Finally Facing My Waterloo (Wellington Monument, March 2024)
It’s become something of a tradition for me to take a break from photography over the winter months, when (alongside more worthy endeavours) I spend a fair bit of time tinkering with this website. But this photographic down-time also serves to re-charge the old batteries, for come the spring I’m invariably keen to get out there again with my camera - which, by now, I’m worried that I’ve forgotten how to use!
This time, to combat my post-winter creative block, I decided to properly prepare for my first ‘photoshoot’ of the year. As with 2023’s Hobbit Tree, I wanted to make this an astro endeavour… or more accurately a nightscape, with a clear starry sky forming a backdrop to a torch-lit earthly (or unearthly) subject in the foreground. I don’t attempt this type of shot very often, but am drawn to the juxtaposition of Planet Earth and Cosmos… both full of wonder, the latter glimpsed backwards through time to when the starlight began its incredible interstellar journey.
So I spent a lazy Sunday afternoon in February on a reconnaissance. Or more precisely, a raid over the Devon border to Somerset, sussing out angles on the world’s tallest three-sided obelisk: the 53-metre Wellington Monument. This newly-restored structure commemorates the Duke of Wellington’s victory over Napoleon in the 1815 Battle of Waterloo. It stands proudly atop the Blackdown Hills, overlooking the town of Wellington (as you might expect). And more to the point (for the monument does have a particularly fine point), I hoped that it would make a suitable focus for an astro shoot, if only I bided my time and held out for a clear (and calm) moonless night.
My boxes were finally ticked on the evening of Tuesday 5th March - well, all except for the “no work the following day” box, which I conveniently decided to ignore! And although I was a little nervous of messing up (without being in any way nervous of the dark, you understand!), I was reasonably confident that I’d done my homework.
For starters, I’d researched how to identify Polaris, the Northern Pole Star - an important marker if aiming to generate tightly concentric star trails. In addition, I knew how to access the monument under the veil of night, aided of course by my trusty compass and head-torch. With the falling temperature set to approach freezing, I was also ready for the cold… which, cosy clothing aside, meant pre-fitting the wide-angle lens to my camera. I was careful to dial in technical settings up-front, as well as pre-mounting the camera firmly to the ball-head of my carbon-fibre tripod. I’d briefly used this new tripod in Cornwall the previous November, but would undoubtedly be rusty - so the more I could prepare in advance, with the luxury of daylight and warm fingers, the better!
Finally - and appropriately, given my destination - I’d brought along a sturdy pair of Wellington boots to combat the monument’s muddy approaches! ;-)
And initially, things went pretty well. I was relieved to find the unlit country car park deserted, and by around 11pm had emerged from the tunnel of trees and located the huge darkened form of the obelisk. So much for my paranoia - all I had to do now was align the monument with the Pole Star, stand up my tripod and fire away (give or take a spot of manic light-painting!).
Unfortunately, this is where things started to go awry. Firstly, I found that the bright lights of Wellington, in the vale down below, were casting their glow into the exact part of the sky that I’d planned to photograph. The sky here was so bright, in fact, that I couldn’t even find Ursa Minor (key to locating the Pole Star). So I decided to change tack and shoot into a blacker part of the sky, the trade-off being that the star trails here would be less dramatic. But no matter… this wasn’t entirely unexpected, and thinking on your feet is all part of the fun.
Next, extending the tripod. Surely a fundamental, even at night? I had my torch on a weak setting to conserve the battery and keep my eyes adjusted to the dark - though I suspect they hadn’t adjusted quite well enough. And having removed gloves, my fingers were growing numb. So by now in a slightly blind and flappy state, I fumbled around to unscrew the tripod legs and position the camera around eye level.
And that’s when I felt one of the tripod legs come off in my hand. All the way off, with at least one internal part tumbling out of the tubing and into the mud. Now on just two legs, the tripod lurched forward, prompting me to frantically grab for the camera before it crashed to the ground.
In the dark I must have unscrewed the wrong thing, or turned the thread too much. And worse still, the leg stubbornly refused to slot back in!
Now at this point, I should also explain that I’m not the most practical person in the world. In fact, Karen has been known to say that I’m dyspraxic, usually before bailing me out of whatever unholy mess I’m making. Only this time, nobody was here to help.
I decided that I’d examine a second leg of the tripod in order to determine what had gone wrong with the first. And yep, you’ve guessed it… that one came off too! So now I was the proud owner of a state-of-the-art carbon-fibre monopod, wobbling away close to midnight in the finger-numbing blackness of the Blackdown Hills.
Given the monument’s commemorative purpose, perhaps this is what ABBA meant when they sang of “Finally Facing My Waterloo”?
By this point I’d given up on the star trail idea, which would have meant patiently shooting long exposures for half an hour or more. In fact I’d settle for pretty much anything useable, just a single image of the monument and stars… else the whole trip was wasted! But this would require some form of stable platform for the camera, as I needed to expose for the stars and allow for a burst of light-painting while the shutter was open. This equated to an exposure time of around 15 seconds. A handheld shot wasn’t an option.
In the end I managed to shove the two legs back in, minus the odd spare part, though I didn’t trust myself to extend the tripod any further than waist height. It’s ironic really, that extending the tripod legs was the one thing I’d considered too trivial to practice in advance. Now I was attempting to compose the shot and manually focus while scrabbling around on my knees in the wet muddy grass. But on the plus side, the low camera position did aid the starry composition!
So while I don’t pretend that the resulting image is a classic, in the circumstances I’ll take it. If nothing else, I’ve at least opened my photographic account for 2024! :-)
Postscript: In the comfort of home the next day, I found that I could easily rebuild my tripod… and crucially, I now understand the difference between extending the legs and removing them for packing purposes. I’m viewing it as a ‘win-win’ that I learnt something valuable about a new piece of kit, while also generating an image/anecdote in the field (albeit quite a dark and muddy field)! ;-)
The Obelisk (A Stellar Night Out!)
Wellington Monument, atop Somerset’s Blackdown Hills, is the tallest three-sided obelisk in the world.
It commemorates the Duke of Wellington’s victory at the 1815 Battle of Waterloo… where, as the song succinctly states, “Napoleon did surrender”.
