instaselfie photos on Flickr

82 46

There’s no denying that my home county is full of famous spots, many of which are regularly besieged by photographers of all kinds throughout the seasons. Whether you’re a phone wielding Instaselfie sensation showing yourself off in front of legions of admiring followers, or a humble old curmudgeon with a bag of camera equipment and a rather more modest audience, you'll find plenty of things to take pictures of, and there’s always room for a new addition to the list of favourite places on the local circuit. I hope to photograph Godrevy, Holywell Bay, Wheal Coates and Botallack many more times before my bearings give out, but at the same time I’m consciously looking for new locations on the doorstep to photograph. Fortunately for me, it’s a bountiful doorstep.

Less than two weeks since the first time I’d ever taken photographs at Bosigran Head, we were back here again. And once again, my sunset plans were overtaken by something else that had caught my eye. In this case, it was something I’d noticed on our first and only previous visit, two years earlier on a sunny May afternoon. I remembered thinking it would be the ideal winter shot, with the sun sinking into the back of the frame near Pendeen Lighthouse on a colourful December afternoon. Surely there was little point in looking at it until then was there? Big waves smashing onto the rocks under a soft winter sun? Perfect.

But then again, why not today? I was here with heather on my mind, and on top of the headland I was struggling to find any that met the brief as far as foregrounds go. For a while, Ali and I found comfortable rocks upon which to sit near the top of Bosigran Head, listening to the sea and the squeezebox cries of riotous choughs coming screeching across the still air. It’s a wonderful place to tune out of life; to sit and watch the world on a lazy summer afternoon. Every so often a climber or two would appear from beneath the ridge, hard hat first as they made their final moves to the top. Quite where they’d started from and how they got there, I can’t really say. One young lady asked us if we were climbing too. Given our ages, we were both quite flattered that it had even crossed her mind we might be capable of scaling the sheer cliffs that plunge decisively into the ocean below. I was getting wobbly legs whenever I looked over the side. And I don’t have any particular issues with vertigo. If you do, you might want to bring a blindfold. And somebody you trust your life with.

After a while, we decided to walk towards Porthmeor Cove, just a short distance to the north of here, along a very quiet South West Coast Path. We met just one couple coming the other way, him sitting nobly on an outcrop like Rodin’s Thinker, reading a novel while she laboured up the slope some distance behind with a red faced grin. One uphill and two downhills later, I recognised the low rocky area I’d spotted two years ago. Now it was Ali’s turn to sit at the top, her nose buried in a book, while I disappeared down towards a rocky area of scrub not far from the water, where I found some strategically placed purple heather that was in perfect bloom. And just like that previous visit a couple of weeks earlier, it felt like a case of now or next year, because those flowers don’t last forever. In the golden hour, the scene might catch a touch of summer glow. But there were still nearly three hours until sunset. Besides which, this was just a walk. The camera was in the van, a twenty minute (mostly) uphill yomp away. Back to the van for supper, and then I’d reverse that yomp back to this exact same spot.

I still think the area around Bosigran Head has immense winter potential, and I’ve never seen another photograph of this stunning view towards Pendeen Lighthouse. But while I certainly plan to return towards the end of the year, I was clearly wrong to write off its ability to harness a summer sunset. And there’s enough interest in a scene like this to overcome a featureless sky as far as I’m concerned. We all love a colourful cloudscape, but it doesn’t have to be a deal breaker. Sometimes it can even be a distraction. For me, there’s enough going on in the sea and on the land to hold the eye here. This beautiful wild place at the edge of the world can stand up on its own, especially when the heather is in full bloom. A new favourite now sits on the local circuit, waiting for the next time, whatever that may bring.

