A Fool's Guide to Photography

If there is a more futile undertaking than attempting to engage me in conversation around 6:30 in the evening, I have yet to find it. You might as well try to convince a cat to fetch your slippers or get a straight answer out of a politician. "Why?" you ask, with the innocent enthusiasm of a person who has never been left staring at a blank wall while the sky explodes into colour.

Well, it's at this precise moment that the sun, a theatrical diva of the highest order, is getting ready to bid a flamboyant farewell to our corner of the globe and stir our southern hemisphere friends from their slumber. It’s a delicate, protracted business, and one that requires my full, undivided attention. My brain, already a chaotic jumble of half forgotten to do lists and the collected works of whoever writes the blurbs on social media, simply cannot process additional information. My wife, a saintly woman, can attest to this phenomenon, having spent many an evening talking to what amounts to a flesh and blood scarecrow with a preoccupied gaze.

This celestial prima donna, the sun, has, in the past, been a cruel mistress. I’ve traipsed across Dartmoor tors, boots caked in mud and a tripod digging into my shoulder, only for her to pull a sudden vanishing act, leaving me with nothing but a grey sky and the distinct feeling of being jilted at the altar. So, I’ve learned my lesson. Tonight I headed to a convenient, an easily accessible spot one that requires no more effort than a short stroll from the car and set up my tripod, ready for the show.

And I won’t lie, there's a small, resentful part of me that always hopes the whole thing will be a bust. That the sky will simply turn to a dull, uninspired grey, just so I can feel smugly justified in my lack of effort. But alas, on this particular evening, my cynicism was thoroughly misplaced. The sky erupted into a riot of crimson and gold, a spectacle so breathtaking it almost made me forget my own grumbling nature. I just stood there, watching the hues deepen, and I couldn't help but wonder if somewhere down in Australia or New Zealand, a fellow shutterbug was cursing their alarm clock for not having woken them up sooner.

A scenic long exposure photograph of the Plymouth Hoe waterfront at sunset. The sky is a gradient of soft pinks, oranges, and purples. In the middle ground, the iconic red and white striped Smeaton's Tower lighthouse stands out against the landscape. To the left, a cluster of buildings, including the dome of the former Dome restaurant, is visible. To the right, the column of the Royal Citadel is silhouetted against the sky. The foreground shows the calm, reflective waters of Plymouth Sound. The city lights are just beginning to glow, creating a gentle illumination along the shoreline.

Sharp Tor, Dartmeet: Battling Parking Meters for Dartmoor's Golden Hour (Photography Adventure)

Well, now, it appears the weather chaps, those capricious deities with their finger on the thermostat, have decided to, what’s the phrase? “Give summer a whirl.” A quickie, mind you, like a pop-up shop, presumably a dastardly scheme to usher in the drizzle with renewed vigour. But, being no fool, or at least, trying not to be, I’m embracing it. Like accepting a slightly suspicious gift from a distant relative, you just smile and nod. So, there I was, creeping out of the house in the inky blackness, a veritable photographic ninja, if ninjas wore slightly rumpled trousers and muttered about forgetting their lens cap.

My quarry this morning? Sharp Tor, Dartmeet, on the eastern flank of Dartmoor. Now, these Tor chaps, they really lacked imagination, didn’t they? Sharp Tor? There are a few, apparently, leading to a rather spirited debate with my sat-nav, which, bless its digital heart, seemed convinced we were headed north, not east. I, of course, had done my homework, like a particularly keen, if slightly over-caffeinated, schoolboy. Yartor Down car park, shortest walk, I’d read. Shortest, yes. But they rather glossed over the bit where you plummet into a valley so steep, even a Sherpa would raise an eyebrow and say, “You’re having a laugh, mate.”

Plan B, naturally, was required. A frantic dash down the road, and there it was, glaring at me like a disapproving headmaster: a Dartmoor National Park parking meter. I tell you, I pondered the economics. Would it be cheaper to pay the ransom, or simply get my knees replaced after that valley climb? The dawn, however, that lovely, warm, glowing thing, made the decision. I huffed and puffed, like a steam train with a head cold, and finally, there I was, at the summit.

And, well, it was rather splendid. The light, you see, was just…glorious. Warm tones, dancing across the landscape, colouring those clouds like a particularly enthusiastic toddler with a box of crayons. I dashed about, like a squirrel with a nut, grabbing compositions, determined to get my money’s worth. I’ll probably always grumble about those parking meters, those metal extortionists. But, on balance, I’d have to say, it was worth it. Even if my knees are now threatening to file a formal complaint.