From Screen to Summit: My Dartmoor Photography & Wild Camp Experience

For two solid days, I had been engaged in what felt like an Olympic staring contest with my computer monitor. My eyes, normally a dashing shade of blue (if I do say so myself), had taken on the distinct hue of an undercooked hot dog. The culprit? A recent commission to photograph a musical theatre production by the rather brilliantly LS Drama workshops. Now, when confronted with such talent, one naturally becomes a bit, shall we say, enthusiastic with the camera. The upshot of this enthusiasm was a colossal pile of digital negatives, each demanding my undivided attention across various bits of editing software, where I agonized over details so minuscule they'd make a gnat feel like a sumo wrestler.

Emerging from my "man cave" – which, at this point, more closely resembled a troglodyte's dwelling – with eyes blazing red and a spine curved like a question mark, it became abundantly clear that fresh air wasn't just a suggestion, it was a medical necessity. Hunching over a glowing screen for 48 hours straight is hardly the ideal training regimen for tackling Dartmoor. And the 1.5-mile ascent (yes, I did measure it, mostly out of a burgeoning sense of self-pity) to Great Mis Tor hammered that point home with the subtlety of a runaway train. Mercifully, about two-thirds of the way up, you encounter Little Mis Tor, a sort of granite amuse-bouche, a charming little foretaste designed to spur you on to the main course.

After a good deal of huffing and puffing, all performed under the utterly disdainful gaze of the local woolly spectators (who, incidentally, seemed far too comfortable with vertical living), I finally arrived. As is often the case at this time of year, I was not, in fact, alone on the Tor. A small, suspiciously verdant tent was pitched perilously close to my initial target. Ambling about outside was an individual whose entire sartorial ensemble had the unmistakable whiff of "fresh off the rack." He was engaged in a rather vigorous mobile phone conversation and, upon spotting me, determined I simply had to be informed he was speaking to his wife. I can only assume my sweaty, bedraggled appearance, enormous rucksack, and rather intimidating tripod had unnerved him sufficiently to warrant the swift production of a digital alibi. My personal theory? He was a London reporter, dutifully churning out the annual "wild camping on Dartmoor is a must-do this summer" piece, conveniently omitting the bit about needing to spend the equivalent of a small mortgage on gear before venturing out.

Deciding discretion was the better part of valor, I retreated a safe distance, clambered up the nearest tor, and set up my camera. This entire operation, I couldn't help but notice, was being meticulously narrated back into his phone, presumably for the benefit of either his wife or his editor. Sunset achieved, it was time for a bit of ninja-like descent, a stealthy retreat before I could be roped into an impromptu interview. Who knows, the next time you pick up the Sunday supplements, a compelling article about the "Wild Man of Dartmoor" might just be gracing the center spread.

A Morning Dip with River, the Aquatic Canine

It was one of those mornings when the sun seemed to have taken a personal affront to the very concept of moderation, determined to fry us all into a crisp, human-shaped fritter. My internal thermostat, never terribly reliable at the best of times, was already sputtering, threatening to turn me into something resembling a well-boiled lobster. Mercifully, a mutual agreement was struck with River's human companion: an ungodly early rendezvous, primarily to snatch what little decent light might be lurking about, and secondarily to prevent me from keeling over mid-shutter-click, an unedifying prospect for all concerned.

Now, River, a fine, strapping black Labrador, was indeed aptly named. "River" he was, and rivers, it turned out, were his passion, his very raison d'être. One might even say he was a connoisseur of currents, a savant of streams. A slight wrinkle in the grand plan, however, was River's particular medical issue, rendering camera flash a distinct no-no. This, naturally, elevated the pursuit of pristine natural light from a mere preference to an absolute, non-negotiable imperative.

My usual modus operandi with water-loving canines involves a preemptive land-based portrait session, a futile attempt to capture some semblance of dry dignity before the inevitable transformation into a soggy, four-legged mop. But despite the intoxicating gurgle and murmur of the nearby flowing water, River, bless his cotton socks, indulged us. He sat, he stayed, he even managed a few soulful gazes amidst the verdant ferns, all while the siren song of the river no doubt echoed in his very soul. Ten minutes, in human time, is but a blink; in dog-time, it's an eternity, a veritable eon of dutiful posing. River, however, bore it with the stoicism of a seasoned professional.

