Smeaton’s Tower Sunrise: A Six-Year Wait for a Glimpse of Plymouth Gold

If there were ever a civic referendum to determine the undisputed heavyweight champion of Plymouth icons, Smeaton’s Tower would win by a landslide, probably while looking remarkably dignified in its red-and-white stripes. It is a structure so stubbornly charismatic that even the Beatles, a group not exactly known for being wallflowers, once posed nearby, though they kept a respectful distance, presumably sensing that the lighthouse might effortlessly outshine them.

It is, quite simply, a magnet for anyone with a camera and a spare afternoon. I am, I should confess, no exception to this rule. However, upon auditing my own photographic archives, I was hit by the mildly horrifying realization that it has been a full six years since I last dragged myself out of bed to capture her at sunrise.

In an attempt to rectify this appalling lapse in judgment, I have spent the better part of the winter peering through rain-streaked windows, waiting for a break in the relentless Devon deluge. And then came Tuesday, the 17th of February. It was a day that really ought to be registered with some minor government department, for between the hours of 6:00 AM and lunchtime, we were treated to a phenomenon known in more tropical climes as "actual sunshine." It didn’t linger, of course, this is England, after all, but while it lasted, it was nothing short of a miracle.

I spent the pre-dawn hours in a state of terminal giddiness. I was up, dressed, and vibrating with anticipation long before the first smudge of light appeared on the horizon. There is a specific, quiet magic to watching the world stir. No matter how many creaks my joints develop, at the current rate of decay, my knees should be expecting a congratulatory telegram from the King any day now, I still possess the wide-eyed thrill of a child who has managed to sneak downstairs early on Christmas morning.

To see the sun finally make a guest appearance after weeks of grey misery was better, frankly, than finding Santa’s muddy boot prints on the hearth. It was a glorious, fleeting reminder that the world is, occasionally, a very fine place to look at.