Intriguingly, many of the background stars are so far away that we’re seeing them long before Napoleon - or his erstwhile beau, Joséphine - were starry twinkles in anyone’s eye! ;-)
Devon Life (A 'Flying Visit' to the Culm Vale Countryside, April 2024)
My Wellington ‘astro’ shoot aside, photographic plans were slow to take shape during the first few months of 2024. A wet and windy late winter/early spring didn’t exactly sell the great outdoors! Still, it was good to get back into the swing of things toward mid-April, when a sunnier weekend at last lured some bug-life to a fallen log in my local Devon countryside.
I must admit, I was feeling a little out of practice - and short on subjects - as I headed out over the fields. But if in doubt about finding an expansive landscape composition, it sometimes helps to think on an altogether smaller scale and reach for the trusty macro lens… ;-)
The Living Log
The Fly
(Culm Vale Log, Devon)
The Tragic Faraway Tree (One Last Night Beneath the Stars, April 2024)
A ‘Tall Tree’ Tribute (Dastardly Deeds in Darkest Devon)
Late April brought the poignant news that the raggedy old tree behind our house - a local landmark and great wildlife haven - would get the chop after failing a medical.
A bittersweet ‘astro’ shoot was hastily arranged in our back garden to commemorate the tree’s last night standing proud beneath the stars... :-(
A Brief Technical Note… firstly, let me just say that The Tragic Faraway Tree, as an image, is all about emotion and the underlying story. Viewed in this light, any technical talk seems irrelevant, perhaps bordering on inappropriate. Nonetheless, lest I become overly sentimental about a gnarly old tree, here are a few notes for fellow photographers (or more likely, my own future reference!):-
Although my astro ‘nightscapes’ are usually shot with my wide-angle zoom (at the widest setting, focal length 18mm), this particular session marks my first use of a tilt-shift lens for astro photography. This is partly because I was already planning to re-deploy my tilt-shift after quite a long lay-off… but there is also a practical justification. In terms of perspective, by ‘shifting’ the composition upwards I could reduce any foreshortening or distortion (artificial leaning) of the tree.
My tilt-shift lens is a 24mm prime, though the resulting metadata suggests 21mm (perhaps due to crop sensor adjustment from my Fuji X-T3). Whatever the precise focal length, I felt that it was close enough to my usual wide-angle framing (18mm cropped) to justify trying it out without compromising the composition.
In the event, although the torch-lit tree looked reasonable, I’m not sure that the tilt-shift did a great job of picking out the individual stars. This is particularly evident in my foreground frame (a 10-second exposure with some light-painting of the tree), which I’ve presented above for those who prefer not to see star trails. The background simply isn’t as starry as I’d have liked. Then again, there were streetlights just out of frame (meaning light pollution), so perhaps I’m being a little unfair!
In terms of creating my ‘main’ image, the above-mentioned foreground frame was subtly processed in Lightroom, before being blended in StarStaX with the background star trails.
The star trail background was itself prepared in StarStaX by blending 100 longer-exposure images, minus a ‘dark frame’ (to identify/remove any lens spots). The 100 long exposures were taken by programming the camera’s ‘intervalometer’ at a rate of two shots per minute for 50 minutes, allowing the weary photographer to retire for a warming cup of tea! Each of these 50 minutes comprised: 25-second exposure; 5-second gap; 25-second exposure; 5-second gap. (Just to complete my ‘exposure triangle’ settings, I was shooting at ISO-1600, aperture f3.5.)
There are technical and practical reasons for choosing multiple frames over one giant mega-exposure; however, the down side is that gaps between images lead to breaks in the star trails. In theory, these are later filled in by StarStaX (during blending). Unfortunately, I’ve realised that 5 seconds is too wide a gap for the software to seamlessly bridge. In future, to generate smoother star trails, I’m planning to cut this down to around 1 second. And that’s fine… for while you could call my 5-second gaps a mistake, it’s always good to come away having learnt something!
In any case, as I’ve indicated, my main aim here was to capture a lasting memory of the tall tree which had watched silently over us for more than a decade. I like to think of it as turning that memory into an artefact. Not a perfect artefact, by any means, but hopefully one which exhibits more care than a mere snapshot.
And after my recent Wellington Monument fiasco, I’ve at least proved that I can stand up my new tripod without the legs falling off! :-)
Island Time (Back on the Beautiful Isle of Arran, May 2024)
As the calendar ticked round into May, it was time to slap on the suncream, slip on the Bermuda shorts, and make our annual pilgrimage to the beautiful Isle of Arran.
Unfortunately, we arrived one day too late to witness the spectacular Aurora which had swept Scotland (and more southerly skies) the previous night. But that didn’t stop me extending our long arrival day into the early hours, hunkering down at Kingscross Point and keeping silent vigil over Lamlash Bay…
Sadly, the Northern Lights remained elusive. No matter - I ended up capturing the lights of Lamlash instead, neatly aligned beneath a rising crescent moon. :-)
Before finishing with that Lamlash moon shot, I’ll present a couple images of a hulking Holy Isle, cloistered by darkness. Some driftwood emerged from the night to point the way to this place of enlightenment… though whether that passage is red or green remains an open question! :-0
Holy Isle in the Witching Hour
(Maybe that makes it UnHoly Isle?)
Late to the Lightshow…
No Northern Lights - though their absence reveals a Crescent Moon over Lamlash Bay!
Above our Kildonan holiday base sits Eas Mòr Wood and Waterfall, scene of brief explorations during previous visits to Arran.
Although highly scenic, this is not the sort of wood that people can wander around in willy-nilly. The undergrowth is thick (in spring, at least), and is mostly confined to a steep-sided ravine which rises to a hidden amphitheatre of cliffs (home of the ribbon-like waterfall). Visitors are safely herded around the top of this ravine on woodland trails, from where a couple of fenced viewing areas allow the falls to be glimpsed through trees or over ferns. And it’s all very picturesque… but photographically, everyone is directed to the same compositions. Creative blinkers have been applied.
My plan was to break the mould by accessing the ravine further down (where it crosses the lower path), then sloshing and scrambling my way up the burn itself to reach the waterfall from below. I’d got half-way there the previous year (May 2023), only to be distracted by a photogenic fallen log (‘The Secret Garden’) - which was possibly an excuse not to tackle a tricky-looking cascade just beyond! Nonetheless, given care and low water levels, I suspected that the route might ‘go’. Yes, it was slippery and awkward, with its fair share of branches and boulders… yet card-carrying ‘canyoners’ would probably regard it as a stroll in the park!