Then, inevitably, it was time for the main event. My own peculiar affliction, you see, dictates that I must, must, peer through the viewfinder. The fancy LCD screen, with all its modern conveniences, might as well be a blank piece of slate for all the use I get out of it. This rather antiquated foible means that, to achieve the desired aquatic masterpiece, I frequently find myself prostrate in the shallows, camera clutched precariously, as a jubilant, water-obsessed Black Lab, propelled by some unseen canine jet engine, hurtles directly towards me. The resulting geyser of spray and general aquatic chaos is, frankly, breathtaking.

Emerging from the embrace of the river, tastefully adorned with a liberal sprinkling of water, sand, and the occasional errant shell, it was genuinely difficult to ascertain who had derived more unadulterated joy from the exercise. Given the inevitable post-adventure car-cleaning ritual that awaited me, I daresay River ultimately emerged as the undisputed victor in the 'fun stakes'. But oh, what a glorious, messy, utterly Bryson-esque victory it was.

Dartmoor Delights & Canine Capers: A Photographer's Tale of Sunshine, Showers, and Spirited Pups

Well, blow me down, if the weather gods weren't playing a bit of a cruel joke that week. We'd been swanning about, absolutely basking in what could only be described as truly glorious sunshine, the kind that makes you forget what misery feels like. So, naturally, we packed our bags, filled our flasks, and headed for Dartmoor first thing Sunday morning, visions of sun-drenched rambles dancing in our heads. And what did we get? A radical, utterly impudent change of heart from the heavens. The sort of damp, dispiriting grey that makes you want to crawl back into bed and pull the covers over your head. We squelched our way back to the car, defeated and thoroughly soggy, unanimously agreeing that a do-over was in order.

And so, Sunday, bless its reliable heart, rolled around once more. This time, things were looking decidedly up. Our star of the show, a distinguished model named Pip, was practically vibrating with anticipation. You see, she'd endured the particular indignity of being unceremoniously hauled out of the car the previous weekend, only to be dragged back in five minutes later, still sniffing the moorland air with a hopeful nostril.

Now, Pip, being of a certain vintage, took it all in her stride. She posed on demand, radiated a serene contentment, and generally seemed to be having the time of her life. And I, clearly lulled into a dangerous sense of complacency by this relaxed session, was about to be rudely awakened. Because Pip, as it turned out, had a considerably younger sister, a boisterous little number by the name of Purdy. And Purdy, it quickly became apparent, was rather less enamoured with the prospect of having a camera lens pointed squarely in her direction. An objection, I might add, that she voiced with all the enthusiastic indignation of a startled badger whenever I dared lift the camera. But necessity, as they say, is the mother of invention. A strategic retreat, a flick of the camera to silent mode, and the deployment of a longer lens meant Purdy could enjoy her walk, blissfully unburdened by the photographic gaze, and we, in turn, snagged some truly splendid, natural-looking images. Proof, if ever it were needed, that even the most obstreperous subjects can be won over with a bit of cunning and a longer lens.

From Granite Skies to Crimson Faces: A British Photography Misadventure

This week, I had the distinct pleasure of welcoming back my photography chum from Kent, a man apparently so enamored with precipitation he'd journeyed all the way to Tavistock for what he clearly hoped would be the full, unadulterated, soak-to-the-bone experience. Given that sunrise at this time of year demands a commitment usually reserved for professional insomniacs or dairy farmers, we sensibly opted for a more civilised start to the day. This had the added, and frankly delightful, bonus of allowing us to convene for a truly cracking breakfast at the recently unveiled @Granito Lounge

Suitably engorged and fortified against the elements – which, true to form, were granite-coloured skies – we set off on a grand tour of local photographic hotspots I’d meticulously, if perhaps over-confidently, planned. Our inaugural stop was the rather optimistically named Windy Post Cross.

