The Perils, Pains, and Peculiarities of Photographing Great Staple Tor

There is a particular brand of madness unique to professional landscape photography. It involves voluntarily hauling thirty pounds of metal and glass up a sheer, rain slickened English hill, all for the distinct privilege of standing in a gale while waiting for a sun that has no intention of showing its face. I have visited Great Staple Tor on Dartmoor more times than my cardiologist would care to know, and the location has rewarded me with little more than lung busting disappointment.

My most recent calamity occurred a few months back. Having wheezed, groaned, and dragged my protesting frame to the summit, I was prepared to capture the glorious, unspoiled majesty of Devon. Instead, I was greeted by Dartmoor’s answer to The Hangover. A small cluster of youth, and let us be honest, everyone looks unnervingly young to me these days, were enjoying a rather spirited evening. The scene was punctuated by a minor mountain of empty lager cans and a single, surprisingly plump cigarette that was being passed around with communal enthusiasm. While a gritty urban photographer might have swooned at this tableau of rustic excess, it was not quite the sweeping, pristine wilderness I had envisioned for my portfolio.

Undeterred, or perhaps merely too foolish to know when I am beaten, I made the gruelling trudge up the Tor once again a few weeks later. As I crested the summit, my heart sank directly into my walking boots. Sprouting ominous and unmistakable above the ancient granite was the flexible fiberglass spine of a tent pole.

Thankfully, this episode proved less rural rave and more Carry On Camping (though without the legendary airborne bra, I should hasten to add). But with the sun slowly dipping toward the horizon and painting the cloud cover in remarkably promising shades of crimson, I was damned if I was going empty handed again.

Refusing to resort to digital trickery, I was forced into an extreme low angle composition to shoot past the campsite. This required assuming a crouch that I am reasonably certain violates several Geneva Conventions on cruel and unusual punishment. The sun, sensing my agony, seemed to slow its descent to a glacial crawl, apparently delighting in the spectacle of an overweight photographer squatted in a position that would make a seasoned yoga master wince.

Eventually, the shutter clicked, and the frame was secured. All that remained was the agonizingly undignified process of returning my spine to a vertical position. This was accompanied by a string of choice, industrial-strength expletives, along with a cheery, apologetic wave to two thoroughly startled campers who had just unzipped their tent to witness a grown man cursing at a rock.

How to Shoot Sunset at Great Staple Tor (Without the Pain)

If you're planning your own photographic pilgrimage to Dartmoor's iconic granite peaks, a few practical tips can help you avoid my misadventures:

• Composition Hacks: When unwanted elements (campers, fence posts, or stray beer cans) invade your frame, try shooting from a ultra low perspective using a wide angle lens. This allows you to use foreground rocks to naturally block distractions while emphasizing the massive scale of the Tor.

• The Climb: Park at the pork-pie shaped car park near Merrivale on the B3357. The hike up Great Staple Tor is short (under a mile), but it is steep, uneven, and guaranteed to test your cardiovascular limits. Wear sturdy boots with good ankle support.

Best Light: Sunset is unquestionably the prime time for Staple Tor. The setting sun lights up the western faces of the granite stacks with a brilliant golden orange glow, ideal for dramatic wide-angle compositions

Dramatic sunset behind granite rock towers at Great Staple Tor, Dartmoor.

Chasing the Perfect Dartmoor Sunset: A Summer Walk up Brat Tor

The last time I stood atop Brat Tor, winter was maintaining a positively medieval grip on the Dartmoor landscape. The ground was lightly dusted in snow, and every exhaled breath produced a cloud of vapour so dense it could have comfortably passed for an industrial effluent.

With Jack Frost dutifully providing the ambience, I had the entire glorious expanse to myself. The Devon landscape was breathtaking, the sort of majestic, sweeping vista that leaves one genuinely awestruck, or would have, had I not been reasonably convinced that opening my mouth for too long might permanently freeze my jaw shut.

Why Winter Photography on Dartmoor Is a Hard Sell

Yet, for all the stark grandeur of those winter landscape photographs, it turned out the good, sensible folk of Tavistock had remarkably little appetite for hanging them on their living room walls.

Apparently, when people buy Dartmoor wall art, nobody wants a print whose primary artistic function is to remind them to put on extra thermal underwear. Lesson learned: summer photography sells better than hypothermia.     

The Mad Dash for a Summer Sunset

Enter the marvels of modern technology. A modest, cheerful ping from my smartphone weather app alerted me to the distinct possibility of an incandescent Devon sunset. What followed was a brief period of dignified panic, during which I careened through the house like a distracted squirrel, scooping up an absurd volume of camera equipment.

