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.

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.