Still, proper canyoners are probably not handicapped by a rucksack of camera gear or a carbon-fibre tripod slung over their shoulder! If anything, though, I think concern for the equipment (rather than myself) made me extra wary of taking a tumble. I soon waded past my previous high-point, scaled the mini-cascade, and followed some slimy twists and turns to the base of the waterfall.
Now let me just say that, after such a build-up, the photographs themselves are a little underwhelming. I’d naively come for the ‘money-shot’ of Eas Mòr Waterfall from below, perhaps with the tumbling burn as a lead-in line… yet the cluttered foreground made the angles quite difficult. In fact the bouldery terrain was so awkward that I shot handheld, shunning the tripod which I’d so diligently shouldered up the ravine. And although the location was great, the waterfall itself was less than impressive - ironically, a victim of the low water levels which had facilitated my access!
Still, in the end, this particular excursion was about the adventure rather than the photography. Any usable shots are purely a bonus!* :-)
*My pick of a limited bunch is probably a gnarly old tree - the ‘Magic Tree’ of Eas Mòr Wood - with bluebells and wild garlic at its base…
The Magic Tree of Eas Mòr Wood
View from the Canyon
(Eas Mòr Waterfall)
For earlier (generally better) images of Eas Mòr, please see…
- the Isle of Arran section of my 2020 Gallery
- the Kildonan Shoreline section of my 2022 Gallery
- the Arran Interiors section of my 2023 Gallery.
Our base for this holiday was again Kildonan, on Arran’s southern shore. This has been a much-favoured location for the past few years, with its enticing sea-views and homely yet remote aura. And although wildlife is not really my speciality, this whole coastline is great for seals and seabirds - which often pop up against the iconic island backdrop of nearby Pladda or distant Ailsa Craig…
(West Kildonan Shoreline and Pladda)
Grey Dawn
(Kildonan Awakes)
If Grey Dawn (above) reveals an abundance of dawn wildlife but distinct lack of colour, then my next shot (looking toward Bennen Head just over two hours later) illustrates that conditions did brighten a little as the morning progressed. You could think of it as a manifestation of good old Sod’s Law… having dragged myself out of bed for ‘golden hour’, I found that the light improved the further the clock ticked on, away from dawn and into the day. And even then, the light was never actually great… it merely went from grey to OK. But the key thing is, I enjoyed being out there amongst nature, just taking the time to stop and observe.
Sometimes, when conditions aren’t conducive to photography or inspiration simply doesn’t strike, I’m happy to take no shots at all. This actually happened on my next two Kildonan ‘photoshoots’ of the holiday. Yes, it’s a little disappointing, but the chase is usually the most exciting part… and anyway, it makes you appreciate those rare successes all the more!
On other occasions - such as the ‘Seal Shore’ shoot depicted here - subjects will emerge which seem to compensate for the lack of spectacular light. This might be a family of curious seals, or perhaps an unexpected splash of colour such as the yellow lichen* on the arch below. And if you look closely, you might even spot a wee bird atop the arch, seemingly perched on the far horizon… :-)
*During childhood trips to Scotland, I remember my wise old Grandad having a keen eye for such things, with an erstwhile catchphrase to match: “Wonderful thing, lichen!”
The Yellow Arch
(“Wonderful thing, lichen!”)
The final shot of my West Kildonan shoreline exploration was almost fired off as an afterthought. A fine ‘hidden waterfall’ plunges down a ravine at the back of the beach… and impressive as this is, I’d photographed it before in both 2021 and 2023. (In case anyone is interested, these earlier shots can be seen side-by-side on my Waterfall Portfolio page.) So this time around, barring a dramatic change in the waterfall’s appearance, I’d intended to give it a miss.
Still, never say never, especially when temptation and pragmatism align. Once I’d finished shooting the yellow arch (above), I discovered that I only had to swing round my tripod, and move a short distance along the shore, to frame up the falls. And on this occasion, rather than zooming in on the waterfall itself, I would shoot a wider angle, capturing the context of the surrounding terrain.
Of course, the best way of shooting any landscape is purely a matter of personal preference. But in this instance, the thing I like about the wider angle (shown below) is not only aesthetic but also geological: the foreground meadow is in fact an ancient ‘raised beach’, with the cliffs around the waterfall formerly being undercut by the sea. It makes this whole area special to disciples of Earth Science, especially when viewed alongside the numerous volcanic dykes which grid the shoreline (the yellow arch being one such feature).
Combined with the spring vegetation, these hoary old sea cliffs make for a suitably striking vista. The funny thing is, the southern half of Arran is supposedly rural and genteel… yet this particular scene could fit straight into the tropical dramatics of Jurassic Park. Which is fitting, since there is a famous dinosaur print just along the coast! ;-)
Back o' the Beach
(Hidden Falls, West Kildonan)
All of the above Seal Shore pics date from one early morning shoot during the first week of our holiday; however, I’ll conclude this section with a single image from an equivalent shoot during week 2.
My concluding image is from East Kildonan rather than West, the Eastern end of the village having less wildlife (excluding resident bar flies and campers) but an arguably finer stretch of sand.
I’d always intended this later outing to be a ‘single-pic’ shoot, as I find that the creative process can benefit from slowing down, soaking up the atmosphere and really searching for a composition. That’s not to say I wouldn’t take other shots if something amazing happened… but in general, I was content to be free of the trigger-happy ‘snapshot’ mode which I used to adopt all too frequently. (As an added bonus, the rationing of pics also saves on that pesky post-processing effort!)
In the event I settled on a view of Pladda - reasonably standard fayre around these parts, though spiced up slightly by the incoming tide approaching ripples on the beach. But I must admit, despite all the talk of slowing down, I ended up rushing to set things up before the rising water - not to mention a nearby inquisitive dog-walker - invaded my foreground. And in my haste, I made a schoolboy error… I forgot that, when taking long exposures on the seashore (I was exposing for 2-3 seconds), you should never stand your tripod on shifting sand. Those carbon-fibre legs will begin to sink!
Consequently, of the half-dozen identically-composed shots that I fired off - aiming to later choose the best-looking tidal effect - only the first was acceptably sharp (provided you refrain from too much pixel-peeping!). But at least I did have that one image to work with. And more importantly, I also had a lesson to go with it!
