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
Chasing the Perfect Dartmoor Sunset: A Summer Walk up Brat Tor
Naturally, the good people of Tavistock showed zero interest in hanging pictures on their walls that served only to remind them of the urgent necessity of thermal underwear.
So, alerted by a cheerful ping on my smartphone, I recently sprinted through the house like a startled squirrel, grabbed a mountain of camera gear, and hauled my lobster-red, intensely wheezing frame back up the hill in search of some proper summer golden hour vibes.
Did my smartwatch issue multiple hysterical health warnings? Yes. Did I terrify a few innocent hikers along the way? Unquestionably. But I got the shot.
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.
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.
The Wondrous Burden of the Dartmoor Enthusiast
Now, here is where the story takes a turn toward the utterly unbelievable. My droning and the accompanying cavalcade of rocks apparently served as a siren song, a peculiar, moorland-scented siren song, to Brian and Sue, who promptly decided to haul themselves all the way from the reliably sunny (or so I imagine) flatlands of Norfolk to our gloriously lumpy corner of the globe.
Dartmoor Delights & Canine Capers: A Photographer's Tale of Sunshine, Showers, and Spirited Pups
Now, Pip, being of a certain vintage, took it all in her stride. She posed on demand, radiated a serene contentment, and generally seemed to be having the time of her life. And I, clearly lulled into a dangerous sense of complacency by this relaxed session, was about to be rudely awakened. Because Pip, as it turned out, had a considerably younger sister, a feisty little number by the name of Purdy. And Purdy, it quickly became apparent, was rather less enamoured with the prospect of having a camera lens pointed squarely in her direction. An objection, I might add, that she voiced with all the enthusiastic indignation of a startled badger whenever I dared lift the camera. But necessity, as they say, is the mother of invention