A Different Kind of All-Nighter
A few days off lay ahead—an open window in an otherwise full calendar—and I decided to make the most of it with a camera in hand and the intention of staying out through the night and the idea of some Northumberland photography floated about my head, (although from my research the area does seem popular for Northumberland wedding photography). These days, pulling an ‘all-nighter’ has taken on a very different meaning to the ones I once knew. In my late teens and early twenties, it meant sticky dancefloors, basslines thudding through crowded rooms, and the slow, dizzy dawn of nightclub exits. Now, it’s the quiet crunch of boots on gravel, the hush of pre-dawn stillness, and the slow unfolding of landscape in changing light.
The term itself I borrowed from my friend Mark Waidson, a landscape photographer from Worcester. Mark has a well-earned reputation for chasing the light from dusk till dawn and beyond, often running on nothing but caffeine and sheer determination. His philosophy is simple and sound: “If you’re heading out specifically to take pictures, then take pictures. Make the most of your time—maximize every opportunity.” I’ve joined him on several of these marathons, and I can vouch for his stamina. He doesn’t just talk about burning the candle at both ends—he strikes the match and watches it blaze.
One of our longest ventures together took us to the Lake District. We shared a large, slightly draughty room in a Grasmere B&B, but barely saw it. From the moment we rose to the moment we collapsed back into bed, forty full hours had passed. It was exhausting—mentally and physically—but incredibly rewarding. I returned with aching limbs, bleary eyes, and memory cards brimming with images.
With that thought still fresh, a plan began to form—something quick and purposeful. A last-minute ‘hit and run’ to the North East for some Northumberland photography, compressed into a single, tightly wound 24-hour window. Four hours behind the wheel would get me there, and if I packed wisely and prepared well, I could squeeze every last drop out of the time I had to undertake some Northumberland photography. It wouldn’t just be a trip—it would feel like a much longer escape, the sort that leaves your head clearer and your memory card heavier.
The rough itinerary took shape quickly. I’d head straight for Lindisfarne, hoping to arrive in time for sunset. Though the island is better suited to the soft pastels of a sunrise—with the North Sea stretching out to the east—there was still something quietly appealing about catching the final light there. And once night drew its heavy curtain, I’d stay on for a bit of astrophotography. In my mind’s eye, I could already see it: the angular silhouette of Lindisfarne Castle rising against the stars, the Milky Way arcing across the heavens like a luminous ribbon on a velvet sky.
Of course, there was the causeway to consider—the tidal road that links Holy Island to the mainland, and disappears twice daily beneath the sea. I’d need to time it just right, slipping off the island before the tides returned to claim the route once more. If all went to plan, I’d then drive down the coast to Bamburgh Castle, arriving in the quiet hush before dawn, ready to catch the first golden spill of sunrise from the beach below those ancient walls.
And perhaps, on the way home—if the light held and the mood and tiredness allowed me—I’d detour past Hadrian’s Wall, with a stop or two to stretch the legs and the imagination. It was shaping up to be quite the mission. I’m sure Mark would definitely approve!
The day before the journey began, I made a quick detour to the supermarket to stock up on provisions. I wandered the aisles, gathering an assortment of picnic-style fare—cold meats, sugary treats, a variety of drinks, and a stash of Red Bull for those inevitable moments when a little artificial pep might be required. It all found its way into the large powered cool box, which plugged neatly into the car’s 12V outlet tucked away in the boot—an unassuming but vital travel companion.
I also threw in my old Mountain Equipment down jacket, still looking almost brand new despite its age. It was originally bought for a Mont Blanc expedition that never materialised back in the late ’90s, but it remains one of the warmest garments I own—like wearing a duvet filled with hot toast. A comforting presence, just in case the weather decided to turn surly.
With batteries fully charged, SD cards carefully packed, and the camera bag stowed alongside the tripod, I topped up the tank and loaded the boot with all the essentials. The gear was ready. I was ready.
