Saturday’s forecast looked promising I thought. Hail showers, strong winds, a high tide close to sunset and a relatively big swell on the sea were all conspiring to produce one of those epic afternoons when patience and stoicism in the face of the elements might bring rewarding results. And now that December was amongst us, I’d decided it was time to return to the weather watching cliff. At this time of year, so close to the winter solstice as we are, the sun sets within the line of sight of the lonely engine house of Towanroath on the distant bluff beyond St Ives, more than ten miles along the coast. When it’s high tide and the ocean is feeling playful, incoming rollers smash into the cliffs, bringing drifts of sea spray that float across the landscape in front of you. If you can keep your camera steady and your lens free from moisture filled mishaps, then you might just manage to get a shot.
The planning process had been going admirably. I’d located my waterproof trousers where I’d left them several weeks earlier in the front porch. Ok so they were a bit muddy, but they’d do the job. I’d got both down jackets on already, one inside the other (did I need to state that?) and I’d also found my fleece lined boots lurking sulkily in a carrier bag in the back porch. They were filled with newspaper of course, but that’s their general situation when not in use. I really can’t account for their aroma, an acquired taste which is yet to be acquired by anyone at all but they’re warm, exceedingly comfortable and perfect for wading through the puddles that pass for clifftop paths between St Agnes and Chapel Porth in winter - even though they do smell as if the cat’s had an accident in the vicinity. My flask was filled with hot tea, and in a strangely sensible moment I put an apple in the bag instead of raiding the supply of Kit Kats that Ali thinks she’s been hiding in the kitchen. Finally, I found my waterproof backpack cover. I was ready to go.
I arrived to a satisfyingly empty car park, where just two vehicles were huddled next to one another. I can never understand this, especially in high winds. I am forever parking as far away from everyone else as I possibly can, and in a space designed for as many as thirty vehicles, I did so now. Is it just me? Do you pull up so close to the only other car in the universe that you have to hold your stomach in just to get out, or do you shun civilisation and park untidily and exravagantly at the opposite end to everyone else? Maybe it’s just me.
Once the latest blast of icy rain had passed, I went to the boot of my car and pulled on the waterproof trousers, congratulating myself on the knowledge that I’d be cosy no matter what the elements threw in my direction later. I pulled the cover onto the backpack and slipped the flask of tea into the side pocket. Above me the sky looked promising, the sun poking weakly through the brooding clouds. All was well in the world. Or at least it was until I reached for my tripod and remembered it wasn’t in the usual place.
Lee had driven on the last outing to Mevagissey on Thursday. More of that will follow in a later episode, but for the purposes of this story it meant that my tripod had been taken from its permanent residence in the back of my car, and I’d failed to put it back afterwards. In my mind I envisioned it, sitting in the office beside the stairs, where I’d left it after Thursday. I’d known it was at large when I was getting ready earlier, waiting to be forgotten entirely as a result of it not being where it normally lives. I really should prepare a pre-departure checklist like I do when I go on holiday. Moodily I stomped along through the mud, muttering every name under the sun at myself. It’s a good job the breeze was carrying my torrent of Anglo-Saxon vernacular away before any of the handful of hardy souls on the clifftop heard it.
And so for the second Saturday running I was having to manage without my tripod. The first time it had been intentional, although I later regretted the decision, but this time the omission was all of my own making. To add to the difficulties of operating handheld, I’d chosen the usually overlooked budget lens with the huge focal range. I wouldn’t have to change lenses, but at the same time I’m always worried about how it’s going to cope with inclement weather and grainy light. I’m never entirely sure what it’s decided to focus on, and with the side wind causing my right eye to stream as if I’d burst into a bout of uncontrollable tears, I could barely see through the rain spotted viewfinder.
But no matter, my daughter Nicky was on the way and she had a spare tripod. I messaged her in the hopes that she hadn’t set off yet. Indeed she was still at home, wrestling with one elderly seized up tripod and sending pictures of her new L bracket and Swiss Arca plate; the ones I’d recommended to her. “Where’s your base plate?” I replied. “Not sure” came the response. Half an hour later she arrived, draped in a hooded Dry Robe that made her look like a half-drowned Jedi, and wielding a pair of base plate free tripods, neither of which were going to be anything more than additional encumbrances to carry around with during the remaining hour before sunset. She really deserves a better instructor than this. By now my black backpack cover had been ripped away by a savage gust and disappeared; not for the first time in this location, although on the previous occasion I’d retraced my steps the following morning and found it snagged on a patch of gorse. There didn’t seem to be much chance of a tearful reunion this time though. Later on, I would order a bright yellow affair with straps to fix it to the pack and wonder why I’d not done this previously. As least when that one makes a bid for freedom, I’ll be able to wave goodbye to it as it flies off over the roof of St Agnes Beacon towards the other coast.
We stood with our backs to the sea, protecting our kit as another hail filled volley assaulted the coast, and in hope we prepared to turn and capture the sky as soon as it passed. And for the briefest of moments, it happened; the magical light when the soft sun catches the misty vapour that hangs above the sea on days like these and paints the world with gentle washed out yellows and golds. It passed so quickly that I almost missed it, as within seconds the sun dropped below the clouds and blew the highlights to a place beyond the point where beautiful gives way to blinding.
When I got home the first thing I did was to fetch the tripod and place it in the back of the car where it’s supposed to be, before texting Nicky and making sure she’d located that base plate and planted it onto her tripod, or before even refilling the stinky boots with those balls of newspaper and placing them out of sensory range in the back porch. Then I returned the apple to the fruit bowl and helped myself to a Kit Kat – you knew that was coming didn’t you? One of these days we’ll have a more peaceful outing without any cock ups on the planning front. I haven’t written that checklist yet, probably a good thing because I’m liable to forget it in a hurry in any case. The bag is dry again and the Tamron appears to have survived the ordeal. And for a moment we got to witness the transient magical light in the sky that rescued the afternoon from despair. I’d forget my tripod every time to stand and gaze at this.