Anyway, without further ado (as they say), here’s my concluding image: Time and Tide… :-)
Time and Tide
(Ripples in the Sand, East Kildonan)
Although most of the images on this page are from dedicated Fuji X-T3 outings, I also wanted to include just a smattering of ‘holiday snaps’. As the saying goes, the best camera is the one you have with you - and while the following shots may not be my best technically, they wouldn’t exist at all if I hadn’t been able to ‘borrow’ Karen’s wee point-and-shoot every now and then! ;-)
I should add that a fair few of the shots from the mini-gallery below (where credited) were taken by my amazing holiday companions, my ‘better half’ Karen and our good friend Mel (who has built up a fine tradition of joining our annual Arran pilgrimages). Massive thanks go to both!
In addition to Karen and Mel (and of course our mischievous doggies), I’d like to dedicate the family pictures in this section to my parents, Meg and Nigel. They’d intended to join us on the island this time, but sadly circumstances prevented it. Such are the tribulations of life. Anyway, Mum and Dad - you might not be in these shots, but I hope you enjoy viewing them. It’s the next best thing! :-)
(Whiting Bay)
(Whiting Bay)
(Photo by Karen Scott)
(Photo by Karen Scott)
(Photo by Karen Scott)
(Photo by Mel Grenfell)
(Photo by Karen Scott)
(Photo by Karen Scott)
(Photo by Karen Scott)
(Photo by Mel Grenfell)
(Pirnmill)
(Photo by Mel Grenfell)
(Pirnmill)
(Photo by Karen Scott)
(Photo by Karen Scott)
(Photo by Karen Scott)
(Photo by Karen Scott)
(The Double Plunge)
(Glenashdale)
(Glenashdale)
(Glenashdale Water)
(Kildonan Shore)
(Strolling Home from the Pub!)
(Seal Shore, Kildonan)
(Grianan Cottage, Kildonan)
(Kildonan Shore)
(Kildonan Beach)
(from Corrie Hotel beer garden)
(A Corrie Swim-by)
(from Corrie Hotel beer garden)
(Corrie Hotel)
(Photo by Karen Scott)
(Photo by Karen Scott)
(Photo by Karen Scott)
(from Sannox Wood)
(Back o' the Beach, Sannox)
(Sannox)
(Sannox Wood)
(North Sannox)
(Happy Days in Sannox Wood!)
(Sannox Burn)
(Whiting Bay)
(Whiting Bay)
(Larking Around, Grianan Cottage)
(Photo by Karen Scott)
(Photo by Karen Scott)
(Photo by Karen Scott)
(Photo by Karen Scott)
(Whiting Bay)
(Photo by Karen Scott)
(Photo by Karen Scott)
Our ‘Lamlash Cruises’ Ferry Boat (Sallyforth)…
and Trusty Skipper (Issy)
During the middle Sunday of our Arran holiday, I was lucky enough to visit Holy Isle for the second time (for my inaugural visit, please see the Arran section of my 2021 Gallery).
Yet it wasn’t the kind of luck that I wanted, for it was really Karen’s turn to make the pilgrimage… indeed, her insistence on booking was at least partly responsible for Lamlash Cruises putting on a second (earlier) voyage to accommodate the surplus of demand.
Unfortunately, an injury sustained during the previous day’s sweltering trek around Glenashdale prevented Karen from risking the trip to Holy Isle. But with two tickets booked, and Mel spending her last full day with us, Karen magnanimously suggested that I take her place on the boat while K herself remained at Kildonan to look after the doggies.
So by default, and slightly guiltily, my return visit to the sacred isle came to pass! :-0
Before displaying some pics, I should probably do my tour-guide bit and briefly set the scene…
Holy Isle dominates Lamlash Bay, just off Arran’s south-eastern seaboard. As the name suggests, this is a special and spiritual place, being a cradle of Christianity since the time of St. Molaise in the 6th century. And from the late 20th century onward, the island has served as a Buddhist retreat and de facto animal sanctuary.
Talking of animals… aside from the occasional solitude-seeking human, Holy Isle’s modern-day residents include feral goats (introduced by the Vikings), free-ranging ponies, and wild, seaweed-munching Soay sheep (whose heritage can be traced all the way to the far-flung outpost of St. Kilda).
Our own Sunday morning trip to the island was made aboard the Sallyforth, courtesy of the aforementioned Lamlash Cruises. I think our Skipper, Issy, must be a practiced hand at not only nautical ventures but also group photography… for despite the bucking boat, she did a fine job of capturing our ‘motley crew’ of happy sailors during the return leg.
Poignantly, Holy Isle itself can be seen receding into the blue beyond - though our memories remain (as do our photos!)… :-)
The Motley Crew (spot the geek with the camera!)
(Photo: Lamlash Cruises)
Destination Holy Isle
(The Buddhist Monastery)
My own Holy Isle pics were all taken on the move, documentary-style, while Mel and I traversed the island’s 1,030-foot summit (Mullach Mor) and returned along the western shore. We had to keep moving to avoid missing the boat (literally), but that’s no bad thing… it kept me from dwelling too much over the compositions! In any case, our main aim was simply to soak up the island’s tranquil atmosphere.
Aiming to travel light (in the spirit of esteemed sailor/mountaineer H.W. Tilman), I restricted my photo gear to two lenses, one camera and no tripod. How did I manage on such meagre rations, you might wonder? Well, it wasn’t a classic photo expedition, though both lenses were eventually put through their paces - initially the wide-angle one (for our ascent), before switching to telephoto for the wild Soay sheep.
And after meeting the shore-dwelling flock, we concluded with a pilgrimage to the sacred cave of St. Molaise - whose Irish pronounciation, we learnt from our Skipper, had inspired the name of Lamlash itself. It remains less clear whether the Lam part of the name was inspired by a young Soay sheep?! ;-)
Pillar Rock Lighthouse
(On Holy Isle’s south-eastern, ‘Firth of Clyde’ side)
Chewing the Cud - Wild Soay Sheep
(Holy Isle Shore)
(A Vegetarian Platter!)
(Rock Art Simulacra)
(Picture of a Picture!)
With a return boat to catch, we were admittedly a little rushed by the time we’d descended Mullach Mor, passed the pair of lighthouses, and said “Hello” to the island’s menagerie of animals. So, as with my 2021 trip, our pilgrimage to St. Molaise’s Cave was something of a flying visit.
