dry as he could... I have some nice pictures of him, trying to balance over the tusk to get to the land without wet paws.
Recently I decided to buy a new car. Not brand new of course - splashing out enormous sums of money on something that loses a large chunk of its value ten minutes after turning the key doesn't exactly go hand in hand with the grand plan of getting out of the rat race as soon as I can possibly afford to. But Id decided I needed something a bit more practical and robust than my little town car for the increasing amount of time I spend on roads it wasn't designed to travel in pursuit of my camera related adventures. Today was our first proper outing together.
Recently I've had a yen to find some Silver Birch trees. I blame three of the YouTubers I follow for this. Messrs Danson, Turner and Heaton all live sufficiently close to numerous birch forests in the north of England, which they photograph with enthusiastic regularity for my viewing pleasure and edification. The lovely thing about them is the way their bright trunks stand out from the oranges and browns of autumn. The trouble is that the silver birch seems to be quite thin on the ground down here in the South West. Google "Silver Birch Cornwall" and the first half dozen results are all leading me to garden centres offering them for sale. However, there was some suggestion that I might find some here at Ladock, a few miles to the east of Truro. I checked the forecast and learned that Saturday would bring dull wet conditions, which I decided was perfect for a woodland escapade. Even more perfect was the idea of stopping en route for breakfast at the Yummy Scrummy Cafe at Summercourt for one of their glorious sausage sandwiches on rustic bread and a cup of decent coffee to wash it down with. Maybe even two cups of coffee. I had a plan and I was very happy with it. I waited for Saturday impatiently.
Of course plans don't always unfold as expected. I'd forgotten that it was the first day of half term, and the main road in and out of Cornwall, which also happened to form most of my route was rammed in both directions. People will always come here on holiday, no matter how terrible the weather is. When I finally arrived at the Yummy Scrummy the sense of frustration at the traffic conditions was instantly forgotten, overtaken by the fact that the cafe was inexplicably closed, despite it being right in the middle of peak hours on a Saturday. I checked my phone, which confirmed that it was supposed to be open. I'd skipped breakfast at home in anticipation of that sausage sandwich. In despair I gazed at the map, in the full knowledge that whatever food I did find in the remote roads between here and Ladock, it wasn't going to be a fit substitute. Eventually I ended up in a petrol station, staring morosely at the sandwiches in the chiller before finally selecting a BLT, and a pack of "finest quality" Tikka bites. Considering there were about 15 of them in the pack for the princely sum of one pound, it seemed unlikely that the boast was going to be true.
I carried on my journey through the grim conditions, still unfamiliar with the controls in the car. For the last seven miles the rear wiper carried on wiping no matter how many times I flipped the stalk that's supposed to switch it on and off, while the wind outside was closely matched by the climatronic (I didn't make that word up) system that was whipping up a gale around me. At least it made for a nice clear windscreen and the front wipers were busy making up their own rules, moving as quickly or slowly as they felt was necessary. Maybe I ought to read the owners' handbook that I found in the glove compartment.
To the untrained eye, the sight of someone arriving on location with both cameras and all five lenses might suggest an experienced and accomplished professional, but of course you know better than that. You'd have immediately spotted the signs of someone who hadn't got the faintest clue what he was doing. The thing is that with seascape and landscape you can generally manage to come away with something presentable if you're half competent. But woodlands are much more difficult - do you look for order among chaos, or do you live with the latter? Do you try and pick out elements with the long lens, or do you go wide? I guess that's what I'm going to have to try and learn as I spend more time among the trees, because despite the confusion I love the sense of peace these places bring,
Ladock Wood is an odd place. Indigenous Oak, Ash, Beech, Chestnut, and (apparently somewhere in there) Silver Birch live alongside a sterile Spruce plantation, presumably only planted here so it can be chopped down again for timber. The dark and gloomy spaces under the lines of Spruce are devoid of life, the birds apparently having voted with their wings and gone elsewhere. I once read that these non native Sitka Spruces were imported to feed the demand for timber during and after the wars of the last century. Tall and fast growing they were ideal for the economy. It's just a shame nobody stopped to consider the ecology. I'll get off my soapbox before I fall off it.