The stroll from the car park to the stream is, by all accounts, a relatively brief affair. However, during our gentle perambulation, something utterly unprecedented occurred. The sun, a celestial body that had seemingly taken a protracted leave of absence in recent days, decided that this was the day for its grand re-entrance. Bathed in such unexpected glory, we pressed on to our next intended location. Or, at least, we tried to.

Those unfortunate souls who have previously endured my services as a tour guide will be all too familiar with my utterly execrable sense of direction. What I lack in navigational prowess, I tend to overcompensate for with an almost pathological certainty that I know precisely where I’m going. Consequently, it often takes a considerable stretch of time, and usually a fair amount of increasingly frantic consultation of non-existent landmarks, before the stark reality of my cluelessness truly sinks in. To his immense credit, David, my long-suffering companion, clearly discerned my plight far earlier than most. He then adopted what I can only describe as the rather unorthodox tactic of soliciting directions from two chaps who, by their sturdy boots and general air of rugged competence, clearly belonged to the experienced hill-walker fraternity. It transpired, to the inevitable deflation of my ego, that I was indeed leading us on a rather extended wild goose chase. With a sigh that probably registered on the Richter scale, I sheepishly led us back to the car.

Unbeknownst to me, during our extended, sun-drenched peregrination, my normally pallid complexion was undergoing a rather alarming transformation. It was, I later discovered, turning a hue best described as "very ripe tomato." Safely ensconced back in the car, I wisely suggested that a tree-lined road might offer some much-needed shade, lest I end up resembling the rather unfortunate Germans at the climax of Raiders of the Lost Ark. And so, there we were, standing in the middle of the road, cameras at the ready. By this point, my head had attained such a vibrant crimson that approaching traffic, presumably mistaking my face for a particularly enthusiastic traffic light, would slow down obligingly, affording David even more time for his photographic pursuits. Despite my rather incandescent complexion, I did manage to snag a shot or two myself, which, as far as I was concerned, constituted a resounding success for the day. Back at the pub, that first pint, I can tell you, tasted absolutely, unequivocally glorious.

Canine Capers & Theatrical Triumphs

Last week, my dear readers, was what one might charitably describe as "a bit much." It involved a dizzying, ear-splitting, and frankly, quite athletic stint with the redoubtable Laura of LS DRAMA WORKSHOPS. Flashbulbs popped and the air thrummed with high-energy singing and dancing – a whole theatrical hurricane, if you will. That particular saga, a tale surely deserving of its own blog post (perhaps even a modestly sized paperback, given the sheer volume of dramatic incident), I shall save for a future, less frazzled moment.

Today, however, was a positively serene affair by comparison. Picture this: a gentle amble, a tranquil scene. My companion for this photographic endeavour was Smudge, my neighbour's dog, a creature of — shall we say — considerable life experience. The dance shoes, the high kicks, the decibel-shattering vocal acrobatics were firmly banished. In their place, a much more leisurely stroll to the local field, followed by a period of dignified repose. A period, I must confess, I find increasingly relatable in my own advancing years.

Now, Smudge, for all his admirable chill, clearly hadn't perused the entire "Good Boy Model Instructions." The sitting and even lying down parts? Mastered without a single quibble. A true professional in the art of canine indolence. But directing his gaze anywhere near the camera? Oh, that was a bridge too far, a frontier he was clearly unwilling to cross.

And so, dear reader, I found myself in a rather undignified tableau: a photographer of a certain vintage, prostrate upon the verdant grass, emitting a cacophony of barks, meows, and various other unseemly noises in a desperate bid to capture the attention of an equally mature canine. Smudge, meanwhile, remained as steadfastly determined not to make eye contact as a seasoned London commuter on the Underground during rush hour. It became, to the immense delight and barely concealed sniggers of numerous passers-by, a battle of wills.

I am pleased to report (if one can be pleased with public self-abasement) that the tide eventually turned in my favour. It may not be direct, soul-piercing eye contact, but it is, at the very least, in the general vicinity of the lens. And for that, I am unequivocally counting it as a win. A small victory, perhaps, in the grand scheme of things, but a victory nonetheless.

Deer Park Country House Wedding: When the Ring Bearer Steals the Show!

