A Splendidly Still Evening in Looe: Landscapes, Litigious Gulls, and Geopolitical Blunders
Looe is, under normal circumstances, famously picturesque. Lately, however, it has achieved a fresh layer of notoriety as one of the primary Beyond Paradise filming locations. For reasons that defy rational human intellect, the television show’s producers saw fit to declare that this quintessentially Cornish town is actually located in Devon. This is a geographical insult so profound to the local populace that it’s a minor miracle the show’s weekly murder count isn’t significantly higher.
After several weeks of pointing my camera lens at a succession of startled human beings and deeply suspicious pets, I felt a familiar, urgent ache. It is a peculiar craving known chiefly to those who indulge in landscape photography: the deep-seated, borderline pathological need to stand utterly motionless for hours on end, staring at a view where, in all honesty, absolutely nothing is happening.
It is a state of existential suspension that fans of Plymouth Argyle Football Club will recognize instantly.
Escaping the Elements in Southeast Cornwall
Having confessed this photographic itch to Sarah the night before, we hatched a plan. We required a destination we could both enjoy, crucially, one that did not involve a lung busting trek up a vertical cliffside, culminating in a windswept hypothermia endurance test.
We settled on the thoroughly delightful coastal town of Looe, Cornwall.
Looe is, under normal circumstances, famously picturesque. Lately, however, it has achieved a fresh layer of notoriety as one of the primary Beyond Paradise filming locations. For reasons that defy rational human intellect, the television show’s producers saw fit to declare that this quintessentially Cornish town is actually located in Devon. This is a geographical insult so profound to the local populace that it’s a minor miracle the show’s weekly murder count isn’t significantly higher.
The Fish and Chip Audit
Fortunately, the human locals we encountered were entirely peaceful. The wildlife, however, was another matter.
As we sat down to enjoy that mandatory coastal staple, fish and chips, we found ourselves heavily policed by a squad of local herring gulls. These were not mere birds; they were avian bailiffs. They loitered nearby with an air of intense grievance, clearly harbouring complex legal questions regarding the rightful ownership of our dinner.
Note to travellers: When eating outdoors in Looe, constant vigilance is not a recommendation, it is a survival strategy.
Down the River or Across? The Photographer’s Dilemma
With the last of the chips successfully defended and devoured, and the immediate threat to my life downgraded, it was time to dust off the tripod and get down to business.
Nature, sensing my patience, kindly obliged. Just as the sun dipped below the horizon, a truly spectacular cloud formation rolled in, painting the Cornish sky in brilliant, dramatic hues. It was the exact shot I had been hoping for.
Now, however, I am left with the traditional, agonizing dilemma of the amateur photographer. I have two distinct perspectives from the evening, and I cannot quite decide which is the stronger composition:
Option 1: Looking directly down the atmospheric Looe River.
Option 2: Looking straight across the water to capture the stacked houses of the town.
East Looe River taken at Sunset
Looe Cornwall taken at Sunset
The Amateur Ark-Builder’s Guide to Wembury Beach (Before the Rain Returns)
Given that the British climate treats a sunny interval with the same fleeting commitment a toddler gives to a broccoli floret, a dash to Dartmoor felt recklessly optimistic. Instead, we zipped along in our small car through a countryside that was less "rolling hills" and more "saturated sponge," bound for the nearest patch of coastline at Wembury. I have, it must be said, photographed Wembury Beach approximately four thousand times, but one does not turn one's nose up at actual, verifiable sunshine. After all, in this part of the world, there is every chance we won’t see it again until the next millennium.
If you happen to inhabit this particular fold of the English landscape, a region so relentlessly lumpy it’s a wonder the sheep don’t all have one leg shorter than the others, it will not have escaped your attention that the weather of late has been, to put it mildly, biblical.
In fact, I am reasonably certain that since the turn of the year, the most frequently consulted entry on the internet has not been "how to lose ten pounds" or "easy sourdough," but rather "construction techniques for the amateur ark-builder." I have taken the role to heart, sprouting a beard of such patriarchal proportions that I’m often mistaken for a lost member of a Victorian climbing expedition. Mrs. C, while steadfastly vetoing my requests to adopt the robe-and-sandals look in public, has at least shown a surprising, if slightly alarming, openness to the idea of filling the spare room with two of every living creature.
So imagine our delight when, roughly halfway through another afternoon spent staring morosely at the rain as it sluiced down the windowpane in great, rhythmic sheets, a genuine miracle occurred.