Driving has never been a chore for me. After nearly three decades navigating the country as a building surveyor, crisscrossing from one site to another became as second nature as breathing. Long hours on the road instilled a quiet rhythm to my life. And honestly, I’ve always believed that if you want to go somewhere—really go somewhere—then you just get in the car and drive. Simple as that.
Of course, not everyone sees it that way. There are always those who baulk at the idea of a few hours behind the wheel, defaulting to some well-worn excuse like, “But I want to have a drink,” as if mild inebriation were the be-all and end-all of any outing. A curious mindset, to my way of thinking—but the world’s a patchwork of personalities, and it does take all sorts.
The Lindisfarne Dash
After days of poring over weather forecasts and cross-checking conditions, the long-awaited day finally arrived. A mid-afternoon departure saw me setting off on a familiar route north-eastwards—a well-practised drive that began with the steady thrum of tyres on the M6. At Tebay, I peeled off to join the quieter road through Kirkby Stephen, eventually merging onto the A66 for the scenic push eastward toward Scotch Corner.
This, in my view, is the route of the connoisseur—a road less travelled, bypassing the dreary congestion of the M62 around Leeds and the various permutations of the A1(M) and M1. While others sit bumper-to-bumper watching brake lights flicker in unison, I glide through upland scenery that never fails to lift the soul. It’s not just a drive, it’s a slow exhale—a reminder that the journey can be every bit as enjoyable as the destination.
The first stop en route to Holy Island was the village of Bamburgh—not for the castle, though its brooding silhouette always beckons—but for a decent meal. The Causeway to Lindisfarne wouldn’t be safe to cross for a while yet, and there was little point in sitting idly at its edge, watching seawater cling stubbornly to the tarmac. Far better to wait it out with something hearty in hand. The Lord Crewe was surprisingly lively, but I managed to squeeze myself into a small table for two near the front window. A couple of pints and a well-earned two-course dinner later, I was back behind the wheel, heading north once again up the A1 to enjoy a bit of Northumberland photography.
By the time I reached the Causeway, it was just about passable. The tide had clearly only recently withdrawn, leaving shimmering pools of water along the road’s surface—a slick, reflective trail leading to the island. Driving across always feels a little unreal, like you’re skimming the sea itself. What often surprises first-time visitors, and still catches me now and then, is how far you actually have to drive once you cross onto Holy Island before you reach the village proper. I wasn’t a stranger to Lindisfarne, but even so, the distance felt longer than expected as I pressed on towards the heart of the island.
Eventually I pulled up near the beach, angling the car to face the water. I’d missed sunset; the sun was long gone and the last lingering hues of Blue Hour clung faintly to the horizon. Overhead, the stars had taken centre stage, scattered brilliantly across a crystal-clear, cloudless sky. The air felt sharp and still as I stepped out of the car. I slung the camera bag over one shoulder, took up the tripod, and locked the vehicle behind me.
There was still a fair walk ahead to reach the castle, now hidden in the shroud of night. The last of the twilight had vanished, and the road stretched ahead into inky blackness. I made my way slowly, carefully, letting my eyes adjust to the dark. I was reluctant to flick on my head torch—night vision, once lost, takes time to recover. Fifteen minutes, give or take, is usually enough for your eyes to settle into the dim, to start picking out shapes and gradients you didn’t think were there.
My goal for the night was clear: to catch the Milky Way rising above the silhouetted bulk of the castle. As I approached my spot, I began the slow, practiced ritual of night photography. The camera went on the tripod, and I fired off a series of long exposure test shots. With nothing but darkness in front of me, framing a composition was a matter of educated guesswork. Click. Review. Adjust. Click again. Tweak. It’s a rhythm I know well, especially under starlit skies. There’s something calming, almost meditative, in that cycle of trial and refinement, standing still in the dark with only the stars and your own quiet anticipation for company.
Peering at the camera’s rear screen in the dark, I could tell something wasn’t quite right. The composition was off, sure—the framing skewed, the horizon tilted slightly askew—but it was more than that. The image didn’t look anything like what I had envisioned. Shadows and silhouettes didn’t line up. Something in the scene felt… wrong.