Unlike my usual aimless wanderings, I actually had a destination in mind. All that remained was the small, excruciating matter of ascending Brat Tor once more.

As I trudged up the hill near Lydford, my so called "smart" watch began issuing increasingly hysterical health alerts to anyone within earshot, practically declaring it a medical miracle that a man with a heart rate this alarming was still standing upright.

Summiting Brat Tor (and Terrifying the Locals)

Naturally, on a fine summer evening, one expects to share the Dartmoor National Park with fellow walkers enjoying the trail. What these unsuspecting souls clearly had not anticipated, however, was the sudden arrival of a lobster red, intensely wheezing photographer of advancing years, lugging what felt like his own body weight in tripod legs and camera lenses up the steepest possible incline.

I paused, bent double with hands firmly planted on my knees, and managed to croak out a breathless "hello."

This brief interaction was evidently so deeply unsettling that the onlookers concluded the sunset simply wasn't worth the existential hazard, and they beat a hasty retreat toward Widgery Cross and down the hill.

Capturing the Golden Hour

Thus, with the summit mercifully restored to total solitude, I set up my gear, caught my breath, and finally captured a golden hour scene that speaks less of icy winds and rather more of glorious Devon summer vibes.

To Drone or Not to Drone? Photographing Postbridge in Dartmoor

To drone or not to drone, that is the question.

As virtually anyone who has suffered the misfortune of encountering me in the flesh will freely attest, I am a man who thoroughly enjoys droning on. It is a source of mild personal irony, then, that I do not actually own a drone.

Now, I must confess that the ten year old boy who permanently resides somewhere behind my ribs would like nothing better than to send a motorized gadget swooping through the upper atmosphere, snapping aerial photographs of the Devon countryside with frantic glee. Indeed, this inner child is entirely prepared to throw a world class tantrum to get one.

Unfortunately, standing firmly in the doorway between me and aerial glory is the thoroughly unromantic figure of my bank account. No amount of pouting seems to move the unyielding hearts at Lloyds Bank, so a photography drone remains indefinitely exiled to my Christmas list.

The Challenge of Photographing Postbridge

By now, you are almost certainly wondering whether this particular ramble is headed anywhere at all. To be entirely honest, when I start waffling, even I am rarely privy to the final destination.

But there is a point, and it concerns Postbridge on 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.

A Creative Alternative to Drone Photography

With my bank balance steadfastly refusing to perform a miracle, I was forced to resort to good old fashioned British ingenuity.

The solution was standing right in front of me: my trusty tripod.

I firmly attached my camera to the tripod head, gripped it securely by the base, and hoisted the entire precarious contraption high above my head like a medieval standard bearer. And lo: there was the angle. Both bridges were framed beautifully at last.

Matt from MJC-photography taking a picture using the tripod to provide extra height.

Naturally, I felt compelled to make loud, throat rattling airplane noises while operating the shutter. It added a certain je ne sais quoi to the artistic process, with the delightful added bonus of causing nearby tourists to give me a very wide, very cautious berth.

So, there you have it. A long sought Dartmoor landscape photograph secured, my inner child appeased, and not a single propellor required, all thanks to the low tech magic of a six foot pole.

Braving the Elements: A Rugged Dartmoor Fitness Photoshoot (And One Very Tired Photographer)

Imagine my delight when a gentleman named Gavin reached out to book a commercial photoshoot for his upcoming outdoor fitness business. He had spotted my work in Tavistock’s historic Pannier Market and decided that my lens was the perfect fit for his venture. Given that his business revolves around rugged, outdoor training on the dramatic landscapes of Dartmoor, it felt like a match made in heaven. Or, at the very least, a match made in Devon.

In my mind’s eye, I immediately conjured a glorious tableau: a group of effortlessly enthusiastic fitness types, the sort of chiselled, impossibly beautiful people who seem to populate social media with annoying frequency, bounding joyfully across the heather. We tossed ideas back and forth and settled on a date to meet at Tavy Cleave.

If you have never visited Tavy Cleave, I can highly recommend it. It offers the absolute finest of Dartmoor concentrated into one spectacular spot:

• Rugged granite tors

• Sweeping, cinematic vistas

• Lung busting hills

• A dramatic valley complete with a rushing river and a waterfall

It is, in short, a Devon paradise.

When Dartmoor Ignores the Met Office

"Rugged" was the specific look we were aiming for. Somehow, the temperamental weather gods of the West Country decided that rugged actually meant downright brutal.

Lulled into a entirely false sense of optimism by a cheerful Met Office forecast, we agreed to meet early to capture as many images as possible before any storm clouds gathered. Delightful in theory. However, if there is one thing I have learned as a Dartmoor photographer, it is that Dartmoor does not read, nor does it respect, weather forecasts.