They say — and by "they," I mean anyone who's ever found themselves behind a lens at such an event — that photographing a wedding is the ultimate litmus test for a snapper. You've got your sprawling landscapes to contend with, the gritty realism of documentary shots, the delicate artistry of portraits, and the fiddly precision of studio lighting, all rolled into one grand, often slightly chaotic, package. What "they" rarely mention, however, is the unexpected curveball of pet portraits.

Last month, I had the distinct pleasure of joining forces with the exceedingly talented Jamie Parr to capture the nuptial splendours at the frankly magnificent Deer Park Country House. This isn't just any old venue, mind you; it's the sort of place that, were it to grace the cover of Country Life Magazine, you'd find yourself impulsively buying a copy, solely for the vicarious pleasure of drooling over its architectural grandeur. Naturally, the bride, resplendent and ethereal, was in no mood to be outshone by mere bricks and mortar, looking every inch the fairytale heroine awaiting her Prince Charming. But the true pièce de résistance, the cherry on the already rather delicious cake (if you'll pardon the culinary cliché), was undoubtedly the ring bearer.

Now, when one is accustomed to orchestrating these matrimonial affairs, one often imparts sagely advice to the happy couple: "Do take your time," we'll murmur, "savour that leisurely stroll down the aisle; it makes for truly splendid photographs." Benny, a vivacious fox-coloured retriever with a boundless enthusiasm for life, clearly hadn't received this particular memo. He streaked past the assembled guests in a joyous blur, a furry orange missile single-mindedly determined to fulfil his vital mission: the delivery of the rings.

With the ceremony successfully navigated and the requisite family portraits duly bagged, I found myself unable to resist the siren call of a quick pet pawtrait. Up went the studio flash, and with the groom's patient assistance, we coaxed our very special guest into position. A few, shall we say, questionable animal noises from yours truly invariably do the trick, and hey presto! So, should you happen to be perusing the offerings at your local newsagent and spot a glossy magazine featuring a remarkably handsome chap posing with an air of aristocratic nonchalance outside a stately home, do yourself a favour and pick up a copy. You won't regret it.

Trading Wedding Cake for Dawn Light: A Dartmoor Photography Trip

Right then, weddings. You know the drill: frothy white dresses, blokes sweating in suits that suddenly look three sizes too small, and enough wedding cake to keep a small nation in sugar-induced comas for a week. My last three weekends had been a relentless parade of just that, leaving me feeling like I needed a serious dose of fresh air and the soothing click of a camera shutter. So, this morning, the tripod was finally getting dusted off for a sunrise mission.

Now, the weather forecast wasn't exactly painting a picture of a glorious, paint-splattered sky. More like a damp, grey duvet being pulled over everything. But honestly, after all wedding celebrations, just the thought of being out on Dartmoor felt like a mini-adventure. It had been ages since I'd properly stood and stared at a landscape, you know?

And at this time of year, that little window between the sun saying goodnight and hello again is blink-and-you'll-miss-it short. About the time it takes to make a proper mug of cocoa – the kind that coats your spoon – and pull on your pajamas. So, after a luxurious four hours of kip (felt like a week!), it was time to hit the road. Metaphorically speaking, of course. I didn't actually thump the tarmac.

The last time I'd ventured out to Emsworthy Mire was a couple of years back, and the place was practically heaving with photographers on some kind of workshop. Tripods all lined up like soldiers, all aiming for the same postcard shot. (Makes you wonder what you call a bunch of photographers. A "focus"? A "frame-up"? A "click" feels right, doesn't it?) All that photographic traffic drove me to do something a bit naughty. I just snapped a quick one on my phone and legged it before anyone could say "f-stop."

So there I was this morning, 5:30 am, and the field was gloriously, wonderfully empty of other tripods. Just me and a bunch of young, four-legged, very vocal sheep shouting for their mums across the grass. Despite their noisy complaints, they got curious, didn't they? Had to come and have a proper nosy to see what I was up to. A quick photo session with the fluffy little blighters followed, and then they trotted off, bleating loudly about their morning's excitement to anyone who'd listen. You've got to love the countryside.