In the Pine Forest by Dom Haughton

101 70

The problem with these colourful coves along the south coast is that the sun leaves the beach quite early. Cala Macarella, one of the popular tourist spots on the island, and just a headland crossing away from our resort of Cala Galdana was one of them. It was Saturday and the path was alive with humans moving over it like colonies of ants, trudging from one beach to the next, high up through the bright green pine forest where pink cyclamen littered the ground in clusters beneath the trees. Look at the map and you’ll see a web of white trails spreading their tentacles through the woods in this area. Once or twice a smaller track led away to the left - towards the cliff edge. We followed each one, just to catch a glimpse of what views were on offer from up here above the sea. This was the second such diversion we took, and it was the one that offered the best view. I resolved to be back here in time for sunset, which was in about two and a half hours from now.

For a while the world was ours alone - this whispering forest on the high ground with the endless chirruping of cicadas in the air. Below lay the sea, a sighing blanket of azure spreading away to the mountains of Majorca in the west, while a million glittering diamonds of light danced on its surface. We returned to the main trail, and after another ten minutes of walking, we began the steep descent towards the beach we couldn't yet see. At the gate, an enormous man in tiny faux leopard skin pants exhaled loudly as though the rasping breaths he made might be his last. At least he’d nearly made it to the top of the climb. He was covered from head to feet in a thick black fuzz, and for a moment I thought he was wearing mohair pyjamas. He wasn’t. I’m still trying to get the vision out of my head. I may need an exorcist. Other day trippers were finding the ascent challenging, but not quite so obviously as our fur covered Tarzan of the Menorcan pine forest.

A long flight of steps led down towards our destination, patches of aquamarine appearing through the trees, the sound of the sea and the bustle of a busy beach. Too busy, even though it was October. A pretty place; a riot of Balearic blues, greens and whites, but there was little space on the sand upon which to lay down a couple of towels. I jumped into the warm sea, puttered about for a while in the shallows and then dozed off under a tree. And all the while I knew the sun would leave long before its time, over the next headland where you can take another long walk towards Cala Turqueta. And then another one to Cala des Talaier. In between each of the headlands, the little coves nestle far below and you can watch the shadows advancing from the right hand side of the beach to where you cling to the light on the left. Eventually our time was up. We began the hike up into the forest, following in the footsteps of the man in the tiny pants - with the all over body hair and the heavy breathing. I hoped he was safely down in Cala Galdana at one of the beach bars, nursing a well earned pina colada by now. I also hoped he'd put some clothes on. Only a very small percentage of people manage to look good in tiny pants.

Some time later, we were back up in the pine trees, taking the first of those side paths towards the cliffs. Up here, the sun was still in the sky - well just about anyway. Funny how a steep climb is a breeze when I think there might be a photo waiting at the top. And here at the viewpoint we met the only other person bearing anything that resembled a camera during the entire three weeks we spent here. A young man from Lyon, making a timelapse video with a GoPro, mounted onto the guardrail with a gorilla tripod. I’d love to share a link, but he was too shy to post his work online so you’ll have to make do with mine. Sorry about that.

It really does surprise me that in all of the time we were on the island, not once did we see anyone else taking photos - excluding the Instaselfie mob, of course. They get everywhere don’t they? Even here, in what I think of as a pretty postcard kind of spot, you’d think there’d be another stray oddball with a camera mounted on a tripod and a big square filter attached to the lens, but no, it was just me, and our young French friend with his GoPro on a stick. It's rather liberating when you're not battling for a patch of ground to plant your tripod on, I suppose.

The Troll Beneath the Bridge by Dom Haughton

98 53

It rained on every one of the twelve days we were in Scotland - maybe I’d just been lucky in those earlier visits, but I’d never seen it like this before. Last time we hiked near Glencoe, we did so in a heatwave that lasted a week. Now, a month further into the height of summer, conditions were decidedly more Baltic than Bahamian. It was cold and it was wet. Very wet. There was nothing for it but to buckle up and roll with the punches. No point in bleating about the weather - this was Scotland after all.