As we climbed our first Tor, the sky shifted from a mild, brooding grey to a state of absolute, dark anger. Yet, we persevered. With the first set of fitness portraits safely on the camera sensor despite the lowering cloud, we descended into the valley toward the waterfall and wild swimming area.

Note to readers: Dartmoor water in the cooler months is not what one would call "inviting." It is closer to liquid ice.

Gavin, however, is clearly constructed from sterner stuff than ordinary mortals. Before I could even mutter the word hypothermia, he had stripped down to his swimming trunks and dived headlong into the icy depths. I watched on, convinced I was working with Superman.

Fitness vs. Photography: The Great Contrast

After a brisk jog back to his van, it was time for Gavin to endure several more forms of torture in the name of physical fitness. Fortunately for everyone concerned, this next segment did not involve me exerting myself any further than lifting my camera and adjusting my shutter speed.

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.

Planning a Brand Launch in Devon?

Whether you need rugged fitness photography on the moors or professional commercial imagery in Tavistock or Plymouth, I’d love to help bring your business vision to life (and I promise to bring plenty of enthusiasm, even if the weather brings the drama).

[Get in touch with MJC-photography today to discuss your project.]

The Wondrous Burden of the Dartmoor Enthusiast

One of the great mysteries of my unremarkable existence, and truly, I mean great in the sense of 'perplexing' rather than 'splendid', is the remarkable ease with which I manage to convince otherwise sensible individuals to listen to me go on, and on, about Dartmoor Photography. I am, to put it mildly, a menace to camera clubs far and wide. Picture it: hapless souls, tucked away in village halls up and down the country, forced to sit through what must be an Olympic level parade of Tors. More images of granite outcrops than any sane person could possibly require. And yet, for reasons that frankly baffle both me and probably the professional psychiatric community, they endure my over enthusiastic musings.

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.

The pressure, as you can imagine, was palpable. I was the hype-man, the enthusiastic amateur, and now I had two highly skilled photographers looking to me for inspiration. A quick snap of the high street, the obligatory local Co-op, perhaps, was simply not going to cut the mustard. The usual guaranteed winner, Brentor Church at sunrise, was a non-starter; late October dawns tend to be a sort of monochromatic grey that would make a tax auditor look cheerful.

A frantic rummage through the mental archive, then, and a new plan was hatched: Shaugh Prior. A place so ridiculously saturated with colour and interest that the local tourist board really ought to be cutting it a hefty commission. I’d struck gold. It turned out Brian was the sort of man who liked to get right down into the earthy muck of things, finding particular joy in the fungal riots that seemed to spawn from every mossy log. Sue, meanwhile, took a wider, more expansive view, quietly soaking up the genuinely riotous palette Mother Nature had splashed along the riverbank.

We wandered for what felt like a mere handful of minutes, it was, in point of fact, a good couple of hours and by the end, I had two very happy 'snappers.' Memory cards bulging with scenes of genuine beauty, it was time to hand Dartmoor's newest converts back over to the national infrastructure. The pressure was off. The granite had performed its magic.

I must say, after all that, I felt I’d earned my stripes. Perhaps I should just send the National Park my CV. After all, if I can lure people away from Norfolk, what can't I do?

Dartmoor Delights & Canine Capers: A Photographer's Tale of Sunshine, Showers, and Spirited Pups

Well, blow me down, if the weather gods weren't playing a bit of a cruel joke that week. We'd been swanning about, absolutely basking in what could only be described as truly glorious sunshine, the kind that makes you forget what misery feels like. So, naturally, we packed our bags, filled our flasks, and headed for Dartmoor first thing Sunday morning, visions of sun-drenched rambles dancing in our heads. And what did we get? A radical, utterly impudent change of heart from the heavens. The sort of damp, dispiriting grey that makes you want to crawl back into bed and pull the covers over your head. We squelched our way back to the car, defeated and thoroughly soggy, unanimously agreeing that a do-over was in order.

And so, Sunday, bless its reliable heart, rolled around once more. This time, things were looking decidedly up. Our star of the show, a distinguished model named Pip, was practically vibrating with anticipation. You see, she'd endured the particular indignity of being unceremoniously hauled out of the car the previous weekend, only to be dragged back in five minutes later, still sniffing the moorland air with a hopeful nostril.

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 boisterous 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. A strategic retreat, a flick of the camera to silent mode, and the deployment of a longer lens meant Purdy could enjoy her walk, blissfully unburdened by the photographic gaze, and we, in turn, snagged some truly splendid, natural-looking images. Proof, if ever it were needed, that even the most obstreperous subjects can be won over with a bit of cunning and a longer lens.