A Fool's Guide to Photography
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.
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.
It’s all about lists!
Right, so, lists. You know about my lists. I have lists for lists, probably. It's a sickness, I admit. But honestly, who doesn't get a little thrill from a good, solid tick? A proper, emphatic tick, like you've just wrestled a badger and won. Anyway, Ayrmer Cove. It's been on the list. For ages. I was starting to wonder if someone had just made it up, like a mythical land where socks never vanish in the dryer.
Right, so, lists. You know about my lists. I have lists for lists, probably. It's a sickness, I admit. But honestly, who doesn't get a little thrill from a good, solid tick? A proper, emphatic tick, like you've just wrestled a badger and won. Anyway, Ayrmer Cove. It's been on the list. For ages. I was starting to wonder if someone had just made it up, like a mythical land where socks never vanish in the dryer.
Now, Ayrmer Cove, see, it's one of those places Mother Nature clearly designed while showing off. Ridiculously photogenic beach. But, and here's the rub, the sun, that big golden orb, has a rather inconvenient habit of setting in the wrong place. Most of the time. I scouted the joint last summer, and it was clear: patience was going to be key. Like waiting for a bus that only runs on leap years.
So, I had to add a subsection to the list. A subsection. It involved high tide, so the "shark fin rock" (which, let's be honest, looks more like a slightly pointy pebble) was nicely surrounded by water, and the sun dipping behind the dramatic coastline (which, to be fair, is quite dramatic). This required some serious planning. Fortunately, there's this thing called the internet. You might have heard of it. It's a vast repository of, well, everything. Including, apparently, the exact astronomical calculations required to predict when a rock, the sea, and the sun will all align for a photograph.
This meant waiting. Waiting until March 2025. Or, if you're feeling particularly keen, September 2025. Either way, it's a long haul. And then, of course, you need a decent sunset. No pressure, Mother Nature, but after all that waiting, you'd better deliver.
So, there you have it. Another tick on the list. A satisfying, deeply nerdy tick. But, as you might have guessed, there are plenty more to come. A terrifying, never-ending, ever-expanding list. It's a curse, really. A beautiful, meticulously organised curse.