I pinched and zoomed in on the preview, scanning the grainy, dim exposure for clues. Still puzzled. The screen offered no clarity, just uncertainty in low resolution. Muttering under my breath, I reached into the rucksack and rummaged around until I found the torch. So much for preserving night vision—needs must. I flicked it on, and a blinding white beam sliced through the darkness, illuminating the scene in front of me.
What it revealed made my heart sink.
There it was: the castle, my long-anticipated subject, completely swaddled in scaffolding. Gleaming metal poles criss-crossed its ancient stonework, and a ring of Heras fencing—those utilitarian metal barriers used to keep the public out of construction sites—circled the entire structure like a cage. The scale of my disappointment was hard to articulate. The romantic silhouette I’d travelled all this way to shoot had been consumed by temporary, utterly unphotogenic modernity.
I sighed deeply and packed the camera back into the bag with far less care than usual. Then, more out of stubbornness than hope, I wandered the perimeter of the castle, looking—desperately—for any angle, any salvageable composition that might redeem the night. The stars were still shining brilliantly above, the air was still crisp and clear, and the conditions were, frankly, perfect—for anything but this. Unless, of course, you have a passion for scaffolding studies.
After completing a full circuit of disappointment, I found myself standing once again on the road leading away from the castle. I paused, just staring at the scene before me. The emptiness, the anticlimax, was almost comical. All I had to show for this leg of the journey were a few uninspired test shots—and a deflated spirit.Resigned, I turned and began the walk back to the car, my boots scuffing along the road in the stillness. I figured I might as well leave Lindisfarne behind and head south again, back toward Bamburgh Beach. There was a certain déjà vu about it—retracing my steps along the A1 barely two hours after last driving that stretch and a poor start to my 24 hours of Northumberland photography.
Between Tides and Stars
I pulled into the darkened car park at the beach, headlights sweeping across a huddle of camper vans and a few scattered cars. It didn’t strike me as the sort of place for any nocturnal dogging activity—more likely other travellers, or landscape photographers, staking their claim to the dawn light. It was still well before 1 a.m., with sunrise not due until around 5:30.
With little else to do, I reached into the boot for my trusty Mountain Equipment down jacket, wound the driver’s seat back, and fashioned a makeshift duvet arrangement. I set an alarm for 4:45 a.m.—just in case, by some miracle, I drifted off and slept through the approaching sunrise. I didn’t hold out much hope. But surprisingly, I did nod off.
The shrill buzz of my phone roused me from a surprisingly deep slumber. My body protested. My brain insisted we weren’t done yet. But somewhere in the fog of waking, I imagined Mark’s expression—equal parts amusement and disappointment—if he knew I’d let a perfect sunrise slip past me for the sake of an extra hour or two of shut-eye. That was enough. Groggily, I pulled myself upright, shrugged off the cold, and prepared to face the morning and my next round of Northumberland photography.
Still half-asleep, I cracked open the driver’s door and clambered out into the pre-dawn chill. My limbs protested, my head foggy with fatigue. “Come on, man… wake up,” muttered the voice inside my head—part encouragement, part scolding.
I pulled on my boots with stiff fingers, grabbed the rucksack, and stuffed a couple of cans of Red Bull into the side pockets, just in case I needed a caffeine jolt later. Shouldering the pack, I set off into the quiet, bluish gloom of the Blue Hour, picking my way clumsily between slumbering camper vans. The only sounds were soft snores from within—others still lost to sleep as I fumbled my way toward the path that led down to the beach.
Above me, the stars still shimmered faintly, but to the east, a soft gradient of light had begun to bloom—first grey, then a hint of lilac and rose—as dawn made its slow entrance. I found a spot along the beach with a good vantage of the mighty Bamburgh Castle, already beginning to glow under its floodlights, casting a regal silhouette against the still-dark sky. It towered above the shore, proud and unmoved by the passage of centuries or the arrival of another morning photographer.