Capturing the Uncapturable: Photographing a Hyperactive Dog (and My Chocolate-Fueled Efforts)

Ah, Sunday. A day of rest, reflection, and in my case, the rather ambitious notion of powering my weary frame with a frankly heroic quantity of chocolate. One might reasonably assume that such a sugary onslaught would leave me buzzing with the boundless enthusiasm of a small child at a party fuelled by E-numbers and fizzy pop. You'd think, wouldn't you? That I'd be ready to leap tall buildings, or at the very least, keep pace with… well, anything that moved with even a modicum of purpose.

But then there was Cooper.

Cooper, you see, had recently celebrated his second birthday, a milestone apparently marked by a solemn vow to personally investigate the aerodynamic properties of every available patch of ground in the vicinity. His greeting was a mere nanosecond of polite nasal investigation before he was off again, a small, furry comet on a trajectory of pure, unadulterated zoom. The idea of him pausing for a dignified portrait? About as likely as finding a polite badger at a tea party.

Thankfully, the unflappable Chloe and Dan were old hands at this particular brand of high-octane fluffball. They executed a truly impressive feat of canine choreography, somehow "encouraging" Cooper to hurtle towards the lens while they themselves perched precariously on either side of a riverbank that looked suspiciously like it had been liberally buttered.

My trusty camera, a veteran of countless windswept vistas and stoic sheep, was called into action. It was a small comfort to discover that my fingers still remembered how to dial in a shutter speed usually reserved for capturing bullets in mid-flight. And so there I was, prone in the damp earth, sounding rather like a demented woodpecker as I unleashed a rapid-fire barrage of clicks, desperately trying to freeze this furry blur in time.

The truth, as it often is, was rather humbling. No matter how many chocolate eggs I might ingest in the name of energy, I could no more keep up with Cooper than I could suddenly understand the offside rule. He was a force of nature, a four-legged testament to the sheer, unadulterated joy of simply being and moving. And I, well, I was mostly just muddy. And slightly sticky. But you know, in a rather satisfying sort of way.

Dartmoor Adventures: Hiking King’s Tor & Encountering Herbal Campervans

Right, well, let's talk about King’s Tor, shall we? You know, the sort of place where good intentions go to die, or at least twist an ankle. Forget your paved roads to perdition; this is more of a "loose rock and existential dread" kind of affair. I've parked nearby more times than I care to admit, gazing at that lumpy track and wondering if, perhaps, birdwatching wouldn't be a more fulfilling hobby. Or competitive napping. Anything, really, that didn't involve the very real possibility of a sprained anything.

And then, of course, there's the whole "daylight savings" debacle. Why, exactly, we decided to collectively mess with the very fabric of time is beyond me. I suspect it's some sort of elaborate prank on the French, though I'm open to other theories. Anyway, the result is that I found myself, late in the day, staring once more at Kings Tor, thinking, "Right, ankles, you ready for this?" I clearly radiated some sort of "lost camper" aura, because every passing walker gave me the kind of look one reserves for someone who's just asked if they sell yak butter at the local Spar.

The real spectacle, however, was a campervan parked halfway up the path. Now, I've seen some creative parking in my time, but this was Picasso-level abstract. It looked like it had been dropped from a helicopter, and was emitting a distinct "lived-in" aroma, which, let's just say, wasn't exactly lavender. Dartmoor parking, as we know, is a bit of a free-for-all, but this was taking the biscuit, and eating it in front of you, and then asking for yours.

Anyway, I soldiered on, determined to get my pictures. And, surprisingly, I did. I even managed to return with a memory card full of images, which, given my general clumsiness, is something of a miracle. The return journey, usually a lonely slog in the gloom, was enlivened by a herd of Dartmoor ponies huddled around an old quarry. They gave me the once-over, clearly disappointed I wasn't carrying bags of carrots. One or two came close, probably hoping for a free back scratch, but I've learned that attempting to provide equine grooming is a risky business, unless you fancy a hoof-shaped souvenir.

Back past the campervan, now smelling distinctly "herbal" – I'm not judging, just reporting – and finally, back to the car. And, you know, I have to admit, despite the ankle-threatening terrain and the olfactory assault from the campervan, I felt a certain sense of accomplishment. Perhaps my road to hell, or at least King’s Tor, isn't quite as paved as I thought. Or perhaps, I'm just getting used to the smell of herbal campervans. Either way, mission accomplished.