It was one of those afternoons when you can tell that while the strength of it will ebb and flow, the rain itself isn't going to stop at any point. Setting up the camera whilst trying to keep the polariser clear of moisture was very challenging as huge fat raindrops gathered on the canopy above me, only to be released in numbers with every passing gust of wind. I never found the mystical Silver Birch trees of course, but I'm assured they're there somewhere. They'll still be there next time, although I've been warned not to expect too much. Ironic then that after three hours of tramping about in my wellies, the photo I liked the most is the one of the soulless Spruces, caught on the left hand side by a window of light from the west. As I began the walk back towards a car I'm also learning to make sense of, I couldn't help chuckling to myself at just how ironic.
Back at the car I congratulated myself on having at least brought some coffee of my own with me to wash down the Tikka bites - which as it transpired weren't at all bad. Amazing what you can still get for a pound.
An elephant mama standing below a a tree in the Hoanib riverbed. It was such a close and intimate encounter, that I started to take some close-ups.
Last Saturday I woke up happy. Something in the air told me the day was going to be fun. Of course Saturdays are generally fun by default anyway. They mean that work is over for the week, and there's no need to race off to somewhere you don't want to, feeling anxious and irritable before you've properly woken up. You can linger over coffee as you anticipate the day of freedom ahead. And in the evening you haven't got to worry about getting up the next morning. Even when my team loses, Saturdays are just great. Luckily for me, 10 more months and every day will be Saturday. Probably by then I'll complain about Saturdays in the true style of every self respecting pensioner because everyone else will be off work and getting in my way. Sorry about that.
Last weekend was set to be especially enjoyable though, as it was due to begin with an eight mile trail run on Goss Moor with Emma and Sheona. I don't have many close friends. Don't fear, that wasn't a request to drag your violins out. It's just that I like my own company and space; it works well with landscape photography, so friends can be a bit peripheral in life. There's Lee of course - you've got to get on well with someone you've cycled halfway across France with, hiked 100 miles across Scotland with, and most challenging of all, shared a VW camper with for a 6 day tour of Iceland. Five of those days had elapsed before we got to a public shower. There's my partner Ali, who is also my best friend. Even after all these years she can still make me laugh so much with as little as a single facial expression that it hurts. She's even more antisocial than I am though. Then there's Emma, who I worked with for almost 20 years until recently. Ever bossy and always there with a hug and a coffee when she was needed, often lecturing me about my running technique. She's a qualified mountain biking instructor so I refuse to go cycling with her. And then there's Sheona, who came crashing into our lives only 4 years ago, Yorkshire born, hilarious, loud, inappropriate and with a vocabulary which would make a gang of railway navvies blush. These are the people I can't let go of in life.
The three of us have become a sort of running rump, the remains of a larger group that has gradually thinned as these things often do. We meet every other weekend for a morning run, which is generally followed rather more enthusiastically by breakfast and coffee that usually runs into the early afternoon. This time it was Sheona's turn to be our host, leading us around her local circuit. Halfway along the route she decided to throw in a short cut that she'd taken before. We needed to get to our pre-ordered breakfast and we were already late you see. What followed was half a mile of ankle deep mud and puddles and a lot of bad language from my favourite human swear box - especially at the point that she lost a shoe in the bog beneath her feet. I don't think I've ever laughed so hard when I've been out running, although it didn't seem quite so funny when her no so short cut added a mile to the route. We were twenty five minutes late for breakfast. Fortunately she is famous for being late for absolutely everything, so they'd kept our breakfast warm in the knowledge that we'd arrive eventually.
And so I moved on to the second adventure of the day. Four hours of Golitha Falls, The car park was almost completely full and the heady aroma of fried onions tumbled out of Inkies, a renowned cafe in these parts. Next time I need to make sure I haven't just eaten a full English Breakfast when I arrive.
The world may have slowed down this year, but the River Fowey obviously didn't get the memo, racing down the gorge away from Bodmin Moor in a hurry to reach the sea. As I stood watching the water, my camera bag unopened, a salmon leapt the first tier of the waterfall in front of me. I've seen this on television plenty of times, but nothing prepared me for the excitement of seeing the spectacle in real life. For a long period I stopped and stared, wondering whether I'd see another one follow it. It never happened, although ten minutes later, what I assumed was the same fish leapt the second tier. Nature is so wonderful. I'll never tire of it. I continued along the rocky river bank, pursued by my only irritation of the day, a young pair I will refer to as the "Coffee Cup Couple." Everywhere I went, it seemed they followed me, holding grimly to their two disposable cups as they tried to navigate the narrow path of mossy rocks, forcing me forward when I wanted to linger and then eventually passing me and loitering in the middle of the composition I'd come for, Eventually it seemed their cups needed refilling and they left me and the salmon alone to plot our respective paths along this stunning stretch of water in peace, and finally I started to pick out the compositions I was hoping to see. I smiled and settled myself and my tripod beneath the trees and took my time, thinking to myself, this is just as all Saturdays should be.
