The Great British Heatwave (and Other Dog Show Catastrophes) at Plympton Castle Green

The day began with that most dependable of British institutions: a ceiling of heavy, featureless grey cloud that promised the sort of aggressively monotonous weather we have all quietly resigned ourselves to of late. With a shrug, I bundled myself into what I fondly imagined was sensible clothing, hoisted my camera bag, and set off for the Midsummer Solstice Lamb Feast in Plympton. Our specific, noble mission for the afternoon? To document the companion dog show, an event masterminded by the formidable talent that is Lauren from Plympton’s own The Dog House 47.

For the uninitiated, the Plympton Lamb Feast is a cornerstone of the Plympton St Maurice Midsummer Festival. It is an entirely free, delightfully wholesome, family-friendly community gathering staged upon the historic Castle Green, a spot where, in 1224, the Sheriff of Devon thoroughly demolished the original castle because the local lord was being historically difficult. Walking up to it today, it is the sort of quintessentially English village scene that looks so impossibly idyllic you half expect a detective from Midsomer Murders to step out from behind a burger van to investigate a suspicious death by a poisoned scone.

As we arrived, a steadily swelling throng of eager canine participants was already lining up, each doing its level best to put its best paw forward. And then, right on cue, the atmosphere shifted. The clouds abruptly parted, and summer; proper, genuine summer, made a sudden, unannounced appearance.

Now, the British are notoriously bad at handling sudden weather. Give us a drizzling November afternoon and we are masters of our domain. Give us twenty minutes of actual, direct sunlight, and society begins to unravel. This unexpected meteorological plot twist was, of course, wonderful for morale, but it left our photography team looking rather less than picture perfect. Stripped of the breeze, we found ourselves instantly reduced to a pair of red faced, sweating individuals who looked as though they had mistakenly taken a sauna while fully clothed.

Soggy photographers aside, the entire affair went swimmingly. A spectacular plethora of rosettes was enthusiastically distributed to some of the most dashingly handsome and undeniably pretty pets in the whole of Plympton. Quite how the judges manage to pick a single winner from such a dazzlingly talented pool of fluff and good manners is utterly beyond me. Personally, I’d have given a prize to them all, if only to get back into the shade.

Plympton pet show photographed by a professional photographer

The Currency of Joy: A Plymouth Pet Portrait Adventure

It is an established medical fact, or at least, a deeply held personal conviction, that I suffer from a localized neurological affliction known as an itchy shutter finger. (Please, do not Google that. The internet has a way of turning a whimsical phrase into a terrifying rare tropical disease.)

It is a condition that inflicts a profound restlessness upon the soul if a week passes without a camera lens being pointed at something.

Lately, this affliction has been fed a veritable buffet. My lens has been aimed at an eccentric spectrum of the universe: from tiny, dramatic thespians to towering basketball giants, and from graceful ballerinas to the glorious, unbridled chaos of working spaniels. I have loved every single frame.

In fact, the sheer velocity of the shutter action has resulted in a significant backlog. The blame for this digital traffic jam lies entirely with my own compulsion to waffle. I feel an unnatural urge to write a small essay about every encounter, a defect that costs me more hours than I care to admit to my accountant.

This slow, artisanal approach stands in direct defiance of the modern internet. My social media feeds are permanently clogged with terrifyingly energetic young things shouting from beaches, urging me to "post daily!" while weaponizing complex "algorithmic strategies" to maximize my "organic reach."

The Art of the Deal (With a Dog)

Reach or no reach, I am utterly delighted to share a recent adventure from my Plymouth photography studio featuring what might mathematically be the most joyous canine in Devon.

Meet Daisy.

A happy portrait of a dog taken in a professional Plymouth Studio

Daisy arrived for her pet portrait session and immediately undertook the obligatory grand inspection. In the world of studio dog photography, this involves a thorough, high velocity nose vacuuming of the floorboards to sniff out the historical news of every creature that had preceded her.

Once the administrative sniffing was concluded, we got down to business.

For Daisy, "business" exists in a very specific economic framework. Posing for a professional dog photographer is not done for the love of the arts; it comes at a strict, transactional cost. The currency of the realm was the Treat.

Daisy would quite literally perform a complex, rhythmic tap-dance on the spot at the mere prospect of a meaty titbit. It turns out that maintaining an endless supply of high-value liver cake is catastrophic for one's waistline, but it is an absolute miracle worker for creating a happy, expressive photoshoot. (Sounds all too familia!)