In the circumstances, I felt the best way of learning about St. Molaise himself was simply to photograph his holy information boards (viewed from the cave itself). Not the most inspired of images, but the blurb is just about legible if you zoom in…!
Holy Scripture
(St. Molaise’s Cave)
Actually, I sometimes find that a rushed visit (or an enforced restriction) can help to focus the mind. When Mel and I called in at St. Molaise’s Cave, I still had the telephoto lens fitted to my camera - there clearly wasn’t time to change it for a wider angle, yet the zoom was too great to fit in the whole scene. And while the cave is clearly a special place, it isn’t a particularly striking feature to photograph, being more of a hollowed-out overhang than a well-defined cavern.
So rather than taking a traditional snap of the recess, I hastily looked around for something which might represent the feel of the place. I settled on a single fern in the sunshine just outside the cave mouth, which (to my mind, at least) displayed the kind of Christian iconography that St. Molaise might have approved of. I’d never have framed this up if my correct lens had been fitted. Yet, in a quietly understated way, it may just be one of my favourite shots of the holiday…
The Holy Fern
(St. Molaise’s Cave)
For my final couple of Arran photoshoots, I returned to one of my favourite places anywhere… the iconic mountain stronghold of Glen Rosa.
For the first of these shoots, I started the usual approach walk into the glen before scrabbling up rough, unfrequented slopes to the left of the path.
My aim was to locate a lone tree or bush as foreground, framing an elevated view down the glen toward the triangular cone of Cìr Mhòr. I hadn’t seen this precise angle before, either in person or in other people’s photographs… so was keen to find out whether it had potential.
Photographically speaking, I tried to stack the odds in my favour by setting out early in the morning - not quite pre-dawn craziness, but still early enough that I hoped some wispy mist or ‘golden hour’ light might flood the glen.
Sadly, conditions on the day were overcast... and although the cloud gradually lifted, the morning light (unlike the landscape) was destined to remain decidedly flat.
No matter... once I’d negotiated those rough pathless slopes (reputedly rife with adders, though I had more trouble battling a bog!), it was wonderful just soaking things in and watching the cloud dance around those peaks.
And actually, it’s important to truly enjoy such a dance… for in reality, much of mountain photography involves waiting for the weather gods to produce a Goldilocks moment. In other words, waiting patiently (usually in vain) for conditions to be just right. Too much cloud, and those glorious ridge-lines are obscured; yet too little, and we risk that dreaded blue-sky boredom.*
*It’s a common misconception that landscape photographers love blue skies; stormy drama is generally much preferred, unless your photoshoot is a commission for the Tourist Board! ;-)
Weather woes aside, the location itself clearly held promise (to put it mildly). The situation was spectacular, with magnificent views (of course), and quite a few scattered trees offering foreground potential. Exploring them was hard work though (given the terrain), so I converged on a wee outlier and positioned my tripod as best I could.
Now in theory, I was after a single ‘killer’ shot - but with unfavourable light ruling out a quick ‘smash and grab’, I instead turned my attention to tinkering with the composition. And to be honest, I think it’s possible to over-think these things, especially when the tripod is battling heather, rocks and gravity for its place on the hillside.
Yet the fundamentals of the shot were pretty simple. The tree would point down the glen, leading into the line of Glenrosa Water without actually obscuring it. And slightly more subtly, the bushy part of the tree would mirror the size and shape of distant Cìr Mhòr, forming twin subjects along a diagonal. With these things set (more or less), it was just a question of waiting for the light, and experimenting with shooting wide angle or zoom, long exposure or short. And most importantly of all, to simply enjoy being there!
In the event, it didn’t really matter that the ‘killer’ shot never emerged. If I had to pick one, I’d probably go with the wide-angle shot labelled The Lone Tree (below). But this was one of those shoots where the overall experience exceeded the photographic output. And if I’ve been a little self-indulgent in displaying a mini-series of near-identical shots (which I don’t usually like to do), I can only apologise, and feebly claim that it all adds to the story-telling. In truth, Glen Rosa is a pretty amazing place. I have difficulty reining myself in! :-)
(Cloudy Morning, Glen Rosa)
The really magical thing about being there on that Glen Rosa hillside had been watching the thick cloud lift and disperse, then reform and drift back in. An endless cycle of discovery and concealment. And when the surrounding peaks were revealed for the first time, they were higher than I’d dared imagine*… so much so, in fact, that I’d had to tilt my composition upwards in order to fit in all the summits. At far left was an aerial slither of Beinn Tarsuinn, shy and brooding; then pointy Beinn a’Chliabhain, from this angle outstripping the mightier A’Chir; majestic Cìr Mhòr, ‘King of Corbetts’; and finally, highest of all at upper right, the celebrated Goatfell.
*I’ve found that photographs rarely do justice to the real-life majesty of mountains. I used to think this was because photos are physically small… and while this is true, I’ve discovered that focal length actually has a lot to do with it. Most landscape shots are taken with a wide-angle lens, which is great for fitting everything in - and for ensuring a large depth of field - but the short focal length also serves to diminish distant features, like looking through binoculars the wrong way. So if your aim is to make a particular mountain look impressive, my advice is not to get close in and use a wide angle, but to walk away - counter-intuitively - then turn around and zoom back in. Admittedly it won’t always be applicable… sometimes, such as here in Glen Rosa, the wider view is king!
During my vigil behind the tripod, the one prominent feature which hadn’t emerged was the Witch’s Step, which I knew to be lurking just to the right of Cìr Mhòr, beyond the unseen upper reaches of Glen Sannox. And to be honest, I wasn’t too bothered - I’d photographed it before, and in a sense it was fitting that the cloud was confining my view to the inner sanctum of Glen Rosa. Yet as soon as I’d packed up my gear and started the rough descent home, the inevitable happened… the distant cloud began to shift, and I realised that I did want to capture the Witch’s Step after all! So out came my camera again for a final couple of shots, this time quick handheld efforts. And I later remembered one last lesson too: if the light isn’t great, consider processing in black & white! ;-)
So the above pair of Cìr Mhòr retrospectives marked the end of that morning’s Glen Rosa shoot. However, during my return walk to the car, at the mouth of the glen, I happened to glance into the shady recesses of Binnein Wood… and noticed a striking array of ferns disappearing up the hillside. Conditions and the clock were both against me, so I pressed on home - but not before filing this away in my mind as a potential venue for another day.
