To Drone or Not to Drone? Photographing Postbridge in Dartmoor

To drone or not to drone, that is the question.

As virtually anyone who has suffered the misfortune of encountering me in the flesh will freely attest, I am a man who thoroughly enjoys droning on. It is a source of mild personal irony, then, that I do not actually own a drone.

Now, I must confess that the ten year old boy who permanently resides somewhere behind my ribs would like nothing better than to send a motorized gadget swooping through the upper atmosphere, snapping aerial photographs of the Devon countryside with frantic glee. Indeed, this inner child is entirely prepared to throw a world class tantrum to get one.

Unfortunately, standing firmly in the doorway between me and aerial glory is the thoroughly unromantic figure of my bank account. No amount of pouting seems to move the unyielding hearts at Lloyds Bank, so a photography drone remains indefinitely exiled to my Christmas list.

The Challenge of Photographing Postbridge

By now, you are almost certainly wondering whether this particular ramble is headed anywhere at all. To be entirely honest, when I start waffling, even I am rarely privy to the final destination.

But there is a point, and it concerns Postbridge on Dartmoor.

Postbridge Clapper Bridge has spent years languishing on my landscape photography bucket list, yet I had never quite managed to capture the scene I held in my mind’s eye. For me, the magic lies in framing both the historic 14th century clapper bridge and the neighbouring 18th century road bridge together in a single shot.

The lay of the land, however, presents a devilish little topographical challenge, a hurdle that could easily be solved by gaining just a few extra feet of altitude. The very altitude, of course, that has been denied to me by a foolish obligation to pay for trivial luxuries like food and shelter rather than vital camera gear.

A Creative Alternative to Drone Photography

With my bank balance steadfastly refusing to perform a miracle, I was forced to resort to good old fashioned British ingenuity.

The solution was standing right in front of me: my trusty tripod.

I firmly attached my camera to the tripod head, gripped it securely by the base, and hoisted the entire precarious contraption high above my head like a medieval standard bearer. And lo: there was the angle. Both bridges were framed beautifully at last.

Matt from MJC-photography taking a picture using the tripod to provide extra height.

Naturally, I felt compelled to make loud, throat rattling airplane noises while operating the shutter. It added a certain je ne sais quoi to the artistic process, with the delightful added bonus of causing nearby tourists to give me a very wide, very cautious berth.

So, there you have it. A long sought Dartmoor landscape photograph secured, my inner child appeased, and not a single propellor required, all thanks to the low tech magic of a six foot pole.

The Physics of Twixtmas: Chocolate Tins, Photography, and a Trip to Tavistock

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

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.