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Der Buchenkreisling kann im Spätherbst relativ häufig auf Buchentotholz gefunden werden.
Stack aus 16 Einzelbildern.
'Nature's architecture at its finest Tower Bridge, see from the Fairyland Loop Trail in Bryce Canyon National Park where every step feels like walking through another world. Utah's red rock beauty never fails to amaze!"
“That looks like him.” Lee summoned up a piercing whistle in the direction of the figure by the shore that reduced my left ear to a bout of whining tinnitus, scattering a nearby group of oystercatchers into the air as he did so. It was helpful that Lloyd was in photographer mode, because it instantly gave him away when all we could really remember from our previous meeting was that he was quite tall, and he didn’t have the trademark beard that we had been expecting to identify him with. We all do photographer mode, and it’s what separates us from everyone else; edging back and forward, from side to side and peering intently at something that nobody else can see as we weigh up our compositions. “Should I stand here, or three inches to the left? Should I go forward a bit, or back ten feet? Should I have the tripod fully extended or belly down on the sand?” You don’t often see the selfie stick brigade taking quite so much care over where they’ve put that rock or whether they’ve lined up their repeating diagonals before they hit the shutter button.
I wasn’t sure I was going to be around for Lloyd’s visit, but the big plans to go far north to the Highlands and Islands had been parked for the time being, meaning a get together at Godrevy was now on the agenda. I’m always ready for a reason to go to Godrevy after all. Lloyd had already been here for some time, and you’ve probably seen the image he took before we arrived. We saw it first on the back of his camera so there. Just saying. It’s definitely his in case you were wondering.
Initially we headed for a spot that not many people make it to, on the rocks below a small cliff near the lighthouse, where it seemed we’d gatecrashed a party of one solitary seal, basking in the sunshine and watching us interestedly. I messaged my friend Katie, who in her spare time is a member of a sea life rescue group. Somehow in her busy life she manages to squeeze rescuing stranded dolphins, whales and seals among other aquatic mammals in distress, as well as photographing the underwater world and finding all sorts of fascinating things I never even knew existed. Who knew there was so much to see below the dark waters off the coast of Penzance? “Yes we’re monitoring it,” came the reply. “We think it’s just enjoying living there at the moment.” I looked again at the seal, which gazed back at me in return, almost smiling. I decided she was probably right. What wasn’t right was the light; we were here too early and retreated back up to the cliff path, watched as we went by a pair of black eyes that still seemed to smile. I never tire of watching the seals here – they usually come and watch me with interest as I pitch my tripod on the rocks just above the water here, no doubt wondering what on earth I’m up to. It always feels like a shared moment.
Back at the clifftop near the bench, Lloyd had a plan for sunset and made himself ready for the killer shot, while Lee eventually wandered away to the west, presumably in search of distant lone figures on the beach to stalk at two hundred millimetres. Meanwhile, I headed back down to the water’s edge where our new friend regarded me once more with those smiling black eyes, and giving it as wide a berth as it could I found my spot on the rocks, just in time for the sun to drop below the bank of cloud and illuminate the receding tide. Sometimes you just know you’ve got a shot that’s going to make you happy. After a while I decided I’d had the best of it, and returned to the top of the cliff, exchanging one last grin with those ever watching eyes as I went.
Lloyd was already at work behind the camera, and I joined him on a wide rocky shelf where we discussed the joys of photography and his plans for the rest of his visit. He was on a family holiday, and we all know that you can only get away with so much roaming around on lonely clifftops with your camera bag when your loved ones are with you. We stayed until dusk, neither of us sure when to give up and put the cameras away. It’s always like that when I’m alone here, and when you’re with someone who works in a similar way, that certainty in when to finish is often further fogged. But it had been a successful visit and we both left that clifftop feeling we’d got a shot or two worth sharing. We said our farewells and looked forward to Lloyd’s next visit when photography would be the central focus for him here. He’s rather good at it too.
I headed back down to those rocks a week later. The seal was gone. Maybe a pair of black smiling eyes were watching me from the water, but I didn’t see them.
This photo was taken from Baisse du Basto, a high mountain pass in the Mercantour National Park in the French Alps. The foreground is filled with large, jagged rocks, showing the rough and wild terrain typical of this altitude. In the distance, steep mountain slopes rise dramatically, partially covered by mist and clouds. A small patch of blue sky breaks through, adding contrast to the grey tones of the rocks and peaks. The scene feels remote and powerful—a raw glimpse into the alpine wilderness.
The morning had barely begun when the sky decided to put on a show.
Dramatic clouds rose above the still waters of Lake Krickenbeck, and for a moment, the world stood still. The silence was broken only by birdsong and the distant ripple of reeds in the wind.
This is one of those scenes where light, form, and feeling align. A quiet moment from a recent photohike in western Germany – captured with care and a sense of presence.
️ If you’re curious about the full story behind this image – and the route that led to it – I’ve shared the background in this blog post:
Azenhas do Mar is a small coastal village in Sintra, known for its white houses cascading down the cliffside and its natural ocean pool that fills with the tide, but which is currently completely covered in sand. The dramatic meeting of the Atlantic’s power with traditional architecture creates a landscape that feels straight out of a postcard.
The village is about 40-45 Km from Lisbon, which usually takes 40 to 50 minutes, depending on traffic
Remember early last year when Storm Freya paid an energetic visit to our shores one feisty weekend at the beginning of March? Possibly not; after all the storms seem to roll in one after another towards the end of the winter around here. This year it was the same, with Ciara, Dennis and Jorge arriving from the west to enliven February. Apparently the last one was due to be named Ellen in keeping with the alphabetical sequencing theme, but our friends in Spain saw it first and gave it a more continental flavour. We do get a lot of storms along the west coast of the British Isles. At least they had the decency to arrive at the weekends to bring a bit of drama to our photographic adventures.
Freya was also a weekend visitor, and it seemed rude not to head five miles down the road to Portreath to watch the action, elbow to elbow with a generous number of fellow camera wielding visitors as is always the case when the weather gets a bit exciting here. Eventually I managed to entrench myself in my favorite corner of the few square yards that provide this vantage point. In this chosen spot you can watch incoming rollers that race towards the inner harbour drench the unsuspecting viewers on the edge of the quay below as you wonder whether you should have warned them (although I suspect they're aware and they do it for fun). Occasionally one of the bigger waves will carry enough force to even reach our lofty position so you have to be ready to spin through one hundred and eighty degrees and crouch down rapidly to protect your precious camera equipment. It doesn't matter how weatherproof the camera is. Sea waterproof it is not.
On this visit I didn't bother with a tripod - a rare thing - and I set the camera in burst mode. This resulted in sifting through almost 700 RAW files later in the day, from which I picked a few. Sometimes I feel that the more fun I have actually taking the shots, the less pleasure it brings when I have to decide which of the fruits of my labour I'm going to work with. Until recently I'd left the folder full of images untouched, but just a few days ago I decided I needed to clear some space on the laptop. 700 files became a still confusing 28, which made this morning's happy little spell of absent minded pottering about in Lightroom slightly easier than it otherwise would have been. It's still challenging, because every image I've kept has a different aspect that catches my eye. What I liked about this one was the curtain of water cascading from the harbour wall.
The are probably still one or two more I might share from this session. Once I've furrowed my brow at the remaining 27 shots in confusion that is.
Happy Sunday Flickr friends.