On the second Saturday, towards tea time we drove up through a particularly saturnine looking Glencoe, charged with threatening skies and dark intent. We’d already stopped in a layby near the bottom of the pass, and then the big car park overlooking the Three Sisters. Just to enjoy the unfolding drama as I stepped for the briefest moments into the world outside the van to take potshots at the landscape. One final stop was in my plans. One last moment of opportunism by the Glencoe waterfall near the top. And thanks to a local YouTuber whose channel had appeared as if by divine intervention in my feed a couple of months before making the trip, I had a plan of sorts. A plan that I hoped might bring a slightly lower viewing point from the one by the pull in next to the road. One that wouldn’t involve crossing the road.

Well ok I did cross the road, very carefully I might add, to take a look at the view everyone else was enjoying, just to compare it with what I hoped was lying in wait. But you really don’t cross the road in these parts without looking in each direction about a hundred and fifty times if you can avoid it. The views may be leaving jaws hanging just above the tarmac here, but this is the main route to the Western Highlands and islands and you really don’t want to be messing about with the traffic. And although I was now back on the wrong side of the road for the standard view of the waterfall, I was ready to deploy the insider hack. An improved view, and best of all, shelter from the rain. No constant battles with the rocket blower and lens cloth where I was going. Because while most trolls have kept pace with the digital revolution and now carry out their murky business from secret bunkers hidden in dark spaces at the back of the interweb, this one was strictly old school, opting instead for a rather more traditional setting; under a bridge on the A82.

What was especially pleasing was how easy the cheat route was. Sometimes you see this stuff online and it looks like a doddle. But then you make your way to the place that’s going to make life so much easier, only to arrive in front of a brand new eight foot barbed wire fence, humming with the unmistakable sound of two million volts, or a twenty metre high precipice beside a huge treacherous green sheet of rock that your guide forgot to mention. Sulkily, you end up crossing the corridor of doom two more times to stand next to the Instaselfie brigade, only to end up with an underwhelming result that never sees the light of day. But today was exactly as hoped for. There was the entrance to the magical kingdom beneath the bridge, just as I’d seen it on my screen at home, with only the smallest amount of graffiti, which I supposed had been left for decorative purposes by some previous occupant trolls.

Messaging Ali, who was as ever waiting patiently in the van, I told her I hadn’t succumbed to a thirty-eight tonne lorry and was still alive. I was reassured a few moments later to learn from her response that my continued existence on Planet Earth was “ok,” and that she wouldn’t have to drive the van all the way home to Cornwall on her own. Then I crept out of the rain and down to the sanctity of the rumbling bridge. Nobody else had found the place and this troll was happily alone without a billy goat in sight; not even a gruff one. Now I was roughly ten feet lower than everyone else who was enjoying this view, no longer on top of the waterfall, but looking more or less directly across the void towards it. The new perspective felt palpably more pleasing than the one above had, and best of all, I was dry. One or two hardy adventurers had climbed over the opposite wall on the bridge to scramble to a position right beside the top of the waterfall. Not all of them were wearing waterproofs. At least I had a diesel heater in the van to keep the chills at arm’s length later. The smugness indicator level on the back of my camera was currently hovering at the edge of the red zone.

I only needed a handful of shots to be happy enough, some of them zooming into the details, others capturing the entire majestic drop. Again, the weather conditions that had made photography so difficult over the last seven days were adding to the huge volumes of white water careering down into the shallow bowl. Had the weather been dry, this might have been little more than a trickle under harsh light in early July. The endless rains may have made hiking more bracing than it would otherwise have been, but here they were proving a formidable ally in these brief moments behind the camera. Photographically speaking at least, it was everything the troll beneath the bridge could have hoped for.

Research Pays Off by Steve Pellatt

40 29

The Colosseum, Rome

Well there can’t be many more iconic and instantly recognisable structures in the world than the Colosseum in Rome.