Sharp Tor, Dartmeet: Battling Parking Meters for Dartmoor's Golden Hour (Photography Adventure)

Well, now, it appears the weather chaps, those capricious deities with their finger on the thermostat, have decided to, what’s the phrase? “Give summer a whirl.” A quickie, mind you, like a pop-up shop, presumably a dastardly scheme to usher in the drizzle with renewed vigour. But, being no fool, or at least, trying not to be, I’m embracing it. Like accepting a slightly suspicious gift from a distant relative, you just smile and nod. So, there I was, creeping out of the house in the inky blackness, a veritable photographic ninja, if ninjas wore slightly rumpled trousers and muttered about forgetting their lens cap.

My quarry this morning? Sharp Tor, Dartmeet, on the eastern flank of Dartmoor. Now, these Tor chaps, they really lacked imagination, didn’t they? Sharp Tor? There are a few, apparently, leading to a rather spirited debate with my sat-nav, which, bless its digital heart, seemed convinced we were headed north, not east. I, of course, had done my homework, like a particularly keen, if slightly over-caffeinated, schoolboy. Yartor Down car park, shortest walk, I’d read. Shortest, yes. But they rather glossed over the bit where you plummet into a valley so steep, even a Sherpa would raise an eyebrow and say, “You’re having a laugh, mate.”

Plan B, naturally, was required. A frantic dash down the road, and there it was, glaring at me like a disapproving headmaster: a Dartmoor National Park parking meter. I tell you, I pondered the economics. Would it be cheaper to pay the ransom, or simply get my knees replaced after that valley climb? The dawn, however, that lovely, warm, glowing thing, made the decision. I huffed and puffed, like a steam train with a head cold, and finally, there I was, at the summit.

And, well, it was rather splendid. The light, you see, was just…glorious. Warm tones, dancing across the landscape, colouring those clouds like a particularly enthusiastic toddler with a box of crayons. I dashed about, like a squirrel with a nut, grabbing compositions, determined to get my money’s worth. I’ll probably always grumble about those parking meters, those metal extortionists. But, on balance, I’d have to say, it was worth it. Even if my knees are now threatening to file a formal complaint.

Grey Skies, Barking Trolls, and Postbridge: A Photographic Mishap

Well, the weather. Honestly. You'd think the Sky People, or whatever they call themselves up there, had nothing better to do than mess with the likes of us, the lens-toting, sunset-chasing, landscape-obsessed mortals. A glorious, postcard-perfect day, all sapphire skies and fluffy little clouds, just begging to be captured. And then, poof, grey. Just… grey. Like someone had dropped a damp blanket over everything. So, plan B. Naturally.

Plan B, in my case, involved the rather less glamorous, but arguably more entertaining, pursuit of pet photography. You know, those close-ups of furry faces that people inexplicably adore. And, as a delightful side effect, a bit of location scouting. Postbridge. Ah, Postbridge. That charming little clapper bridge. A place I'd promised myself I’d capture, oh, years ago, and which had, frankly, started to resemble a permanent fixture in shot list itself, rather than a subject to be photographed. It had, as they say, taken root.

So, with a photographic itch that was positively demanding to be scratched, Sarah, Winnie (the dog), and myself set off for a spot of what I like to call "shutter therapy." Now, Winnie, being a seasoned professional in the art of dog-posing, one would think she’d have this whole thing down pat. But no. On this particular evening, the allure of the river, and the prospect of dragging Sarah into it, proved far too compelling.

And thus, the scene. Picture, if you will, a middle-aged chap, me, crouching by the bridge, looking for all the world like a particularly disheveled troll. Camera in one hand, flash in the other, meowing and barking in a desperate attempt to command the attention of a dog that was clearly having none of it. Sarah, meanwhile, was engaged in a Herculean struggle to prevent Winnie from launching herself into the river, while simultaneously trying to avoid being in the frame. It was, shall we say, a spectacle.