And guess what? Tomorrow it's Saturday. What more could I ask for?
Some roads feel like they lead straight into a dream. This one, deep in Olympic National Park, winds through moss-covered giants and glowing green light, captured under the last rays of sunset. Every curve pulls you deeper into the wild heart of the Pacific Northwest — where adventure begins the moment the pavement disappears into the forest...
photomanm.com/personal-photography-project-sky-mountain-17/
sky mountain #17
Hong Kong, 2021
.
.
.
works by photomanm
discover more at photomanm.com
This place is not the easiest to find located in a gorge with quite a steep muddy decent down a nearly 300 year old "staircase" if you can call it a staircase. Once you get down there it feels very fairy tale like, as if you're in a magical fantasy.
Canon 6D
EF 16-35mm f/2.8 ii USM
Follow my:
Un paisaje invernal panorámico capturado en el Cerro Perito Moreno, cerca de Bariloche en la Patagonia argentina.
Esta escena de gran altitud muestra extensos campos de nieve, formaciones de roca volcánica y escarpadas crestas montañosas bajo un cielo alpino profundo.
I don't know about you, but the fact that I've not been more than a couple of miles from home in the last six weeks is starting to become a bit tiresome now. Ok, so there are three exceptions to what I've just said. I've been to the office, the office and erm, let me just think about this a moment...........oh yes the office again. It's a mind boggling four and a half miles to work, and can take as long as ten minutes to get there at the moment. For now, my beloved coast may as well be on the other side of the planet, and places like Croatia might just about be in the next solar system. The car is still on the same tank of diesel I filled it with before Christmas. In fact it's still well over half full. Every cloud and all that.
Still, Ali had the call on Sunday. A bit of a surprise as she's not sixty yet, but she got the phone call that most of us are eagerly awaiting right now, and by lunchtime she'd had a quart of your finest Oxford Astrazeneca injected into her arm. Sunday was the day by which the Prime Minister had promised we'd have 15 million first vaccinations administered, so we suspect there was a push to inject anyone who could be ready at no notice whatsoever - I've never seen her move so fast. Quite honestly, I've never seen her so excited ether - not even just when we've been about to board the plane to Majorca for a summer fortnight in the place she never stops dreaming about. I didn't get the call though - I had to settle for a home poured pint of Guinness instead. My time will come soon enough no doubt. It does at least remind us that progress is being made. Our NHS is absolutely wonderful don't you think? They're all going to need a very long holiday when this is over. We might have to go and hold the fort while they have the biggest party of all time in Zante or somewhere.
Over the weekend I'd been watching a young couple from Cornwall on YouTube as they made their way through the Balkans in an elderly but rugged looking LDV Convoy van. They seemed to spend an awful lot of time seeking out hot springs in remote corners of Serbia and trying to find places to wild camp in Slovenia, a country which disappointingly insists on its visitors using campsites. Their adventures put me in mind of neighbouring Croatia, a country we'd spent a week in almost four years ago. Strangely it seems longer ago than that. Frequently we lament how quickly passes, but so much has happened in the last four years; the good, the bad and the utterly soul-destroying have all crossed our paths. Happily, many of my raw files had survived the passage of time and as the weekend of non-stop rain continued outside I downloaded a selection and went to work on them.
Croatia was one of those destinations we were always talking about, but had never quite managed to get to. We weren't the only ones either. If I mentioned it to anyone else, the stock response was "Oh yes; we want to go there as well." If everyone who wanted to go suddenly all decided to at once, the place was going to be a bit full. But until my daughter chose to spend her honeymoon there, my second hand knowledge of the country was limited to the experience of a colleague, whose normally well guarded personal life suddenly became an open book where his annual summer holiday was concerned. Suffice to say that when I told him I'd booked two flights to Split one Friday evening after five a side had gone badly and my spirits need lifting, the response was positively glowing. He even drew his phone from his pocket and started showing me pictures. My daughter confirmed his appraisal of Croatia on her return from her honeymoon. And they'd had a private infinity pool (which I'd paid for of course).
