The Physics of Twixtmas: Chocolate Tins, Photography, and a Trip to Tavistock
In my household, the only reliable way to gauge the passing of the hours is by the steady depletion of the Chocolate tin. You know the stage: that melancholy moment when the shiny, desirable prisms of cocoa and hazelnut have vanished, leaving behind only those sadistic little cubes of coconut ice that no one, not even under the duress of a global famine, would ever voluntarily choose to consume.
The period between Christmas and New Year is a chronological anomaly that really ought to be scrutinized by the finest minds in astrophysics. It is a strange, gelatinous void where the laws of physics seem to have taken a collective leave of absence. Time loses all structural integrity; the sun rises and sets, certainly, but for all the sense it makes, every day might as well be a Wednesday in 1974.
In my household, the only reliable way to gauge the passing of the hours is by the steady depletion of the Chocolate tin. You know the stage: that melancholy moment when the shiny, desirable prisms of cocoa and hazelnut have vanished, leaving behind only those sadistic little cubes of coconut ice that no one, not even under the duress of a global famine, would ever voluntarily choose to consume.
It was while I was rummaging through a mountain of discarded, crinkly wrappers, a desperate, archaeological dig for a solitary forgotten truffle, that I realized someone had beaten me to it. Faced with the crushing blow of a chocolate-less existence, I decided to turn my thoughts to the future.
Now, I am not talking about the usual New Year’s resolution to ease the existential burden currently being felt by my long-suffering trouser buttons. No, I am referring to my "Shot List."
Each December, with a level of optimism that can only be described as delusional, I compile a list of photographic locations I intend to capture over the coming year, complete with preferred months and specific lighting conditions. Looking back at my 2025 efforts, I find I’ve managed to achieve roughly a quarter of my goals. It is a truly pathetic showing, and one that my Line Manager, more commonly known as "The Wife" will almost certainly bring up during our impending End of Year Appraisal.
Desperate to avoid being placed on a Personal Development Plan, or. God forbid, a diet, I found myself rushing out on Boxing Day to claw back some shred of dignity. I have been promising a definitive photograph of Tavistock at Christmas for two years now. My hope is that by delivering this last minute "winner," my dearly beloved might overlook my general sloth and allow me to keep my current trouser stretching status quo for another season.
Dartmoor Dawn: A (Slightly) Frozen Fiasco
Right, so, getting up. Before the early bird is even hungry. That's a commitment. A serious one. I mean, you've got to ask yourself, is it really worth abandoning the warm, forgiving embrace of the duvet? Hours of internet trawling later – a veritable odyssey of weather apps, each with its own slightly differing take on reality – I decided, yes, possibly, maybe, if I didn't freeze to death, it might just be. A "corker.”
The drive, well, that's a tale in itself. Dartmoor. Easy enough on the A38, all smooth tarmac and reassuringly dull. But then, you veer off. You plunge into the labyrinth of country lanes. These are not your friendly, well-lit suburban streets. These are narrow, winding, hedgerow-choked affairs, the sort where you expect to meet a tractor driven by a man with a suspiciously large turnip. And today? Today, they were lethal. Black ice. The very words send a shiver down the spine. You know the gritters have a very, very long list of priorities, and these lanes are somewhere near the bottom,
And to add to the general sense of impending doom, the sunrise. Oh, the sunrise. It was doing its thing. That glorious, rosy, "you're missing it!" glow. Which, of course, meant I had to drive faster. But also, you know, stay alive. A delicate balance.
Thankfully, I'd planned this expedition with the sort of meticulousness usually reserved for nuclear launch codes. The car park? Practically spitting distance from the cross. A stroll, a gentle amble, a mere saunter to tripod placement. It felt… wrong. No panting, no wheezing, no feeling like I’d just run a marathon up Everest. Even the Dartmoor ponies, those notoriously judgemental beasts, just gave me a casual, "oh, it's just him again," glance.
However, being me, the inner masochist kicked in. “A little walk,” I thought, “a brisk climb up Corndon Tor.” Just to add a bit of suffering to the morning. A bit of, you know, authenticity. So, up I went, pulse doing a passable impression of a frantic tap-dancing team, lungs screaming for mercy. And by the time I'd sorted out a composition, found a vaguely stable rock, and stopped seeing stars, the sun had done its job. It was up. Done. The rosy tint? Gone. Replaced by the harsh, unforgiving light of mid-morning. Another missed opportunity. Another lesson in the fleeting nature of beauty. Maybe next time, I’ll just stay in bed.
The drive, well, that's a tale in itself. Dartmoor. Easy enough on the A38, all smooth tarmac and reassuringly dull. But then, you veer off. You plunge into the labyrinth of country lanes. These are not your friendly, well-lit suburban streets. These are narrow, winding, hedgerow-choked affairs, the sort where you expect to meet a tractor driven by a man with a suspiciously large turnip. And today? Today, they were lethal. Black ice. The very words send a shiver down the spine. You know the gritters have a very, very long list of priorities, and these lanes are somewhere near the bottom.
And to add to the general sense of impending doom, the sunrise. Oh, the sunrise. It was doing its thing. That glorious, rosy, "you're missing it!" glow. Which, of course, meant I had to drive faster. But also, you know, stay alive. A delicate balance.
Thankfully, I'd planned this expedition with the sort of meticulousness usually reserved for nuclear launch codes. The car park? Practically spitting distance from the cross. A stroll, a gentle amble, a mere saunter to tripod placement. It felt… wrong. No panting, no wheezing, no feeling like I’d just run a marathon up Everest. Even the Dartmoor ponies, those notoriously judgemental beasts, just gave me a casual, "oh, it's just him again," glance.
However, being me, the inner masochist kicked in. “A little walk,” I thought, “a brisk climb up Corndon Tor.” Just to add a bit of suffering to the morning. A bit of, you know, authenticity. So, up I went, pulse doing a passable impression of a frantic tap-dancing team, lungs screaming for mercy. And by the time I'd sorted out a composition, found a vaguely stable rock, and stopped seeing stars, the sun had done its job. It was up. Done. The rosy tint? Gone. Replaced by the harsh, unforgiving light of mid-morning. Another missed opportunity. Another lesson in the fleeting nature of beauty. Maybe next time, I’ll just stay in bed.