Given how iconic it is there was no way I was not going to shoot it. Now one of my locations was covered by Daniel Burton recently www.flickr.com/photos/92169786@N06/54403371597/in/datepos... I did go there before this shot but I’ll save my take on it for another time. Having seen one or two compositions on Flickr I decided to do some research online before going to Rome to see if any other compositions presented themselves. Now, for me, this was pretty hard going as the vast majority of what I could see was all geared towards the ‘Insta-selfie’ crowd (thanks to Dom Haughton for that term). To me, anything on the Instaselfie hit-list is like a ‘No Entry’ sign. All full of people posing with mega-crowds of tourists in the background also taking selfies and eating gelatos. However, at the point I did come across a few locations that I felt had potential. Unfortunately some were not feasible due to a multitude of maintenance works going on but I got lucky here. It was just a case of waiting as I had a strong feeling the early sun might catch one side of the Colosseum. I had to be a little patient as it took a few mins for the sunlight to strike the top of the stone. Luckily it still had that soft orange tone but as the sun rose and the light travelled down the structure it soon lost that colour. I think this shot is a fair compromise between colour and amount of the Colosseum hatched in light.

According to Wikipedia the Colosseum is not only the largest standing amphitheatre in the world but also the largest ancient amphitheatre ever built. Construction began under the Emperor Vespasian in AD 72 and was completed in AD 80 under his successor and heir, Titus. Further modifications were made during the reign of Domitian (AD 81-96).

The Colosseum is built of travertine limestone, volcanic rock, and brick-faced concrete. It could hold an estimated 50,000 to 80,000 spectators at various points in its history, having an average audience of some 65,000. As is well known, it was used for gladiatorial contests and public spectacles including animal hunts, executions, re-enactments of famous battles, dramas based on Roman mythology, and briefly mock sea battles! It ceased to be used for entertainment in the early medieval era. It was later reused for such purposes as housing, workshops, quarters for a religious order, a fortress, a quarry, and a Christian shrine.

Although substantially ruined by earthquakes and stone robbers, the Colosseum is still a renowned symbol of Imperial Rome and was listed as one of the New 7 Wonders of the World - en.wikipedia.org/wiki/New_7_Wonders_of_the_World

Timanfaya Dusk by Dom Haughton

103 67

Lanzarote’s crown jewels aren’t the easiest to get unfettered access to, you know. It’s ok if you’re a YouTube leviathan, or someone with the resources to go on one of their workshop expeditions, but other than that, it seems the only option is to take the bus tour and witness the inner secrets of the Timanfaya National Park under extreme supervision along with a large number of other paying visitors in broad daylight. Visitors of the Instaselfie persuasion that is. Which is about a much use as a penguin sanctuary in the Sahara, unless photographing bland blue skies is your thing. I guess a bit of high contrast mono might work, but wouldn’t it be great to stand on top of the mountain looking down over the craters at sunrise or sunset? The authorities are very protective of this precious landscape, as life struggles to regain a foothold in the dark cracks and folds of the black lava fields. Without queuing up and paying for the bus tour, you can’t get in. Not unless you’ve got a special permit, the photographer’s equivalent of one of Willy Wonka’s golden tickets.

Of course there is an alternative option. You can stand a few miles away, brandishing a big lens in the general direction of this precious wasteland. I’d already done that twice, from the higher slopes of Montana Negra. And now Ali and I had driven along the road through the malpais, paying a visit to the Timanfaya visitor centre on the edge of the park. After we’d been thrown out at closing time, we drove a few miles further, arriving at a rough parking area just outside Tinajo. From here we could walk along the appropriately named Rios de Lava, which I think we can all grasp the meaning of with even the most rudimentary knowledge of Spanish, a path through the twisted lava flows towards the unequal twin craters that go by the name of White. Caldera Blanca, and Caldereta Blanca.