The results were spectacular. I captured the perfect portraits, the studio survived the whirlwind, and Daisy left entirely satisfied with her earnings.

The Fine Art of Herding Furry Tornadoes: A Masterclass in Studio Chaos

According to the dictionary, chaos is defined as a state of total confusion, utter disorder, or a complete lack of organization. It is a word used by scientists to describe the universe, and by parents to describe a toddler's bedroom.

However, I am convinced the lexicographers at Oxford had a different muse entirely when they penned that definition: a photoshoot at Trident Studio, Plymouth featuring two specific English Springer Spaniels named Inka and Lottie.

To say these two have energy is to say the sun is a bit warm. They possessed the kind of vibrating, molecular restlessness usually reserved for a five year old child who has been systematically stuffed full of fizzy pop and Smarties. It was a whirlwind of a dog photography session and frankly, I loved every chaotic second of it.

The Grand Inquisitors of the Studio Floor

The moment both Springers crossed the threshold, they did not politely look for the camera. Instead, they immediately undertook a highly urgent, deeply spiritual mission to sniff every single square inch of available floor space.

The Scene: Heads down, bums triumphantly up, and tails wagging with such furious velocity they threatened to alter the local weather patterns.

It was a furry tornado whipping into every corner of the room. Once the perimeter was thoroughly inspected and deemed safe from imaginary intruders, it was time to get down to business. Or at least, our version of it.

Tag Team Wrestling (With Added Fur)

Coaxing Inka and Lottie into position was less like traditional pet photography and something more akin to refereeing a high stakes tag team wrestling match. They took turns on the studio floor, trading places with the chaotic energy of Olympic sprinters.

Thankfully, the match was masterfully refereed by their owners, who utilized a combination of patience, treats, and what I assume was mild sorcery.

In the end, it was the fleeting, beautiful little moments of calm that we captured. Amidst the whirlwind, the camera caught those soulful, bright eyes and magnificent ears in perfect stillness. And let me be completely honest, I was absolutely delighted with the results.

Looking for Pet Photography in Plymouth?

If you have a furry whirlwind of your own and want to capture their unique personality (chaos and all!), get in touch with MJC-Photography. We specialize in turning high energy into timeless portraits.

Dog Photography at Radford Park | MJC Photography Plymouth

One of the more pressing reasons I have recently taken up a residency at Trident Studios is the simple, blissful reliability of a roof. It turns out that having a sturdy layer of industrial grade material between oneself and the heavens is a marvellous invention.

Mother Nature, it seems, took our collective grumbling about last summer’s hosepipe bans quite personally. In a fit of celestial overcompensation, she has spent the last few months ensuring we have enough precipitation to see us through to the next decade, and perhaps a small portion of the one after that.

Having been the grateful recipient of a gift voucher, available, I should shamelessly add, from our stall in the Tavistock Pannier Market (a chap has to eat, after all) I finally found a window of meteorological cooperation. It was a rare and fleeting opportunity to capture some photographs that didn’t involve me looking like a saturated North Sea fisherman in heavy duty Gore-Tex.

I decamped to Radford Park, a place of terrific, if slightly damp, variety. It boasts everything a photographer could desire: charmingly tumbledown stone buildings, an abundance of flora and fauna, and even a miniature castle that looks as though it were misplaced by a passing medieval giant.

In my mind’s eye, that dangerous place where logic rarely ventures,I envisioned elegant portraits of Luna set against vast, sweeping panoramic vistas. The reality, however, was somewhat more kinetic. Luna, evidently impressed by the terrain, decided the best way to appreciate the park was to traverse every square inch of it at breakneck speed.

It is a scene that has become distressingly familiar to the locals: a middle-aged man, increasingly red of face, prostrate in the mud with a camera clutched in his hand, emitting a series of desperate barks and whistles. All of this in the vain hope of arresting the subject’s attention for the fraction of a second required for a "formal" pose.

It is a specialized form of madness, I grant you. But oh, the elation when that frantic, muddy chaos aligns for one fleeting moment and becomes, quite simply, "The Shot."

If you have a four-legged friend who similarly treats the laws of physics as mere suggestions, I would love to meet them. Whether they prefer a dignified stroll or, like Luna, a series of frantic, mid-air acrobatics, we can capture a moment that actually lasts longer than a whistle.

Luna attempting to achieve low earth orbit in pursuit of a tennis ball at Radford Park

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.