The clouds, seemingly having grown bored of drowning us, shook hands and went their separate ways. In their wake, they left a sky of such startling, improbable blue that it felt almost like a provocation. In the centre of it all sat a fiery orb of such intense brightness that I vaguely recalled seeing something similar on an episode of Teletubbies back in the early 2000’s.
This was not an opportunity to be squandered on household chores or finishing the Ark (which joined the long, dusty ranks of my other abandoned DIY projects). I swapped my theoretical sandals for actual boots, lunged for my camera bag, and bolted for the door.
Given that the British climate treats a sunny interval with the same fleeting commitment a toddler gives to a broccoli floret, a dash to Dartmoor felt recklessly optimistic. Instead, we zipped along in our small car through a countryside that was less "rolling hills" and more "saturated sponge," bound for the nearest patch of coastline at Wembury. I have, it must be said, photographed Wembury Beach approximately four thousand times, but one does not turn one's nose up at actual, verifiable sunshine. After all, in this part of the world, there is every chance we won’t see it again until the next millennium.
From Screen to Summit: My Dartmoor Photography & Wild Camp Experience
Emerging from my "man cave" – which, at this point, more closely resembled a troglodyte's dwelling – with eyes blazing red and a spine curved like a question mark, it became abundantly clear that fresh air wasn't just a suggestion, it was a medical necessity. Hunching over a glowing screen for 48 hours straight is hardly the ideal training regimen for tackling Dartmoor. And the 1.5-mile ascent (yes, I did measure it, mostly out of a burgeoning sense of self-pity) to Great Mis Tor hammered that point home with the subtlety of a runaway train. Mercifully, about two-thirds of the way up, you encounter Little Mis Tor, a sort of granite amuse-bouche, a charming little foretaste designed to spur you on to the main course.
For two solid days, I had been engaged in what felt like an Olympic staring contest with my computer monitor. My eyes, normally a dashing shade of blue (if I do say so myself), had taken on the distinct hue of an undercooked hot dog. The culprit? A recent commission to photograph a musical theatre production by the rather brilliantly LS Drama workshops. Now, when confronted with such talent, one naturally becomes a bit, shall we say, enthusiastic with the camera. The upshot of this enthusiasm was a colossal pile of digital negatives, each demanding my undivided attention across various bits of editing software, where I agonized over details so minuscule they'd make a gnat feel like a sumo wrestler.
Emerging from my "man cave" – which, at this point, more closely resembled a troglodyte's dwelling – with eyes blazing red and a spine curved like a question mark, it became abundantly clear that fresh air wasn't just a suggestion, it was a medical necessity. Hunching over a glowing screen for 48 hours straight is hardly the ideal training regimen for tackling Dartmoor. And the 1.5-mile ascent (yes, I did measure it, mostly out of a burgeoning sense of self-pity) to Great Mis Tor hammered that point home with the subtlety of a runaway train. Mercifully, about two-thirds of the way up, you encounter Little Mis Tor, a sort of granite amuse-bouche, a charming little foretaste designed to spur you on to the main course.
After a good deal of huffing and puffing, all performed under the utterly disdainful gaze of the local woolly spectators (who, incidentally, seemed far too comfortable with vertical living), I finally arrived. As is often the case at this time of year, I was not, in fact, alone on the Tor. A small, suspiciously verdant tent was pitched perilously close to my initial target. Ambling about outside was an individual whose entire sartorial ensemble had the unmistakable whiff of "fresh off the rack." He was engaged in a rather vigorous mobile phone conversation and, upon spotting me, determined I simply had to be informed he was speaking to his wife. I can only assume my sweaty, bedraggled appearance, enormous rucksack, and rather intimidating tripod had unnerved him sufficiently to warrant the swift production of a digital alibi. My personal theory? He was a London reporter, dutifully churning out the annual "wild camping on Dartmoor is a must-do this summer" piece, conveniently omitting the bit about needing to spend the equivalent of a small mortgage on gear before venturing out.
Deciding discretion was the better part of valor, I retreated a safe distance, clambered up the nearest tor, and set up my camera. This entire operation, I couldn't help but notice, was being meticulously narrated back into his phone, presumably for the benefit of either his wife or his editor. Sunset achieved, it was time for a bit of ninja-like descent, a stealthy retreat before I could be roped into an impromptu interview. Who knows, the next time you pick up the Sunday supplements, a compelling article about the "Wild Man of Dartmoor" might just be gracing the center spread.