It was one of those treks that seemed to go on for longer than it should have done, partly because we stopped at every one of the regular information boards along the route, reading each of them in detail even though they said pretty much exactly the same things as the boards at Volcan el Cuervo had done on the first Tuesday. Pretty much exactly the same thing as all the boards at Montana Roja a week later for that matter. By now we were all boarded out, just going through the motions. If you asked me to tell you what was on them, I really wouldn’t be able to tell you. It all goes through the remaining handful of active brain cells and comes out the other side before any of it has registered. Suffice to say, it was rather lively around here nearly three centuries ago, when this entire corner of the island was ablaze with volcanic eruptions that went on for six years.

Eventually, we reached the rim of Caldereta Blanca, the little one of course, abandoning all notions of climbing her larger sister. Getting here had been effort enough thank you very much, and we still had the return hike through the lava fields, past those boards again. We really didn’t need to read those boards yet again. Besides which, I have a friend who ran the Geography Department at the college we both worked at, and he’d furnish me with a far greater overload of tectonic technicalities than mere boards could ever tell me if I were daft enough to ask. He never wastes the opportunity to start banging on about pahoehoe lava flows. Whatever they are. I’ve been told enough times, but I still can’t remember.

For an hour we sat at the top of the crater, looking in all directions as I wielded the telephoto lens with abandon. Here, we were completely alone in the silence, watching the evening begin to glow with yet another orange sunset over the beautiful broken wasteland. And when the light began to fall, we knew it was time to make our way back to the car.

And as so often happens, timing was everything. We’d arrived back at the car now, and it was just in time for me to set up the tripod and grab the classic Canarian dusk colours, that orange band lighting up against the dark silhouettes of the land and the rapidly deepening sky. It always happens so quickly in these subtropical latitudes, the moments between the golden hour and darkness fleeting across the landscape in a race towards the night, at the same time simplifying the scene and reducing it to shapes and light. A shot of the Timanfaya National Park, no less. Albeit from five miles to the east. Better than the bus at any rate.

Selfie in the Mist? by Steve Pellatt

29 9

Saw Mill Pond, Caddo Lake, Big Cypress Bayou, Texas

As several of my Flicks friends have commented recently there seems to have been a marked absence of fog this year which I hope 2026 will balance up. Although since I’ve returned from Texas I seem to have slept about an hour later than I have done in the last umpteen years. This could be a hangover from the Texas time difference or maybe it’s the benefits of retirement in reducing stress? Whatever, I’m enjoying that extra hour’s sleep but the downside is that it’s more of a struggle to get up for sunrises (even at this time of year) and I can’t rely on my natural body clock alarm to get me up in time. Mind you, the weather hasn’t been that good to entice me to try to get up early. Maybe later this coming week will be better.

Anyway, back to the fog on the Bayou. This was taken the same morning as the last shot but the fog was a bit thicker. Caddo Lake State Park has canoes available to hire and as you can see this intrepid couple took advantage and suspect were rewarded with some great shots. I do wonder though how many shots the lady in the blue hat took that were selfies compared to scenery ones. That may be my prejudice of course in that I really have no time for the Instaselfie stuff (thanks to Dom Haughton who has the copyright on the phrase!) on social media nor the way the site dictates what properties images have to have to be posted. Maybe if I were a pro I’d think differently as undoubtedly ‘Insta-whatsit’ and ‘the site formerly known as Twitter’ would be important for my business. However, I look on it as a fringe benefit that I don’t have to worry about posting/looking at anything more than Flickr…which I struggle to spend sufficient time on as it is.

OK, rant over😂. I’m not sure if I’ll post another image before 2026 arrives and kicks 2025 into touch. In case I don’t post anything can I just take the time to thank all of you for looking at, faving and commenting on my images and for reading my ramblings and rants (well maybe you read them). I really do appreciate it as we are all busy people with lives to live and family/loved ones to spend time with. I wish you all a very Happy New Year and hope 2026 is a very good year for you both personally and photography wise. It would be nice if some of those in charge of the world could also act a bit more logically and responsibly but maybe I’m asking too much. Enjoy the New Year and see you next year (unless I do post something in a couple of days time!).

