The Perils, Pains, and Peculiarities of Photographing Great Staple Tor
Fast forward to last week. Having once again completed the gruelling trudge to the top, my heart sank into my boots as I crested the Tor. There, poking ominously above the granite rocks, was the distinct, flexible outline of a tent pole.
Thankfully, this scene was less rural rave and more Carry On Camping (minus the flying bra, I should hasten to add). But with the sun slowly descending and painting the sky in a exceedingly promising shade of amber, I was utterly determined not to leave empty handed again
There is a particular brand of madness unique to professional landscape photography. It involves voluntarily hauling thirty pounds of metal and glass up a sheer, rain slickened English hill, all for the distinct privilege of standing in a gale while waiting for a sun that has no intention of showing its face. I have visited Great Staple Tor on Dartmoor more times than my cardiologist would care to know, and the location has rewarded me with little more than lung busting disappointment.
My most recent calamity occurred a few months back. Having wheezed, groaned, and dragged my protesting frame to the summit, I was prepared to capture the glorious, unspoiled majesty of Devon. Instead, I was greeted by Dartmoor’s answer to The Hangover. A small cluster of youth, and let us be honest, everyone looks unnervingly young to me these days, were enjoying a rather spirited evening. The scene was punctuated by a minor mountain of empty lager cans and a single, surprisingly plump cigarette that was being passed around with communal enthusiasm. While a gritty urban photographer might have swooned at this tableau of rustic excess, it was not quite the sweeping, pristine wilderness I had envisioned for my portfolio.
Undeterred, or perhaps merely too foolish to know when I am beaten, I made the gruelling trudge up the Tor once again a few weeks later. As I crested the summit, my heart sank directly into my walking boots. Sprouting ominous and unmistakable above the ancient granite was the flexible fiberglass spine of a tent pole.
Thankfully, this episode proved less rural rave and more Carry On Camping (though without the legendary airborne bra, I should hasten to add). But with the sun slowly dipping toward the horizon and painting the cloud cover in remarkably promising shades of crimson, I was damned if I was going empty handed again.
Refusing to resort to digital trickery, I was forced into an extreme low angle composition to shoot past the campsite. This required assuming a crouch that I am reasonably certain violates several Geneva Conventions on cruel and unusual punishment. The sun, sensing my agony, seemed to slow its descent to a glacial crawl, apparently delighting in the spectacle of an overweight photographer squatted in a position that would make a seasoned yoga master wince.
Eventually, the shutter clicked, and the frame was secured. All that remained was the agonizingly undignified process of returning my spine to a vertical position. This was accompanied by a string of choice, industrial-strength expletives, along with a cheery, apologetic wave to two thoroughly startled campers who had just unzipped their tent to witness a grown man cursing at a rock.
How to Shoot Sunset at Great Staple Tor (Without the Pain)
If you're planning your own photographic pilgrimage to Dartmoor's iconic granite peaks, a few practical tips can help you avoid my misadventures:
Composition Hacks: When unwanted elements (campers, fence posts, or stray beer cans) invade your frame, try shooting from a ultra low perspective using a wide angle lens. This allows you to use foreground rocks to naturally block distractions while emphasizing the massive scale of the Tor.
The Climb: Park at the pork-pie shaped car park near Merrivale on the B3357. The hike up Great Staple Tor is short (under a mile), but it is steep, uneven, and guaranteed to test your cardiovascular limits. Wear sturdy boots with good ankle support.
Best Light: Sunset is unquestionably the prime time for Staple Tor. The setting sun lights up the western faces of the granite stacks with a brilliant golden orange glow, ideal for dramatic wide-angle compositions
Dramatic sunset behind granite rock towers at Great Staple Tor, Dartmoor.
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.