The only thing that eclipsed the anticipation of our forthcoming visit was the country itself. It was even more lovely than I'd hoped for. We were on the coast north of Split at this delightful little bolt hole, where night after night was filled with stunning orange sunsets and vivid blue hours. Just before the main holiday season took hold, Primosten was peaceful and unhurried and the beach was delightfully empty. We vowed to return and see more of the country - to roam the islands and explore the interior on a much longer stay. Of course we haven't done yet because people only talk about visiting Croatia rather than actually going there as I've already mentioned. But it hasn't escaped our attention that in the new relationship with Europe that democracy has chosen for us, a visit to Croatia doesn't contribute to the three month visiting limit before we have to start faffing about with visas. This bodes well for our own campervan adventure - whenever that actually happens. I think I could handle a lengthy stop in a place like this.
Well one of us will have to faff about with visas anyway. Ali might have had the jab, but I've got two passports, and one of them was issued in Dublin. So I'm still top of the smugometer scoreboard around here.
Deere Asylum, Virginia / USA - November 2020: Looking down the hallway of the male patient long term ward, doors a jar in the darkness of an abandoned mental hospital.
A great scene created by the storm clouds while hikig the red mountain in San Juan mountains of Colorado
"It's like being at the start of a rollercoaster ride. We're just inching our way up that first steep incline and then once we go over the top we have to cling on and not look down. I'm grinning stupidly and thinking to myself "this is interesting" because I haven't got a clue what's happening, while everyone else looks terrified."
Lucy's analogy summed it up pretty well I thought. Two months ago, just after the last ride was completed she joined the college as my replacement, full of enthusiasm and new energy. Everywhere around the place you can can almost taste the tension as you look into peoples' eyes at the dawn of a new academic year. People around us who've been promoted recently look especially nervous - "should I have kept my head below the parapet?" you can almost hear them asking themselves. I see colleagues I've known for so many years, their faces full of resignation in the knowledge that the brief summer respite has passed, and many of us non-teaching staff have barely had a holiday at all. I want to hug them all and tell them they'll survive (although there's a pandemic on), but I know what they're all about to endure and how tired they'll be by Christmas, which will arrive before they blink. Our college prides itself on being graded as outstanding by Her Majesty's government inspectors each time they visit, but it doesn't half depend upon every inch of good intentions from its seemingly inextinguishable workforce; all of them insanely jealous of their friends beyond the walls who can take quiet, budget friendly September holidays when the crowds have gone and the kids are back at school. Plenty of them have ridden the rollercoaster more times than me - how they keep on going with such apparent cheer and vigour I've really no idea.
We've scarcely batted an eyelid since the last time we were all up here twelve months ago, buckled into those inescapable cars with sweaty hands over screwed up eyes, not daring to look at the view in front of us. For me I knew it was the last ride, but it didn't make it any less bewildering. The last few months have been especially tiring, so much so that I began to think I was unwell by the end of the summer term. In the evenings, plagued by fearsome headaches I could barely stay awake and the notion of going out with the camera was unthinkable. I even went to the doctor, but it seems I've become a hypochondriac because everything was "normal" as the doctors like to describe one's health. A week after the end of term we were walking here in the Brecon Beacons of South Wales, the first time we'd been away for almost a year. It was only later when it occured to me that I felt absolutely fine. Better than fine after more than thirty miles of walking in fresh mountainside air. The last rollercoaster ride had obviously taken its toll, but with a little bit of self administered social prescription, the damage was easily repaired. Maybe that's what happens when you know you've almost made it to the end. You're just holding on and thinking about the quiet journey home.
On Tuesday, our much loved long serving colleague Ruth climbed out of the rollercoaster and disappeared off into a happy retirement. It was an emotional farewell - we were together for twenty-one rollercoaster rides, longer than any other working relationship in my life. So far she's enjoying late mornings and coffee she tells us. In three short weeks from now she'll be waiting for me at the opposite end of the escape tunnel holding a set of plain clothes and false identity papers as I make the final bid for freedom - maybe a discreet wig as well. By that stage the rollercoaster will be halfway down the first hair raising descent, somewhere between Fan y Big and Cribyn in the landscape before you, with the monstrous slope to the summit of Pen y Fan lying further along the ride.
I think this will be the final shot I post from that ridge walk. There are other stories to tell, and I know some of you who've been keeping up can barely wait to hear the tale of the naked man who ruined my sister's attempts at wild swimming later in the week. Since this adventure Ali and I spent a couple of nights in the wilds of Dartmoor in the van - there are pictures to come from there as well.
I hope you're all enjoying the beginning of the weekend and the brief interruption of your own rollercoaster rides. Keep holding on and don't look down - you'll be just fine.