I can only offer my deepest apologies to the unsuspecting tourists who, no doubt, had envisioned a serene, picturesque moment by the clapper bridge, perhaps even a selfie or two. Instead, they were treated to a bizarre tableau of animal noises, frantic arm waving, and a dog that seemed intent on aquatic mayhem. They, quite understandably, made a hasty retreat. I can only imagine what the tourist board will say.

It’s all about lists!

Right, so, lists. You know about my lists. I have lists for lists, probably. It's a sickness, I admit. But honestly, who doesn't get a little thrill from a good, solid tick? A proper, emphatic tick, like you've just wrestled a badger and won. Anyway, Ayrmer Cove. It's been on the list. For ages. I was starting to wonder if someone had just made it up, like a mythical land where socks never vanish in the dryer.

Now, Ayrmer Cove, see, it's one of those places Mother Nature clearly designed while showing off. Ridiculously photogenic beach. But, and here's the rub, the sun, that big golden orb, has a rather inconvenient habit of setting in the wrong place. Most of the time. I scouted the joint last summer, and it was clear: patience was going to be key. Like waiting for a bus that only runs on leap years.

So, I had to add a subsection to the list. A subsection. It involved high tide, so the "shark fin rock" (which, let's be honest, looks more like a slightly pointy pebble) was nicely surrounded by water, and the sun dipping behind the dramatic coastline (which, to be fair, is quite dramatic). This required some serious planning. Fortunately, there's this thing called the internet. You might have heard of it. It's a vast repository of, well, everything. Including, apparently, the exact astronomical calculations required to predict when a rock, the sea, and the sun will all align for a photograph.

This meant waiting. Waiting until March 2025. Or, if you're feeling particularly keen, September 2025. Either way, it's a long haul. And then, of course, you need a decent sunset. No pressure, Mother Nature, but after all that waiting, you'd better deliver.

So, there you have it. Another tick on the list. A satisfying, deeply nerdy tick. But, as you might have guessed, there are plenty more to come. A terrifying, never-ending, ever-expanding list. It's a curse, really. A beautiful, meticulously organised curse.

Hound Tor

Right, so, you know that feeling? When you escape the urban... blare? The relentless, inescapable, thrum? And suddenly, it's just you and the gentle, almost apologetic, crunch of boots on frost? It’s a bit like finding a tenner in an old coat, isn’t it? Pure, unadulterated, yes.

Today, Dartmoor, that vast, windswept, sheep-infested expanse, was promising a spectacle. Or at least, I hoped it was. The sun, bless her heart, was doing her best impression of a startled tomato, turning the horizon a rather alarming shade of crimson. The air, as they say, was crisp. Crisp enough to snap a carrot, you’d think.

Ah, Hound Tor. A place of... memories. Mostly bad. You see, a couple of years back, I’d had the bright idea of visiting in the dead of night. And, as is my wont, I managed to drop my phone. In the dark. On Dartmoor. Finding a mobile phone on Dartmoor at 2am is a bit like trying to find a specific grain of sand on a beach in the Sahara. It's not impossible, just deeply, profoundly, annoying. So, naturally, I’ve always held a bit of a grudge against the place. Which, let’s be honest, is a bit like blaming the pavement for your own clumsiness. But still.

Anyway, armed with the collective wisdom of the internet (which, let’s face it, is a bit like taking medical advice from a parrot), I’d decided I wanted to capture the sunrise from a particular angle. This involved clambering up the side of the Tor, a feat that, it turns out, requires rather more shin than I currently possess. I was, to put it mildly, expressing my displeasure. Loudly. In what might be described as a colourful, if somewhat repetitive, vocabulary. Perhaps this is why they call it the “Blue Hour”? Because of the air turning blue with, shall we say, enthusiastic language?

Having reached my designated spot, I promptly decided I’d made a terrible mistake. The other side, clearly, was where the magic would happen. This necessitated another clamber, resulting in even more scuffed knees and a fresh outpouring of, artistic expression. Eventually, after much fumbling and cursing, I managed to capture something that didn’t look like a blurry smudge.

And then, of course, the retreat. Back down, with less skin than I’d started with, but, crucially, with my phone still safely in my pocket. A small victory, perhaps, but on Dartmoor, small victories are the ones you cling to. Like finding a dry sock at the bottom of a rucksack.

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.