Bieberland by Dom Haughton

94 75

Not everywhere in Iceland met with our universal approval. While some places brought a pleasant surprise, there were others that found us harrumphing noisily as we pulled up at a packed car park, and sighing as we realised we’d need to do battle with other human beings to get a view. Take Fjaðrárgljúfur for instance. It was a place that had all the hallmarks of great promise, a high sided narrow winding canyon, through which runs a shallow river, small soft cascades offering a happy detour from the main road near the equally difficult to pronounce town of Kirkjubæjarklaustur. The place names around here seem to be even more arcane than is usual in a country where attempting to say anything at all requires a certain degree of tonsillar dexterity. Come to think of it, I’m not sure I can get through “tonsillar dexterity” without tripping up somewhere in the middle. I’m glad nobody asks me to read this stuff aloud.

Fjaðrárgljúfur seemed to have attracted quite a number of visitors. Ok, so we were here in the middle of the afternoon, gradually making our way towards Vik from Jökulsárlón, but even so, it felt busy as we squeezed our van into the car parking area. And of course we already knew that the welly boots would be redundant here. That’s the problem with Feeyardarawotsit you see (spell checker just blew up by the way); it’s been tainted by a teenage pop sensation and now it’s mostly off limits. All the fault of one Justin Bieber. Apparently his music videos have blighted the plane wreck too.

I should stress here that I’m a leading authority on neither Mr Bieber nor his work. In fact I know nothing about him at all, other than the fact that the “i” comes before the “e” in his surname, he’s aged somewhere between twelve and forty-six, and is either a fresh faced teenager with carefully airbrushed pimples, or on his fifth marriage and counting after a number of high profile alimony disputes. I gather he is, or was very popular. If you can name one of his songs, you’re doing better than me. I didn’t even bother to watch his videos during the countless hours of research I did before this trip. You can only do so much preparation you know. I’m sure he’s very talented - I just wish he’d stayed away from Iceland. It’s bad enough fighting off other togs for the prime spots, but when a gang of Instaselfie teenyboppers arrive, armed with giggles and iPhones, things can get nasty.

What I’d have loved to do here, is quietly potter around in the canyon, revelling in the fact that while others packed a bottle of gin or two in their suitcases, I kept the space free for my wellies, planting the tripod in the water here and there, mostly getting it wrong, but maybe just once finding something worthy. Of course it’s a fragile space that the authorities want to protect, but then again if that teen idol had stayed away, a tide of adolescent adoring hordes might have done too, instead leaving the canyon to a pair of peaceful middle aged seventies rock fans who were only too aware of how sinful it is to tread on the moss.

So sadly, the only option open to us was to traipse up the dedicated path to the dedicated viewing point, a thoughtfully placed balcony at the head of the canyon, where we waited our turn. Once we were installed in the best position, we still had to wait for one of those “in-between” moments when the balcony was vacant apart from ourselves. That’s the trouble with those lofty steel platforms - the minute anyone shuffles from one side to the other, it bounces around like the main stand at a football stadium when the home team has just scored a vital goal. And with all those energetic young Bieberites around, bouncing was the order of the moment. This was only a six second exposure, but it needed to be a bounce free six seconds unless I fancied trying a bit of ICM.

We didn’t stay long. Maybe an extended visit might have resulted in some amazing discovery, but on the face of it there was only one shot, unless you had a drone. Neither of us are brave enough to own one. With some dramatic light the view here can come to life, as I’ve seen in one or two fine examples, but in the middle of the day, there was nothing doing. This shot looks like pretty much every other shot from Feey…whatstheuse, and the fact it’s taken me four years to post it probably tells you what I think. It’s only because I wanted to write a story about a pop star whose music I’ve never knowingly listened to that it’s here at all. I hope the read was worth it…..