In the event, I would return just two mornings later - a 'last hurrah’ on the final full day of our holiday. And strange as it was to be in the vicinity of Glen Rosa without viewing the mountains, I was determined to make this a quick woodland venture, aiming for the single-shot ‘smash and grab’ that I’d failed to achieve earlier in the week. And if all went well, I hoped to capture a scene from Glen Rosa which hadn’t been seen countless times before (not that I’m above chasing those classic shots of the glen - I’ve tried it often enough!)…
The morning in question was again quite grey - an unfortunate theme of this holiday’s early photoshoots. I probably shouldn’t complain on this occasion, as diffuse light can be good for woodland photography. And although I would have quite liked some wispy mist, I’m sure that’s just being greedy!
Anyway, I found the ferns which I’d spotted on my earlier visit and clambered into the wood. I couldn’t quite settle on a composition though, and was gradually drawn further into the forest, up muddy slopes and through thick vegetation. Conditions were still and dank. Each time I dallied beneath the thick canopy, a growing cloud of midges would descend. I was on the verge of giving up when a brighter patch of daylight appeared ahead, and I emerged from the lower pines into a hidden bluebell glade. The fern fronds were still there, only this time sprouting from a bluey-purple floor. And beyond the clearing, the pastel hue of silver birch (possibly - I’m no tree expert!). This was clearly my shot!
But I’ve mentioned the midges, and they became ever more vociferous as I struggled to position my tripod and dial in camera settings. I was using my tilt-shift lens in order to angle up the slope and experiment with front-to-back focus, yet that added to the complexity of the process. In the end I set an exposure time of around 1 second in order to ‘shoot through’ the cloud of vicious wee beasties, while waving them away from the front of the lens. Panic rose as I felt their bites begin to prick my face and hands. In theory I was still fine-tuning my composition, but subtlety be damned! I hastily pressed the shutter a couple of times and then retreated as fast as I could, with (you might say) a flea in my ear! :-0
I suspect the resulting image - The Rosa Garden - might be a throwaway to the casual viewer… yet I’ll always see it as one of my harder-won compositions. And photographically, it marked a fitting end to our holiday. At least, when I returned to Kildonan and Karen cried out in shock at my heavily-bitten face, I was able to declare that I’d now hang up my camera for a while.
Still… I’d never promised her a Rosa Garden! ;-)
(Binnein Wood, Glen Rosa)
Accidental Art (Inadvertent Abstracts, April to July 2024)
I often find that my photography enters a lull after a holiday, as though everyday reality kicks in with a riches-to-rags kind of jolt. And besides, I usually spend any free photo time processing my holiday pics and updating this website, squeezed in between the rightly higher priorities of family life and work. For I may sometimes wish that I earnt my living from snapping the landscape, but I most assuredly don’t - and if I did, I suspect the joy of it would quickly evaporate, like early morning mist! :-(
Even by my usual standards, however, the jolt following my Arran trip of May 2024 was particularly pronounced. After an ill-conceived attempt at a Devon sunset - abandoned when my carefully crafted tree alignment proved to be decidedly skew-whiff - my camera bag was cast aside to gather dust. And that’s fine; such is life. I knew from experience that motivation and opportunity would eventually return, if only for our next scheduled trip to Cornwall during late September. In the meantime, I accepted that my camera and I would take a prolonged sabbatical. This would be a photo-free summer.
Or would it? For if photography is an artform, it’s surely about more than meticulous alignments or technical settings. Or that laborious choreographed dance of planning, composing, shooting, post-processing…? Maybe randomness should also play a part? What you might call a healthy dose of serendipity?
And this is where my tenuous grasp of modern technology (if not modern art) comes in… for I’d recently inherited a second-hand smartphone, in a battered old purple cover, from my better half. I definitely didn’t know how to use it, and was a little nervous of the touch screen. In fact, when I’d pick it up from my bedside cabinet, I’d often find that it had somehow switched itself to a strange setting, as if I’d put it down awkwardly and inadvertently activated something. And then one day, I realised that I had activated something. I’d accidentally taken a photo.
For a frustrated photographer who has no time for actual photoshoots, what could be better? Here was fate doing it for me. All I had to do was wait for my mobile to misfire, download the inadvertent abstracts, and package it up as accidental art.
Well… it’s certainly accidental, but I’ll let the viewer decide whether it’s art. Are these images a serendipitous reflection of modern life? Or just a load of old Jackson Pollocks? :-0
Iconic Cornwall (A Taste of Kernow, September/October 2024)
As the Autumn of 2024 came around, our latest family escape took us to a remote farmhouse deep in the Cornish countryside.
Yet this wasn’t just any old getaway (if such a thing exists)… it offered an opportunity to celebrate my Mum’s 80th birthday in a suitably special location! :-)
My parents, Meg and Nigel, duly arrived a few days into the holiday… but despite missing the early adventures, it’s only fitting that I should kick off with some images of their visit. And I know I’ve said it before - this website isn’t really a family album - yet photography, first and foremost, is surely about preserving powerful memories such as these?
So here is some of that future nostalgia, laid out in glorious technicolour. Snaps of the people who really make the memories, and of the places that add a little sparkle. Mount Wise Farmhouse, with its grand inglenook fireplaces and ominously low doorways. Stithians Lake, a breezy precursor to the wilder waters of the classic Cornish coast. Then onward and outward to the big day itself: peerless Porthleven and cosy Church Cove. And finally, back to the farmhouse (discretely decorated by Karen), whose walls have memories of their own stretching back through the centuries (including an alleged occupancy by Thomas Cromwell, former friend and foe of Henry VIII!).
Not that our wee doggies cared about the history of the place: Moo was too busy window-watching and photo-bombing our pics, as seen in one of the farmhouse shots below… ;-)
(I should credit Karen with the non-farmhouse photos in this section, except for the family ‘gang of four’ - the non-selfie shot of the ‘Scott-Mann Clan’ - which was snapped at Porthleven by a kindly passer-by!)
