“Eight to twelve feet, poor.” I’d have preferred sixteen feet or more, but eight to twelve would do, and “poor” wasn’t a problem. For surfers reading today’s wave forecast it might be an issue, but for a photographer hoping to grab a shot or two with the long lens, it really made no difference. In fact if anything, the chaos at the foot of the cliffs would be better with a collection of messy rollers all bashing into one another. I would happily settle for “poor.” And high tide was due at quarter past three - just over an hour before sunset. I could get some shots here and then toddle along the path to Wheal Coates for sunset. The light was looking promising enough. I devoured a sausage and onion sandwich and then I set off for the cliffs.
The space between St Agnes and Wheal Coates is one I come to at regular intervals. A long narrow asphalt road takes the visitor to a choice of three rutted, puddle filled car parks, and from here it’s an easy walk into the village or towards the skeleton of the long abandoned tin mine that draws so many visitors throughout the year. It would be easy to march off in one direction or the other, but I like to stop here in the middle, at least for a while. There’s no way down to the water - well not apart from the obvious option, although it’s the last visit you’ll make - but the views keep me coming back over and over again. I just wish there wasn’t a height barrier halfway down the road. You’ll squeeze under it with your VW camper, but there’s no way our Brenda is passing through without being re-engineered into an open top bus. A shame, because there have been times when we’ve come here on a cold day and sat in the car, gazing out across the sea and having a nap as a life affirming sun pierces the gloom and washes its way through the windscreen. You can see all the way across the north west coast to St Ives and beyond. Bring the long lens and watch as the weather races towards you on a chilly December afternoon. Winter is unquestionably my favourite time of the year for photography here. It’s quiet, it’s wild, and the light can do the most magical things. Today it was pretty good.
What I hadn’t bargained for, was quite how windy it was. I only live four miles away, and it felt positively benign in the garden, but I could feel my solid lump of a car being buffeted by the elements as I trundled down the long thin strip towards the car parks. At least it was dry, with no sign of rain on the horizon. That didn’t mean I wouldn’t get wet though - plumes of spray regularly drift across the space on days like this, and this afternoon was no exception. As I walked to the rocky shelf I’d remembered finding back in February, clouds of soaking vapour hung above the brown landscape, continually recharged by the boiling surge down below. The stubborn winter landscape, an unyielding buttress of granite and heather, drenched by the wild ocean in the place where they meet and embrace in a thunderous white wall of crashing violence.
At least it was an onshore wind. Had it been blowing in the opposite direction I’d have made straight for Wheal Coates and not even tried, but today was almost as good as it gets for what I had in mind. Big glittering waves, caught in weak winter sunlight, smashing into the base of the cliffs at Tubby’s Head, while gangs of wily gulls hung just above the mountains of white foam, dodging each wave with the grace of acrobats on the high wire, seemingly defying death with each incoming volley. Today was a day to take the long lens to its outer reaches, to set the camera into burst mode and see what happened. As I made my way down the narrow track towards my rock, I was almost blown backwards against the steep cliffside. In moments I could barely take a step forwards towards my chosen vantage point - one that was still a very long way back from the cliff edge. I could go closer without taking any risks, but I didn’t really need to, and making progress was difficult enough.
Mostly I took shots towards the scene below, and very occasionally I pointed the camera slightly further away towards the cliffs around Chapel Porth and Porthtowan. At times I couldn’t see what I was shooting at all as a gust of wind interrupted my progress and watered my eyes. Twice, the second card on the camera filled and brought photography to a temporary halt as I wiped it and trusted the more capacious one in the other slot to bring home the goods. In just forty minutes I took over eleven hundred exposures, following which I did indeed toddle back to Wheal Coates to witness the sun disappearing behind a bank of low cloud, where it stayed until darkness. A lot of culling and cropping would be needed later, but surely with this many shots there might be a handful that would work?
“Why don’t you put arrows on them, pointing to the birds?” I think Ali was joking, but I was struggling for the right image that had sufficient impact. I narrowed down to a few candidates, and it was this one, three gulls picked out against a beautiful white wave that seemed to work the best. There were others, so I might be back. But I’m pretty happy with how this turned out. Pretty happy with the entire afternoon in fact. Among the endless soaking winter days of recent times, this had been a rare afternoon on which to be blown about on the clifftops, watching the gulls at play above the wild ocean.