Golden spring morning at Long Point Wildlife Refuge
--
May 2020, Martha's Vineyard
•
•
•
•
#gotta_love_the_vineyard #marthasvineyard #xt3 #MyFujifilmLegacy
#fog #mist #capecodlife #capecodimages #igersmass #newengland #exploremore #stayandwander #goexplore #destinationearth #lovelifeoutside #newenglandigers
@marthasvineyardlife @mvtweets @mvpics @trustees @thetrustees @newengland_igers @fujifilmx_us
Standing and embracing the energy in front of the Grand Himalchuli.
.
.
.
.
.
#hope #getoutside#himalchuli #manaslu #manasluregion #gorkha #fromwhereistand #wildernessculture #getoutstayout #exploremore #natgeoadventure #livetravelchannel #nakedplanet #roamtheplanet
Friday was fun. The end of the latest lockdown in England seemed a good reason to take a long weekend and go for a jolly boys' outing with Dave and Lee with a car full of camera bags, coffee and pasties. After a deal of consultation, during which the unfavourable timings for low and high tide were discussed with some dismay, we eventually decided to stick to plan A and explore the mysteries of the A39 corridor. Despite none of us being born here, we've all lived in Cornwall for many years, yet the stretch of coastline between Padstow and Bude may as well have been on the moon for all the time any of us have spent there. Apart from a pit stop at Bude to eat the pasties before they went cold and to inspect the lido at the edge of the beach, we're no further forward on that front. I really wanted to try Trebarwith Strand, but the shoreline wasn't going to be where we wanted when we wanted. So we carried on further east into a remote corner of North West Devon, just over the border among the dramatic and mostly inaccessible geology of the area around Hartland.
Some of you have set up your tripods on more or less the exact same spot as this. I know because I've seen your images of Blackchurch Rock in these pages. What none of you mentioned (although to be fair I didn't ask) is the 2 kilometre hike down the muddy path through Brownsham Wood, nor the 2 kilometre struggle back up the hill afterwards. The ankle breaker cobbles across the beach to this vantage point were also a bit of a challenge to negotiate, yet they were a doddle compared to the slippery array of Toblerone shaped lead in lines in front of the object of our attentions. By the way, why am I only allowed Toblerones at Christmas? Why do they now have gaps between each chunk so wide that an unconsumed bar could double up as a bicycle stand?
I digress. Suffice to say it's not the easiest beach upon which to take photographs, and if like me you have a limited imagination, then there's only one shot to take. There's an enticing waterfall pouring over the western end of the beach, but by the time I was done here I just wanted to stand on firm ground again - well firm mud anyway. Dave had volunteered to pose in the arches to bring scale while I floundered stupidly. My L bracket was loose on the camera, my Arca plate was spinning around on the ball head like a Dervish, and my brain was only slightly more controlled - not helped by the fact that a pair of youths were waiting behind me for their turn at the only composition in town. As I fumbled about the tripod toppled over to take a sudden salty bath in the rock pool in front of me - at least the camera wasn't yet mounted on it. Moments later my thermal "Chilly's" bottle - the one I won in a photography competition I didn't realise I'd entered - also decided to make a bid for freedom. I retrieved it from another rock pool. It now has some unattractive scrapes down one side, but at least the coffee inside it was still hot and unsalted.
Quite how I got away from here unscathed with the contents of my camera bag intact I'm really not sure. The journey here had promised some dramatic light, yet by the time we arrived here the sky was disappointingly benign. From the relative shelter of the woods we were greeted by a windy winter blast as the treeline ended and we arrived at the sea. I was glad I was wearing my fleece lined trousers and both of my coats. The balaclava beanie that makes me look as if I'm about to visit the local post office with bad intentions was especially welcome as the icy air chased around me. If the cold had complicated matters further I'm certain the curse of the wide angle lens I'd fitted to my camera would have returned on these treacherous Toblerones.
Somebody else is going to have to tell you more about Blackchurch Rock I'm afraid. Even the climbing websites I looked at wouldn't tell me how high it is. Dave is 5' 11" if that helps. It's like an enormous sandwich, layer upon layer of sandstone, mudstone (whatever that is) and shale, twisted up into the shape of a giant steam iron on its side from the sea floor. It's certainly very dramatic. Positively primordial, it's the sort of place where you can let the imagination go as you visualise a Tyrannosaurus Rex having a much easier time of the terrain than you just did here. I'd love to shoot it under a summer sunrise or a more doom laden sky one day. But whether I'll be brave enough to return and risk my precious camera gear is something I'll have to think about.