Decorated Doorway,
Mount Wise Farmhouse
(Self-portrait by Nigel Mann)
The Fogou,
Mount Wise Farm
(Photo by Nigel Mann)
OK, I’ll admit it - I’m not sure that this section actually features any beech trees to justify the Beach to Beech label. But there are certainly sandy bits and shrubby bits, so it’s good enough for me. And if I do ever find any genuine beech trees, after first visiting a beach, I reserve the right to recycle the corny catchphrase! ;-)
What this section does include is a liberal sprinkling of family shots, taken either side of my folks’ two-night birthday visit. These are mostly courtesy of Karen, using her Canon point-and-shoot (we’ll come to my solo Fuji ‘photoshoots’ later). So while Karen herself is usually behind the lens, I’ll often be joined in frame by our pair of ‘Hairy Horrors’ (Moo and Rocky) to add some familiar canine character to our family portfolio!
And since we’re Down on the Farm already, I’ll continue that theme with our very first day of the holiday. We spent this exploring the farmhouse grounds - even discovering a standing stone to supplement the mysterious fogou* on our doorstep - and then ambling round to the shore of Stithians Lake (our local reservoir and bird sanctuary).
*A fogou is an ancient subterranean chamber or passageway, its purpose unknown… watch out for another example at Chysauster (below).
Given my section heading, it was also kind of Karen to photograph some trees close to the lake… although I’m not sure they’re actually beeches!
My next mini-segment features Chysauster ancient village, inland from Penzance - we finally saw the whole thing after only being ‘shown the door’ during previous (out-of-season) attempts! :-)
This remarkable settlement is a kind-of twin to Carn Euny, a similar ancient village closer to Land’s End (if not formally twinned, they at least share the same guidebook). We’d previously visited Carn Euny with my parents way back in 2008, when it was pretty much a new-build!
Anyway, back to Chysauster - please keep an eye out for that aforementioned fogou (whose grilled entranceway apparently contains particularly fine sniffs!)…
Now to those all-important coastal excursions… and yes, that means a lot of similar beach poses by yours truly, usually with that pair of ‘Monster Mutts’ in close attendance (“No show without Punch!”). :-0
The images presented here include family trips to…
Praa Sands (an old favourite; this time we managed to keep our feet dry!)
Castle Beach and Fal estuary, Falmouth
(For a literal ‘overview’ of the Fal, please see the arty quayside map snapped on Karen’s moby…)Marazion Beach (featuring the celebrated St. Michael’s Mount)
Hayle Sands (distant views to St. Ives and Godrevy Lighthouse)
Kennack Sands, Lizard Peninsula (beware Neptune’s Nuts?!)
Lizard Point (mainland Britain’s most southerly headland)
Loe Bar and Anson Memorial, Helston (featured in the wee section which follows…)
For a complete list of ‘seaside shenanigans’, we should (of course) also factor in my Mum’s birthday celebrations at Porthleven and Church Cove (see above), plus my three coastal ‘photoshoots’ at Trewavas Head, Kynance Cove and Godrevy (see below). Glad we allowed ourselves two whole weeks! :-)
(Pose #1)
(Pose #2)
(Falmouth)
(With Reluctant Doggy-Paddler!)
(Sand Art)
(Digging the Beach)
(All Hayle!)
(Lizard Peninsula)
(by Balzac?)
(Mainland Britain's Most Southerly Outpost)
And finally… the end of this holiday marked our first ever visit to the Loe Bar, an inviting strip of sand which forms a nautical bridge between two of our favourite stomping grounds - Porthleven and the Lizard.
This is effectively a double-sided beach, separating the open ocean from an inland stretch of fresh water, known as The Loe, which curves round toward Helston.
The latter is an example of a ria, or flooded river valley, a feature which is prominent along the southern coasts of both Cornwall and Devon. Yet unlike most other rias (such as the bustling Fal estuary), the seaward entrance to The Loe is blocked by an unbroken sand bar.
I’d long admired this curious strip of sand on the map… but being isolated, our challenge was now to reach it!
Initial attempts from the Porthleven side proved tricky, so we switched to a Gunwalloe (Lizard) approach - where mazy country lanes led us through a farmyard to the small National Trust car park at Chyvarloe. And after a sloping downhill stroll, there it was… the long-awaited Loe Bar (complete with funky rocks)! :-)
In case anyone is thinking of visiting the Loe Bar for themselves, I should flag that it’s pretty secluded (so unpatrolled) - and strong currents on the seaward side apparently make it unsuitable for bathing. This means that Rocky - who can be seen staunchly resisting the ‘Soggy Doggy Paddle’ in one of our above pics - actually had the right idea (for once)!
The most surprising (and certainly most moving) discovery of our Loe Bar trip was the Anson Memorial, which we spotted on a rise leading up from the beach in the Lizard direction.
We didn’t know what this prominent cross actually marked, so I borrowed Karen’s wee camera and diverted up the hill with Moogie. The vantage point offered fine views back to the beach and The Loe itself - but it was the memorial’s plaque (shared below) which told the plaintive tale…
This served as a poignant reminder that the rugged Cornish coast is not just a series of beauty spots and photo opportunities (for tourists like me) - it has a rich and often harsh history, punctuated by numerous shipwrecks (and indeed mining incidents, which I’ll touch on later).
As a final aside… one other thing which struck me about the Anson plaque is how language evolves through the years - in particular, how the word IMPRESSED may have subtly changed its meaning (or common usage) over time!
The Anson Memorial concludes our family gallery, leading me onto my solo Fuji photoshoots…
My Fuji photoshoots were relatively modest in number this holiday, although I did while away three afternoons/evenings exploring various stretches of coast. Before I focus on these, I’ll present just a couple of images from brief (single-pic) morning shoots in the vicinity of the farm. Neither feature particularly great light, although I feel the subjects themselves are certainly worthwhile…
Cornish Curves… looking out from our holiday farmland to a particularly sinuous hedge,
rising above Stithians Lake (our local reservoir and bird sanctuary)
Swallowed by Nature… Cornish mine workings at Tyacke’s Shaft (near Penkellis)
This area is rightly renowned for its mining heritage, which transformed the Cornish landscape throughout the Industrial Revolution - a time when global demand for copper and tin spawned very big business. Yet this once-booming endeavour is now reduced to industrial relics, the county’s ruined Engine Houses offering iconic reminders of bygone days. And poignantly, even these are slowly but surely being reclaimed by nature… as illustrated by the tangle of trees (probably not beeches!) in the above image of Tyacke’s Shaft.
While Tyacke’s Shaft is discretely tucked away in the Cornish countryside, the mine workings at Trewavas Head (near Porthleven) stand proudly atop granite sea cliffs… conforming much more strongly to the idealised archetype.