I’ve always preferred arriving early at locations like this. There’s a luxury in being unhurried—time to explore, to test, to really see a place before the light demands your full attention. As I wandered the sand, eyes scanning for new compositions, I came across a small, hand-crafted sandcastle. Likely built the previous day by children, it bore an uncanny resemblance to its towering stone counterpart in the distance. I couldn’t resist snapping a shot—a playful buy-one-get-one-free of castle photography.
The sky shifted with painterly grace—blues gave way to deep crimsons, then flared into vivid oranges as the Earth slowly rotated into daylight. The Farne Islands emerged as silhouettes on the horizon, their contours delicate against the growing brightness. Once inhabited, now abandoned save for seabirds and seals, they hovered offshore like a forgotten archipelago from myth.
Gradually, other photographers began to appear along the beach, their shapes emerging from the half-light like cautious waders. I’d beaten them to it—first out of the traps, so to speak—and already had a decent series of Blue Hour shots tucked away. The soft light reflected beautifully off the calm, glassy sea, painting the world with that fleeting serenity only early morning can bring.
Drawn northwards, I wandered onto a stretch of dark, rocky headland, watching the retreating tide work its magic—water eddying and swirling, carving channels through sand and stone, pooling briefly before vanishing back into the sea. It was hypnotic, a sort of natural calligraphy unfolding at my feet.And then, there it was—the sun, rising like a molten coin, balanced delicately on the horizon. A deep, amber orb that slowly pushed its way upward, casting light across the water and warming the cool palette of the dawn. I moved back to the beach, angling myself to capture that magical moment when the first rays kissed the eastern walls of Bamburgh Castle. The rest of the fortress still sat in shadow, but the façade glowed like burnished gold—silent, immovable, and bathed in the glory of a new day.
Flat Light and Cold Picnics
As the morning wore on and the sun climbed steadily higher, the vivid palette of dawn—those soft, honeyed tones and cool blue shadows—began to fade. In their place came a flatter, harsher light, the kind that drains the landscape of nuance and texture. It was a quiet but familiar signal: the show was over for now. Time to call it a morning.
There’s a common misconception, especially among those outside the landscape photography world, that bright summer days with blue skies are ideal conditions. Perhaps they are—if you’re photographing turquoise lagoons or palm-fringed Caribbean beaches. But on the rugged coastlines and rolling hills of Northern England, that hard midday light is the enemy of depth and drama. It flattens everything it touches.
I hoisted my backpack with a grunt, slung the camera and tripod over my right shoulder, and began the steady trek across the rocky headland toward the car park by the beach. Despite the hour, the place was still dozing—the only signs of life were the rhythmic snores drifting from a row of camper vans lined up like sleepy sentinels. Back at the car, I dropped my gear into the boot and cracked open the coolbox, rummaging through the collection of picnic provisions I’d packed the day before. A welcome spread of odds and ends—cold meats, cheese, a few snacks—was swiftly devoured, all washed down with a chilled can of Red Bull. The caffeine hit was as sharp and revitalising as the sea air had been hours earlier.
Stones, Stops, and the Way Home
For the return journey, I chose the A69—a route that cuts east to west across the country, running roughly in parallel with the ancient stones of Hadrian’s Wall. I figured if the light played fair, I might be able to squeeze in a few more frames before turning south onto the M6 at Carlisle.
I stopped twice along the way. First near Whin Sill, where nature had raised a dramatic spine of rock that once served as a formidable foundation for the Roman defences. The escarpment still rises with quiet defiance, its north-facing cliffs a natural stronghold. My second pause was at Sycamore Gap—the iconic dip in the wall where a lone tree clings (or clung, past tense now) to its moment of fame. But as I stood there, surveying the scene, I realised I’d be adding nothing new. The view was as expected, the shot already taken a thousand times over by others. So I climbed back into the car, content with the frames already captured and the memories tucked away alongside them.
It had been a good run—a brief but rich escape to the North East—and now it was time to head for home, a long sleep overdue. Best not tell Mark I turned down one last photo opportunity. He’d never let me live it down.
