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.

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.

From Screen to Summit: My Dartmoor Photography & Wild Camp Experience

For two solid days, I had been engaged in what felt like an Olympic staring contest with my computer monitor. My eyes, normally a dashing shade of blue (if I do say so myself), had taken on the distinct hue of an undercooked hot dog. The culprit? A recent commission to photograph a musical theatre production by the rather brilliantly LS Drama workshops. Now, when confronted with such talent, one naturally becomes a bit, shall we say, enthusiastic with the camera. The upshot of this enthusiasm was a colossal pile of digital negatives, each demanding my undivided attention across various bits of editing software, where I agonized over details so minuscule they'd make a gnat feel like a sumo wrestler.

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.

After a good deal of huffing and puffing, all performed under the utterly disdainful gaze of the local woolly spectators (who, incidentally, seemed far too comfortable with vertical living), I finally arrived. As is often the case at this time of year, I was not, in fact, alone on the Tor. A small, suspiciously verdant tent was pitched perilously close to my initial target. Ambling about outside was an individual whose entire sartorial ensemble had the unmistakable whiff of "fresh off the rack." He was engaged in a rather vigorous mobile phone conversation and, upon spotting me, determined I simply had to be informed he was speaking to his wife. I can only assume my sweaty, bedraggled appearance, enormous rucksack, and rather intimidating tripod had unnerved him sufficiently to warrant the swift production of a digital alibi. My personal theory? He was a London reporter, dutifully churning out the annual "wild camping on Dartmoor is a must-do this summer" piece, conveniently omitting the bit about needing to spend the equivalent of a small mortgage on gear before venturing out.

Deciding discretion was the better part of valor, I retreated a safe distance, clambered up the nearest tor, and set up my camera. This entire operation, I couldn't help but notice, was being meticulously narrated back into his phone, presumably for the benefit of either his wife or his editor. Sunset achieved, it was time for a bit of ninja-like descent, a stealthy retreat before I could be roped into an impromptu interview. Who knows, the next time you pick up the Sunday supplements, a compelling article about the "Wild Man of Dartmoor" might just be gracing the center spread.