Despite being so archetypally Cornish - and despite having visited this area many times before - I’d only actually ‘discovered’ Trewavas Mine the day before, on that family trip to Porthleven. After my Mum’s 80th birthday meal at the olde-worlde Ship Inn, we’d browsed an art gallery in the old lifeboat house and admired a fine painting of some clifftop Engine Houses. A little basic research the following day then led me to Rinsey Head, which in turn led to Trewavas. Since my folks had had to return home earlier that morning, it seemed an appropriate way of keeping those birthday memories alive - as well as providing a welcome distraction from the post-holiday blues (which I tend to suffer by proxy whenever special guests depart!).
Here I’ll offer four different images of Trewavas, effectively variations on a single composition. The first is an appropriately ‘ghostly’ black & white (can you spot the ‘ghost coast’ phantom?), with the second featuring a fully formed apparition. Yet the third is presented as ‘best’… a 17-second exposure thankfully stripped of my earlier selfie shenanigans! (Then I’ll cover the fourth separately…)
This was clearly a beautiful yet hostile working environment, right up until the mine’s abrupt closure back in 1846 - apparently, due to the sudden flooding of shafts beneath the seabed. The modern photographer’s clifftop plight seems trivial by comparison! :-0
The Ghostly Coast
(Trewavas Mine, Cornwall)
A Note on Exposure Times
While my images of Trewavas Mine all feature the same basic composition, I did attempt some experimentation with exposure times. (The fun part was fitting lens filters without sending camera and tripod - or indeed myself - over the cliff or down a mine shaft!) :-0
The use of longer exposure times can be especially pleasing if shooting churning water or scudding clouds, when the resulting ‘smoothing’ can give a subtly artistic effect (in theory, at least!). It can also convey the passing of time, which is particularly apt when shooting poignant ruins such as the Engine Houses depicted here (or even ‘ghosts at the coast’!).
I should concede, however, that not everyone is a fan of that ‘long exposure’ look. And not all photographers enjoy shooting them.
Some shooters simply don’t relish the faff - that merry dance with tripod and filters - while others have perhaps done their fair share of experimentation and come out the other side (the novelty having worn off). And that’s all fine; as a wise person once said, life would be pretty dull if we all liked exactly the same things!
Anyway… for those who prefer their art a little more traditional, I’ve concluded this section by presenting my short-exposure version of the same scene (not a filter in sight!). ;-)
Now that I’m focusing on the Cornish coast, I’ll stick with this theme and move to a special place on the storm-lashed Lizard peninsula. It’s a destination which captures the essence of Cornwall like nowhere else, even without featuring in an age-old Mann family anecdote (which I won’t go into here!). And if ever a name was begging to be recited in a pirate accent, it’s surely this one: Kynance Cove.
I was lucky enough to visit Kynance Cove just before sunset - and while sundown itself was nothing spectacular, I was there at evening high tide on the day after a storm. You might call it the magic of ‘Eventide’.
It’s not an experience to be easily forgotten - and if the National Trust car park hadn’t closed at 7pm, I’d probably be there still! :-)
Eventide
(Kynance Cove, Cornwall)
Turning the Tide - Out-Takes and Re-Crops
The thing about shooting breaking waves is that it takes persistence. These days, my usual approach to landscape photography - or indeed seascape photography - is to limit my number of shots, aiming for quality over quantity. There’s something satisfying about precision - nailing the scene at the first attempt - while fewer shots also means less time spent at that pesky review and post-processing stage. Yet breaking waves are a different kettle of fish… like Forrest Gump’s box of chocolates, you never quite know what you’re going to get. So, once you’ve assessed the scene for a while and decided on a composition, the key is to keep shooting. Then shoot some more. Then go home to upload the RAW files and select a few favourites, keeping any gems which happen to stand out from the pack. (Wildlife photography, if taken seriously, has a similar ‘trial and error’ vibe… especially if shooting in ‘burst’ mode.)
Next comes the actual post-processing (in my case, performed using Lightroom) - and again, those breaking waves present something of a dilemma. When originally composing the scene, you didn’t necessarily know where the best wave action was going to occur. As a result, cropping (re-framing the image) can be more important than with a ‘static’ subject. And if you’re anything like me, you begin to waver about the best crop for a given image. So what do you end up with? A stack of similar-looking (processed) images, and a whole bunch of alternate crops. :-0
What I’m leading to is this: while the selection displayed above has been earmarked ‘Best of Kynance’, I do have other shots in reserve. Some of them are marred by ‘blown out’ highlights - areas of bright sky or foam which I couldn’t fully recover - while others are simply re-framed variations of previously-presented pics (which I sometimes prefer upon second viewing!).
Anyway… since my 2024 Gallery is designed to be slightly less picky than my Portfolio pages, I might as well present some of these out-takes and re-crops below. So without further ado… here they are:-
The final afternoon of our Cornish holiday allowed an opportunity to delay the inevitable packing and instead visit Godrevy Cove, to photograph the nearby island of the same name. I hadn’t ever explored here before, although I’d regularly admired the island - and its prominent lighthouse - from across the bay on Hayle Sands.
And like Kynance Cove, Godrevy Island featured in old Mann family reminiscences of the area - only a minor connection, perhaps, yet enough to add that spark of motivation to an already alluring subject.
Others clearly felt the same way, as tourist boats seemed drawn to the island like magnets (despite the fact that this was a weekday in early October). A small yellow one can be seen in my first exploratory snap…
Having pottered around the shore of Godrevy Cove for a little while, it was only toward the end of my visit that I found what I was looking for: a chasm in the rocks which perfectly framed the lighthouse. Here was my opportunity to sign off the trip with something archetypally Cornish! :-)
I decided to smooth the water by applying a polariser and filter, giving a 30-second exposure which I hoped would lend a suitable degree of tranquility to my impromptu theme of ‘Light at the end of the tunnel’. Yet my pebbly tripod stance was awkward, while the exposure itself could be tricky (shooting as I was from a dark place into bright sunlight). I also wasn’t sure which zoom level would work best, and only had time for three shots before the rising tide forced a hasty retreat. But hopefully they came out OK - I’ll present all three below, and let the viewer decide which is preferred…
Light at the End of the Tunnel
(Godrevy Lighthouse, Cornwall)