A Morning Dip with River, the Aquatic Canine

It was one of those mornings when the sun seemed to have taken a personal affront to the very concept of moderation, determined to fry us all into a crisp, human-shaped fritter. My internal thermostat, never terribly reliable at the best of times, was already sputtering, threatening to turn me into something resembling a well-boiled lobster. Mercifully, a mutual agreement was struck with River's human companion: an ungodly early rendezvous, primarily to snatch what little decent light might be lurking about, and secondarily to prevent me from keeling over mid-shutter-click, an unedifying prospect for all concerned.

Now, River, a fine, strapping black Labrador, was indeed aptly named. "River" he was, and rivers, it turned out, were his passion, his very raison d'être. One might even say he was a connoisseur of currents, a savant of streams. A slight wrinkle in the grand plan, however, was River's particular medical issue, rendering camera flash a distinct no-no. This, naturally, elevated the pursuit of pristine natural light from a mere preference to an absolute, non-negotiable imperative.

My usual modus operandi with water-loving canines involves a preemptive land-based portrait session, a futile attempt to capture some semblance of dry dignity before the inevitable transformation into a soggy, four-legged mop. But despite the intoxicating gurgle and murmur of the nearby flowing water, River, bless his cotton socks, indulged us. He sat, he stayed, he even managed a few soulful gazes amidst the verdant ferns, all while the siren song of the river no doubt echoed in his very soul. Ten minutes, in human time, is but a blink; in dog-time, it's an eternity, a veritable eon of dutiful posing. River, however, bore it with the stoicism of a seasoned professional.

Then, inevitably, it was time for the main event. My own peculiar affliction, you see, dictates that I must, must, peer through the viewfinder. The fancy LCD screen, with all its modern conveniences, might as well be a blank piece of slate for all the use I get out of it. This rather antiquated foible means that, to achieve the desired aquatic masterpiece, I frequently find myself prostrate in the shallows, camera clutched precariously, as a jubilant, water-obsessed Black Lab, propelled by some unseen canine jet engine, hurtles directly towards me. The resulting geyser of spray and general aquatic chaos is, frankly, breathtaking.

Emerging from the embrace of the river, tastefully adorned with a liberal sprinkling of water, sand, and the occasional errant shell, it was genuinely difficult to ascertain who had derived more unadulterated joy from the exercise. Given the inevitable post-adventure car-cleaning ritual that awaited me, I daresay River ultimately emerged as the undisputed victor in the 'fun stakes'. But oh, what a glorious, messy, utterly Bryson-esque victory it was.

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.

Capturing the Uncapturable: Photographing a Hyperactive Dog (and My Chocolate-Fueled Efforts)

Ah, Sunday. A day of rest, reflection, and in my case, the rather ambitious notion of powering my weary frame with a frankly heroic quantity of chocolate. One might reasonably assume that such a sugary onslaught would leave me buzzing with the boundless enthusiasm of a small child at a party fuelled by E-numbers and fizzy pop. You'd think, wouldn't you? That I'd be ready to leap tall buildings, or at the very least, keep pace with… well, anything that moved with even a modicum of purpose.

But then there was Cooper.

Cooper, you see, had recently celebrated his second birthday, a milestone apparently marked by a solemn vow to personally investigate the aerodynamic properties of every available patch of ground in the vicinity. His greeting was a mere nanosecond of polite nasal investigation before he was off again, a small, furry comet on a trajectory of pure, unadulterated zoom. The idea of him pausing for a dignified portrait? About as likely as finding a polite badger at a tea party.

Thankfully, the unflappable Chloe and Dan were old hands at this particular brand of high-octane fluffball. They executed a truly impressive feat of canine choreography, somehow "encouraging" Cooper to hurtle towards the lens while they themselves perched precariously on either side of a riverbank that looked suspiciously like it had been liberally buttered.

My trusty camera, a veteran of countless windswept vistas and stoic sheep, was called into action. It was a small comfort to discover that my fingers still remembered how to dial in a shutter speed usually reserved for capturing bullets in mid-flight. And so there I was, prone in the damp earth, sounding rather like a demented woodpecker as I unleashed a rapid-fire barrage of clicks, desperately trying to freeze this furry blur in time.

The truth, as it often is, was rather humbling. No matter how many chocolate eggs I might ingest in the name of energy, I could no more keep up with Cooper than I could suddenly understand the offside rule. He was a force of nature, a four-legged testament to the sheer, unadulterated joy of simply being and moving. And I, well, I was mostly just muddy. And slightly sticky. But you know, in a rather satisfying sort of way.

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.

Plan B, in my case, involved the rather less glamorous, but arguably more entertaining, pursuit of pet photography. You know, those close-ups of furry faces that people inexplicably adore. And, as a delightful side effect, a bit of location scouting. Postbridge. Ah, Postbridge. That charming little clapper bridge. A place I'd promised myself I’d capture, oh, years ago, and which had, frankly, started to resemble a permanent fixture in shot list itself, rather than a subject to be photographed. It had, as they say, taken root.

So, with a photographic itch that was positively demanding to be scratched, Sarah, Winnie (the dog), and myself set off for a spot of what I like to call "shutter therapy." Now, Winnie, being a seasoned professional in the art of dog-posing, one would think she’d have this whole thing down pat. But no. On this particular evening, the allure of the river, and the prospect of dragging Sarah into it, proved far too compelling.

And thus, the scene. Picture, if you will, a middle-aged chap, me, crouching by the bridge, looking for all the world like a particularly disheveled troll. Camera in one hand, flash in the other, meowing and barking in a desperate attempt to command the attention of a dog that was clearly having none of it. Sarah, meanwhile, was engaged in a Herculean struggle to prevent Winnie from launching herself into the river, while simultaneously trying to avoid being in the frame. It was, shall we say, a spectacle.

I can only offer my deepest apologies to the unsuspecting tourists who, no doubt, had envisioned a serene, picturesque moment by the clapper bridge, perhaps even a selfie or two. Instead, they were treated to a bizarre tableau of animal noises, frantic arm waving, and a dog that seemed intent on aquatic mayhem. They, quite understandably, made a hasty retreat. I can only imagine what the tourist board will say.