A Fiery Sunset at the Honey Pot by Dom Haughton

97 64

It doesn’t usually go as well as this. You know those moments when you arrive at a honeypot location and immediately feel the layers of anticipation being stripped away to leave you clinging to shreds of angst as the sensory overload takes you by the ankles and casts your intentions to the wind. The Dakota wreck in Iceland is a case in particular that springs to mind. I was extremely grumpy there, and had hoped that the strange hour we’d chosen, when the bus rides to the site had finished for the day, would mean we’d have the place to ourselves. We didn’t - not by a long chalk. Instaselfie seekers standing all over the fuselage gurning into their phones. Back then it hadn't occurred to me that one could simply take three or four exposures and blend out the interlopers.

So nowadays I approach a place like this with a great deal of trepidation to say the least. It’s so popular here that those of us who have Android phones are probably quite used to seeing a perfect blue of Navagio Beach among the stock images that magically appear each time we reach for them. Type “Zakynthos,” or “Zante” into your search bar and the chances are that a picture of this famous scene will appear before anything else. I just tried it, and guess what? A couple of weeks before we went, Ali found an elderly guidebook to the island in one of the local charity shops that she regularly scours from top to bottom and brought it home. A bargain at 20p. No prizes for guessing the image on the front cover. The 43 year old shipwreck grabs all the headlines around here. Having never been before, we watched a number of YouTube videos to see what to expect, and in each one this scene was the leading attraction on the island.

Not that there aren’t other worthy sights of course, but somehow we ended up here on the evening of the very first full day, no doubt inexorably pulled up along the mountain roads towards the island’s number one tourist bauble. When I realised that our meandering drive had brought us to the hill town of Volimes, only a few miles away, the rest of the journey became inevitable. But I was still carrying enough salt for several large pinches of resignation. I wasn’t expecting it to be a happy experience. There would be tourists for sure, and lots of them too.

I’d already done the painstaking research of course. I knew there was a small viewing platform by the car park, and I also knew that it would be an entirely unsatisfactory vantage point as far as producing an acceptable shot goes. From the platform you can’t even see the ship in its entirety. I also knew that there was an unofficial path across the rocky clifftops towards a far better spot; a path through a large hole in a wire fence with a large warning sign about the penalties for taking it. But everyone, and I mean absolutely everyone was ignoring it in their enthusiasm to get the classic view of the rusting remains of the MV Panagiotis, which has lain here since a stormy October evening in 1980. Rumours abound as to where it was going and what the cargo was, but the beach is sometimes known as Smuggler’s Cove. I’ll leave you to join the dots.

There was even a wedding photoshoot taking place on the edge of the cliffs, the bride standing perilously close to the precipice, her back just a few paces from an enormous vertical drop to the rocks below. I really couldn’t watch - one false step and it might not have been the honeymoon the groom was expecting. And apart from the happy couple and their entourage, there was the usual gathering of selfie seekers and Instagrammers gadding merrily about, some of them seemingly oblivious to just how potentially dangerous a place they were in.

But happily, some things were working in our favour. The beach is no longer accessible since an earthquake last year that caused a landslide from a collapsing cliff. And I wouldn’t need to clone away any of the huge numbers of glass bottomed tourist boats that come here every day throughout the season, because by now they’d all returned to port and dumped their passengers onto quaysides across the island. Ok so there’s one (functioning) boat in the image, but that was an intentional inclusion. And of course if you turn up here and look earnest as you set up your tripod, people immediately mark you as an oddball and give you a wide berth.

Best of all, the sky decided to burn with fire. By now there weren’t many of us left as I tried a handheld pano. The thing about those online search results is that just about every shot you’ll see will be under a blue sky - pretty and postcardy and undeniably eye-catching. But blue skies aren’t really why I’m here. I could have bought a postcard down at the beach in Alykanas. If I was coming here, I wanted my usual sunset drama fix, and quite frankly I couldn’t have asked for better. Well I might have come in the few days around the June solstice and captured the evening light filtering through onto the beach and the orange hulk - which Photopills tells me is the only time of year that it happens, but then again, I might not have witnessed that fire sky. Whatever my experience at the plane wreck in Iceland had been, here at its naval counterpart, it seemed the opposite had taken place. I arrived expecting disappointment, but went away feeling very content.

