Photography at Bowerman’s Nose: Dartmoor’s Most Famous Tor
Legend has it that Bowerman’s Nose was once a real hunter, transformed into stone by a coven of disgruntled witches.
Having made the steep, relentless plod up from the Manaton car park, I must say I find myself sympathizing with the witches. Carrying a heavy iron cauldron up that incline is precisely the sort of activity to put anyone in a thoroughly foul mood.
However he came to be, Bowerman is easily one of the most delightfully absurd and distinctive granite tors on all of Dartmoor.
The Perils, Pains, and Peculiarities of Photographing Great Staple Tor
Fast forward to last week. Having once again completed the gruelling trudge to the top, my heart sank into my boots as I crested the Tor. There, poking ominously above the granite rocks, was the distinct, flexible outline of a tent pole.
Thankfully, this scene was less rural rave and more Carry On Camping (minus the flying bra, I should hasten to add). But with the sun slowly descending and painting the sky in a exceedingly promising shade of amber, I was utterly determined not to leave empty handed again
Braving the Elements: A Rugged Dartmoor Fitness Photoshoot (And One Very Tired Photographer)
Photoshoot complete, our local fitness hero packed away an alarming number of heavy weights and assorted equipment without looking like he had broken so much as a single sweat. Meanwhile, a red-faced, slightly rotund photographer trudged back to his own car, feeling very much like a broken man.
It was a brilliant day of Devon commercial photography, capturing the raw, authentic grit of outdoor training. When Gavin officially launches his new Dartmoor fitness venture, I highly recommend checking it out, though you might find me at the back of the class, catching my breath.
Trading Wedding Cake for Dawn Light: A Dartmoor Photography Trip
So there I was this morning, 5:30 am, and the field was gloriously, wonderfully empty of other tripods. Just me and a bunch of young, four-legged, very vocal sheep shouting for their mums across the grass. Despite their noisy complaints, they got curious, didn't they? Had to come and have a proper nosy to see what I was up to. A quick photo session with the fluffy little blighters followed, and then they trotted off, bleating loudly about their morning's excitement to anyone who'd listen. You've got to love the countryside.
Dartmoor Adventures: Hiking King’s Tor & Encountering Herbal Campervans
Right, well, let's talk about King’s Tor, shall we? You know, the sort of place where good intentions go to die, or at least twist an ankle. Forget your paved roads to perdition; this is more of a "loose rock and existential dread" kind of affair. I've parked nearby more times than I care to admit, gazing at that lumpy track and wondering if, perhaps, birdwatching wouldn't be a more fulfilling hobby. Or competitive napping. Anything, really, that didn't involve the very real possibility of a sprained anything.
Grey Skies, Barking Trolls, and Postbridge: A Photographic Mishap
Well, the weather. Honestly. You'd think the Sky People, or whatever they call themselves up there, had nothing better to do than mess with the likes of us, the lens-toting, sunset-chasing, landscape-obsessed mortals. A glorious, postcard-perfect day, all sapphire skies and fluffy little clouds, just begging to be captured. And then, poof, grey. Just… grey. Like someone had dropped a damp blanket over everything. So, plan B. Naturally.
Hound Tor
Ah, Hound Tor. A place of... memories. Mostly bad. You see, a couple of years back, I’d had the bright idea of visiting in the dead of night. And, as is my wont, I managed to drop my phone. In the dark. On Dartmoor. Finding a mobile phone on Dartmoor at 2am is a bit like trying to find a specific grain of sand on a beach in the Sahara. It's not impossible, just deeply, profoundly, annoying. So, naturally, I’ve always held a bit of a grudge against the place. Which, let’s be honest, is a bit like blaming the pavement for your own clumsiness. But still.
Dartmoor Dawn: A (Slightly) Frozen Fiasco
Right, so, getting up. Before the early bird is even hungry. That's a commitment. A serious one. I mean, you've got to ask yourself, is it really worth abandoning the warm, forgiving embrace of the duvet? Hours of internet trawling later – a veritable odyssey of weather apps, each with its own slightly differing take on reality – I decided, yes, possibly, maybe, if I didn't freeze to death, it might just be. A "corker.”
The drive, well, that's a tale in itself. Dartmoor. Easy enough on the A38, all smooth tarmac and reassuringly dull. But then, you veer off. You plunge into the labyrinth of country lanes. These are not your friendly, well-lit suburban streets. These are narrow, winding, hedgerow-choked affairs, the sort where you expect to meet a tractor driven by a man with a suspiciously large turnip. And today? Today, they were lethal. Black ice. The very words send a shiver down the spine. You know the gritters have a very, very long list of priorities, and these lanes are somewhere near the bottom,
And to add to the general sense of impending doom, the sunrise. Oh, the sunrise. It was doing its thing. That glorious, rosy, "you're missing it!" glow. Which, of course, meant I had to drive faster. But also, you know, stay alive. A delicate balance.
Thankfully, I'd planned this expedition with the sort of meticulousness usually reserved for nuclear launch codes. The car park? Practically spitting distance from the cross. A stroll, a gentle amble, a mere saunter to tripod placement. It felt… wrong. No panting, no wheezing, no feeling like I’d just run a marathon up Everest. Even the Dartmoor ponies, those notoriously judgemental beasts, just gave me a casual, "oh, it's just him again," glance.
However, being me, the inner masochist kicked in. “A little walk,” I thought, “a brisk climb up Corndon Tor.” Just to add a bit of suffering to the morning. A bit of, you know, authenticity. So, up I went, pulse doing a passable impression of a frantic tap-dancing team, lungs screaming for mercy. And by the time I'd sorted out a composition, found a vaguely stable rock, and stopped seeing stars, the sun had done its job. It was up. Done. The rosy tint? Gone. Replaced by the harsh, unforgiving light of mid-morning. Another missed opportunity. Another lesson in the fleeting nature of beauty. Maybe next time, I’ll just stay in bed.