From Granite Skies to Crimson Faces: A British Photography Misadventure

This week, I had the distinct pleasure of welcoming back my photography chum from Kent, a man apparently so enamored with precipitation he'd journeyed all the way to Tavistock for what he clearly hoped would be the full, unadulterated, soak-to-the-bone experience. Given that sunrise at this time of year demands a commitment usually reserved for professional insomniacs or dairy farmers, we sensibly opted for a more civilised start to the day. This had the added, and frankly delightful, bonus of allowing us to convene for a truly cracking breakfast at the recently unveiled @Granito Lounge

Suitably engorged and fortified against the elements – which, true to form, were granite-coloured skies – we set off on a grand tour of local photographic hotspots I’d meticulously, if perhaps over-confidently, planned. Our inaugural stop was the rather optimistically named Windy Post Cross.

The stroll from the car park to the stream is, by all accounts, a relatively brief affair. However, during our gentle perambulation, something utterly unprecedented occurred. The sun, a celestial body that had seemingly taken a protracted leave of absence in recent days, decided that this was the day for its grand re-entrance. Bathed in such unexpected glory, we pressed on to our next intended location. Or, at least, we tried to.

Those unfortunate souls who have previously endured my services as a tour guide will be all too familiar with my utterly execrable sense of direction. What I lack in navigational prowess, I tend to overcompensate for with an almost pathological certainty that I know precisely where I’m going. Consequently, it often takes a considerable stretch of time, and usually a fair amount of increasingly frantic consultation of non-existent landmarks, before the stark reality of my cluelessness truly sinks in. To his immense credit, David, my long-suffering companion, clearly discerned my plight far earlier than most. He then adopted what I can only describe as the rather unorthodox tactic of soliciting directions from two chaps who, by their sturdy boots and general air of rugged competence, clearly belonged to the experienced hill-walker fraternity. It transpired, to the inevitable deflation of my ego, that I was indeed leading us on a rather extended wild goose chase. With a sigh that probably registered on the Richter scale, I sheepishly led us back to the car.

Unbeknownst to me, during our extended, sun-drenched peregrination, my normally pallid complexion was undergoing a rather alarming transformation. It was, I later discovered, turning a hue best described as "very ripe tomato." Safely ensconced back in the car, I wisely suggested that a tree-lined road might offer some much-needed shade, lest I end up resembling the rather unfortunate Germans at the climax of Raiders of the Lost Ark. And so, there we were, standing in the middle of the road, cameras at the ready. By this point, my head had attained such a vibrant crimson that approaching traffic, presumably mistaking my face for a particularly enthusiastic traffic light, would slow down obligingly, affording David even more time for his photographic pursuits. Despite my rather incandescent complexion, I did manage to snag a shot or two myself, which, as far as I was concerned, constituted a resounding success for the day. Back at the pub, that first pint, I can tell you, tasted absolutely, unequivocally glorious.