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
To Drone or Not to Drone? Photographing Postbridge in Dartmoor
Postbridge Clapper Bridge has spent years languishing on my landscape photography bucket list, yet I had never quite managed to capture the scene I held in my mind’s eye. For me, the magic lies in framing both the historic 14th century clapper bridge and the neighbouring 18th century road bridge together in a single shot.
The lay of the land, however, presents a devilish little topographical challenge, a hurdle that could easily be solved by gaining just a few extra feet of altitude. The very altitude, of course, that has been denied to me by a foolish obligation to pay for trivial luxuries like food and shelter rather than vital camera gear.
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.