I rubbed my eyes in disbelief. People! People in the place where I hide at the bottom of the cliff! How did this happen? Nobody ever comes here. But bold as brass on the rocks opposite me was a family group in a place where the only people I’d ever met before were almost exclusively the ones that accompanied me there for a sunset shoot. In fact, in my past wanderings I’ve met more seals than humans down here.
A week before the visit, I’d made a pact with myself as Britain blistered under a red hot sun. While the dry spell had seemingly lasted almost forever, a lifelong experience of our famously fickle climate told me it would have to break eventually, no matter how much our hellbent mission to turn the world to dust might be influencing things. And Tuesday appeared to be the day if the BBC Weather Forecast was to be believed. I checked the “Clear Outside” app for a second opinion, and made a mental note; thunderstorms expected in the morning. All I’d need to do was ensure the batteries were charged, appear by the coast at the appropriate time, and then pray that my hunch wasn’t a misplaced fantasy. A few weeks earlier, I’d been lying on my back on the living room floor, my legs raised onto one arm of the sofa as I recovered from a twenty-seven mile charity hike, while outside the light did magnificent things on the western horizon, courtesy of the tempest that had given us a full and thorough hosing more than once on the long day’s walk. “Ooh look at that light!” Ali cooed as the inert heap in front of her groaned pitifully in response. It was all I could do to raise myself high enough to peer through the window at the concert of colour towards the west and groan again. Not for the first time this year had I been rendered incapable while the best of the evening light did its stuff outside.
So despite there being no clear evidence of what might lie in wait, we headed down to Godrevy. With only a couple of days left before the schools were due to close for the summer and the annual inflow of humanity to hit warp speed, the car park was already looking decidedly full as we arrived. As so often happens when we go together, Ali headed towards the dunes with the dog, while I made my way towards the lighthouse and the incoming tide, eventually deciding it might be a good evening to descend my increasingly less secretive cliff. For an hour I entertained myself here, trying to ignore the dozen or more visitors that had somehow found the gateway to my world. While I watched the setting sun weave a watery orange trail directly to my feet, everyone else seemed to be more interested in the small number of grey seals, pairs of bobbing black eyes peering straight back at us across the water with undisguised interest, just as they always seem to. For a moment I thought about changing lenses and trying to photograph one of my aquatic friends instead, but then I remembered that I prefer to see your wildlife shots in these pages. Mine rarely inspire me I’m afraid, and if I can’t buy into them, then I can hardly expect you to either.
Despite the shock of having to share the place, it was developing into a rather enjoyable session, but one where I was conscious that the place in which the sun was due to set, so close to the lighthouse meant that a second composition was on the cards after I’d finished here. In a sense I’d witness two sunsets, one down here, and another from up on top, but I’d have to move quickly, and when the time arrived I packed my camera away and made my way to the base of the cliff, briefly turning around and cursing loudly. Fortunately the only people who were still around to witness my bout of self admonishment were a couple who’d spent their entire time staring at the seals. I’d already got some worthwhile images, good enough to share here in fact, but now the light had done exactly what I was hoping for, in this precise moment delivering the best show of the entire evening. Right now, I was in No Man’s Land, caught between my two vantage points as a fusion of vivid pinks and oranges painted the sky behind the lighthouse, the sort of colours that almost defy belief when you examine the images later on. A snap decision later I skipped up the cliff side like a teenager, scampering along the narrow path to the thankfully empty ledge I’d settled on for the second part of the evening. Amazing where the burst of energy comes from when it all kicks off. That brief spell of stunning light had already begun to wane, but the sky was still providing more than enough interest and now I finally did make that swap over to the new lens.
“Get the lens,” said Lee. “You’ll only lose the drone; either that or you’ll get caught between two stools and fail to get a shot at all. It’s an outstanding bit of kit. You won’t regret it.” It was a conundrum I’d been considering for some time. Ditch the superb, but unused 60-600mm wildlife lens and swap it for a drone, or throw in the third party 100-400mm lens as well, get the one that everyone swears by and forget the aerial option entirely. I asked Ali what she thought, and while she is unable to comment on the relative virtues of telephoto lenses, she agreed that a drone would only invite some future disaster on a lonely clifftop. I decided they were both right. I could almost see that drone, floating helplessly out of reach on a frothing sea, being pecked at by petrels and adding to the world's pollution problems. I'd made the right decision. And now on my ledge I reached inside the bag for the subject of the majority vote; the most expensive lens I’m ever likely to own.
It’s a shot I’ve had in mind for a few seasons in truth, but one I’ve never quite got around to taking. In high summer, the sun creeps around the back of the lighthouse, moving briefly to its right hand side, before soon after the solstice it reverts to its normal place, gradually heading back towards the distant headland and then onto the bluff over Carbis Bay as winter sets in. The huge range of exactly where the sun goes down is just one of the reasons I keep coming back, and with the lens ready to do its work I was finally in a position to take a shot that had only existed in my imagination up until now. It would have been even better if I’d been in position a few minutes earlier as the light went completely bonkers, but the effervescent pink glow behind the big orange fireball that was on the verge of departing behind the customary bank of low cloud was enough to add something extra to the final result. I’ve had worse evenings here. I’m going to keep scanning the weather bulletins for those storms, that’s for sure.
My advisors were right by the way. That lens is even better than I’d hoped it would be. I’m glad it was in the bag for this visit. It takes great wildlife images, even if I still can’t persuade myself to share them. Although there are plenty of gulls in the shot if that counts. Wish I’d had this lens earlier. Sometimes you just need to cut out all the nonsense in the middle and get the gear you really want in the first place don’t you?
