On Ballard Down

                                                              One of the occasional inhabitants of Ballard Down.

© 2023
 

Rendezvous Street

                                                                 A wall in the Creative Quarter of Folkestone.

© 2023

The village of Corfe Castle

Named after the Norman castle ruins, Corfe Castle village nestles in a gap in the chalk ridge that makes up part of the Purbeck hills. The castle has to be one of the most photographed locations in the county, so it's something of a challenge to come up with something different.

Photographed on the descent of Nine Barrow Down (the Ordnance Survey map show 12 Anglo-Saxon tumuli), the Down is 196 metres above sea level at its highest point. It's something that separates the casual snapper from the more determined shooter, as the climb is either long and slow, or swift but steep, depending on which end you start.

There's a shot here that I have yet to perfect, and I know it will be down to chance when - or if - I get it.

© 2023

Cathedral of the Purbecks*

For such a small parish - the 2011 census estimated 166 residents in the village of Kingston - the Church of St James's on the Isle of Purbeck, Dorset, is a substantial size for its purpose. Because of its proportions it is also known locally by the title of this post.

Built on the site of a chapel of ease that had existed since the 12th century, work began on the current building in 1874, and took six years to complete.

*Purbecks is a misnomer, much to the annoyance of the local inhabitants.

© 2023

Misty days

 

© 2023

Won't be so many more days

    

It has been something of an uneventful winter season as far as seascape photography goes, with extended periods of high pressure that either kept the skies clear, or allowed a thick blanket of cloud to remain in place over the country. I am assured - according to the Met Office - that this has been mainly due to the positioning of the jet stream over the North Atlantic. 

In effect, there have been few storms to stir up the atmosphere, which in turn creates great cloud formations coupled with dramatic light. There won't be many more days to shoot as the sun is beginning to rise inland, and the time of year will have passed.

© 2023

Blue door

At 5 a.m. today the Met Office web site shows no cloud to the south as far as France. This almost certainly means nothing too photogenic as the sun rises, so my wide-angle lens stays at home in favour of the super-telephoto. Lugging a 300mm f/2.8 lump of glass to the beach (lugging this lump of glass anywhere) is becoming a chore these days, but the hope is I'll get some good images as the sun's orb breaks the horizon over the sea.

I don't. What I'm seeing on the camera's screen as I shoot is anything but exciting, so instead I turn the lens inland to photograph the light - or more accurately - the effects of it. The door is painted blue, but the early direct light of the sun, 12 minutes after it has appeared, changes the colour completely.

 2023

Double the fun

Any break - however small - with the current monotony of the cloud blanket that has parked itself over the country gets serious consideration for a photo shoot, so in the pre-dawn I set off once again in the hope some spectacular images at day-break.

Initially it looks hopeful, but after some 45 minutes of expectation the best I get is a splash of colour (above) before the light has goes and it starts to rain. I take some shots all the same, grateful for what nature has been all-too-reluctant to offer in recent weeks, then decide I'm not going to waste the outing altogether and walk the seven miles along the coast to the harbour crossing ferry before getting the bus home.

Two thirds of the way into the walk I glance to my left and note that waves are producing interesting patters on the beach and the sky has, indeed, become interesting. Not wasted after all.

© 2023

2023

Okay, the second half of last year was a wash-out from a photographic point of view. The unusually high summer temperatures put me off going outside unless necessary, and my reacquaintance with music (and the electric guitar) took up most of my energies from then on.

When I did find the time and inclination to get out somewhere with a camera, more often than not the light was less than inspiring. Add to that, the last week of 2022 and I was laid-up with the Covid-19 virus.

Today is my first day out of isolation - and out of the house since Christmas - and the dawn light gives me something to point a lens at.

© 2023

Winter solstice dawn

It's the winter solstice in the northern hemisphere, and at the moment of sunrise the sun is nowhere to be seen. There is a vague pink tinge in the sky to the east as dawn approaches - and I take a few insurance shots - but decide there's nothing really worth seeing.

Instead, I start shooting with black & white conversions in mind.

© 2022

Early morning light

 

© 2022

From monochrome, to monochrome

I'm on the beach roughly 30 minutes before sunrise, in the hope of something spectacular. There is a good deal of broken cloud in the sky and it all looks very promising, so I get my camera ready... and wait.

Sunrise itself comes and goes, but there's almost no colour in the sky. Instead, the scene maintains a monochromatic grey, which is rmoather disappointing.

But all is not lost, as I select the frame with the best foreground water pattern and go to town with a secondary mono treatment.

© 2022

Predetermined

Early starts are that much more convenient now that the clocks have been returned to Greenwich Mean Time (GMT). In addition, the sun barely creeps into the sky at my latitude during the winter months; rising and setting over the sea. This often produces opportunities for spectacular seascape images, and all during 'office hours'.

In spite of the broken cloud at sunrise today there are only shades of grey in the sky, so I decide that everything I photograph will be converted to black and white.

© 2022

Shower dodging (well, almost)

 

© 2022

Big clouds

                                                    Big storm clouds, but without the storm: my kind of sky.

© 2022

Early morning beach

Bouts of strong winds and torrential rain - interspersed with a few hours of calm - seem to be the norm this week as yet another battering rolls in off the Atlantic. And whilst it's not exactly the kind of autumn weather you want to be strolling around in, it does provide plenty of atmospheric turbulence for seascape photography.

© 2022

 

The wind can't blow 'cause the sky is gone

It has been quite some time since I've posted anything on this blog. I have been out shooting - albeit at my usual summer's snail's pace - but what with one thing and another I've simply not got around to uploading any images. The backlog of pictures will be put right in the next day or so.

Peering out of an upstairs window shortly after 4 a.m. I see a good amount of broken cloud; ideal conditions for something spectacular in the sunrise department I think, and head for the beach. But nature being what it is it had all but dispersed as dawn broke. 

© 2022

On the turn

The unseasonably warm weather is delaying the visible onset of autumn, but at last the trees are beginning to turn in the Dorset countryside.

© 2022

Looking back

                                               Corfe Castle, with its namesake village, viewed from West Hill.

It's rare that I climb the hill that overlooks this well-known Dorset landmark, but today I make the effort and have a few minutes before I lose the light and it starts to rain.

© 2022
 

Far Corfe view

                                                                 Corfe Castle, viewed from Sandy Hill.

© 2022