Later, as I stepped out of the car back at the resort, I realised I was hobbling, but with no discomfort or pain. On closer inspection I discovered I’d left half of the sole of my right shoe somewhere on those sharp white rocks above Navagio Beach. There’s always something isn’t there?

smc PENTAX-FA* 85mm F1.4 [IF] by Sanya Nadeev

249 96

Pentax K-1 Mark II + Pentax smc FA 85 mm f/1.4 (IF)

....erano gli anni 70....😉 by rossetti61@yahoo.it

85 47

Mi vedete ? You see me ?....😎😁😂😂😂😂... by rossetti61@yahoo.it

67 35

DSC03582 by Gennaro Esposito

25 5

Upon Reflection (colour) by Steve Pellatt

35 41

Antony Gormley's Sound II Sculpture, Flooded Crypt. Winchester Cathedral, Winchester, Hampshire, UK

As I approached the ‘Front Desk’ in Winchester Cathedral my mind kept thinking should I have to pay to visit my local Cathedral? They now want £12.50 for entry which covers 12 months. I was quite conflicted between hating to pay to go into a place of worship and recognising the up-keep costs must be tremendous and I was going there to look at Luke Jerram’s Moon (see previous post). I felt that as I was there to sightsee I should just accept it as a reasonable charge and it did cover 1 year.

“Is it OK if I take photos?” I asked as my Canon R5 was held tightly in my fist. I pretty much knew the answer but thought I’d ask. Basically it was OK if I was posting on Faceache or Instaselfie (thanks for that phrase Dom!). As I tapped my card and took my ticket I heard “Oh by the way sir…if you go into the crypt it’s flooded so you can get a nice reflection of the statue in there”. Well, what a nice man!

Therefore after shooting the moon I headed down to the Crypt to see what this was all about as I admit I’ve never been in the crypt before.

The statue is called “Sound II” and was made by Anthony Gormley (he of The Angel of the North’ fame) and erected in 1986. As he often does, Gormley used his own body to cast the distinctive, moody sculpture, first in plaster. The final piece was then fashioned around the plaster form from sheets of lead, soldered at several joints. The result is both smooth and broken, matte in finish yet gently glowing.

The installation of the sculpture was part of an effort by the cathedral to introduce contemporary art into the Gothic masterpiece

Winchester Cathedral was founded, in its original incarnation, in the year 642. That first building is close by, but was replaced a few hundred years later with this one, one of the largest cathedrals in all of Europe, dating to the year 1079. The crypt is some of the earliest stone work completed, surviving intact to this day.

“Sound II” stands like a sentry beneath the nearly 1,000-year-old stone mass, and it is often knee deep as the Crypt routinely floods during the rainy months. The sculpture can often be found holding water in its cupped hands, silent in contemplation as the level rises around him to cover the stone floor. There is a tube mechanism through the body, so as the water rises it fills his cupped hands. The metal man seems unfazed by the outpouring

Having scouted the crypt and taken a number of hand-held shots when I returned the next day with a micro-tripod I went down again to reshoot from the lower step on the viewing platform. This required some untypical dexterity on my part as I had to shoot at foot level all hunched over trying to get my fingers on the right knob on the ball head when I could not actually see the knobs. Oh and also try not to aggravate my back in the process!

I decided to do both colour and B&W edits. I think both work and leave it to you viewers to choose which you prefer.

I gather there is another sculpture in the crypt but it’s tucked out of sight so unless the floor is dry and it’s open to walk through you can’t see it. One for a drier month maybe.

Upon Reflection (B&W) by Steve Pellatt

238 38