A Restless Urge and a Seaside Plan
The weather had been unusually kind of late—clear skies, gentle warmth—and yet, somehow, I hadn’t taken the camera out in what felt like forever. The days had slipped by, unnoticed, until a quiet restlessness settled in. So, I found myself pouring over an assortment of weather apps, cross-referencing forecasts like a hopeful gambler studying the odds. I wasn’t looking for anything too specific—just a window of calm, a promise of light. What I really wanted was an excuse to head for the coast, to stand by the sea with my camera and maybe, just maybe, capture a vibrant sunset unfolding across the horizon – a bit of seascape photography.
Living up on the West Pennine Moors, perched a thousand feet above sea level on an exposed hillside, means that trips to the seaside are few and far between. They feel like small adventures, rare and indulgent. Blackpool, of course, is the usual suspect—convenient, yes, though not inspiring. Still, under the right light, even Blackpool can flirt with charm. You take what you can get.
I began the familiar ritual of scanning Google Maps for a promising stretch of coastline. That’s when Rossall Beach near Cleveleys caught my eye. Nestled between Blackpool on the Irish Sea and Fleetwood, along the Wyre Estuary, it looked promising. Timber groynes stretched like dark fingers into the surf—perfect for creating depth and leading lines in a composition. The next step, of course, was to solve the age-old problem of parking. While I don’t shy away from lugging a heavy rucksack over hills and dunes in search of the right shot, I’m not above finding a shortcut if it presents itself. Rossall, it seemed, offered the luxury of parking right on the promenade, just above the beach.
With the location chosen, I turned my attention to timing. Seascape Photography, particularly at sunset is always a moving target—not just in the literal sense, but in the way it plays games with your expectations. You have to arrive early enough to explore and choose your spot—or several, if inspiration strikes or luck’s on your side. Then there’s the walk-in time to consider, the setting up, the waiting. The whole outing becomes a quiet act of anticipation, filled with possibility.
And of course, there’s always the unwritten rule: if you arrive early, full of hope, the sunset will be a muted affair, the sky reluctant to give up its colour. But if you’re running late, breathless and juggling gear as you dash across the sand, the sky will explode in light and drama just as you fumble with your tripod. It’s always the way. The photography gods, it seems, have a wicked sense of humour—and a habit of keeping you humble.
With the plan now fully formed and the details neatly arranged in my head, I began to make the necessary preparations. This time, I’d opted for a change of pace and packed all the gear into my Billingham camera bag rather than the usual rucksack—a subtle nod to the idea of a more civilised outing, perhaps. My carbon fibre tripod, the ever-reliable Innorel, stood ready by the door. It’s been a sturdy companion over the years: dependable, solid, with a satisfyingly smooth action—at least once you’ve scraped away the last trip’s offering of salt and sand. Seaside grit gets everywhere, as anyone who’s carried a tripod into the surf will tell you.
A Solo Mission and First Impressions
The kit loaded neatly into the boot, I locked the house behind me and set off around 7:30 in the evening. In a final gesture of optimism, I messaged a few local photographer friends to see if they fancied joining the jaunt to do some seascape photography. The responses were predictable—”Bit last minute,” one replied; “I’ve just sat down to watch something,” said another. A third, whose bald head has never seen a hairbrush in decades, claimed he was “washing his hair.” All they had to do was sit in the passenger seat, nod thoughtfully at my usual stream of nonsense, and enjoy the view—but alas, even that was a stretch. I offered to collect them, door to door, like some kind of shutter-happy Uber, but still, no takers.
It’s always baffled me—those who claim to want to capture beautiful images yet never seem to show up when the conditions are right. In the end, I’ve come to believe there are three kinds of people. First, the ones who make things happen—high-agency types who just get on with it. Second, the ones who watch from the sidelines, often with an excuse or a shrug. And then there’s the third lot—the ones who haven’t the faintest idea what’s going on, and never will. It sounds harsh, I’ll admit, but there’s truth in it, plain and unvarnished.
With bag and tripod stowed, I set the sat nav and headed off—no bucket, no spade, and not a sandwich in sight. The drive was smooth enough, but the roads had clearly changed since the last time I’d headed this way. At one point the sat nav became entirely disoriented, cheerfully insisting I was ploughing through a farmer’s field, while in reality I was cruising along a newly built dual carriageway. Technology does have its blind spots.
Eventually I pulled into one of the designated parking bays on Rossall Promenade. Across the way stood a curious row of houses—distinctly 1970s, all flat roofs and square lines. They wore their age proudly, relics of an era that believed in concrete, optimism, sliding patio doors and large quantities of brown and bright orange plastic. The living rooms were perched on the first floor, presumably to maximise the sea views from the balconies. It was a nice idea in theory—except that the promenade ran level with those very balconies, offering passing drivers and pedestrians a clear view straight into the heart of each home. Anyone bold enough to watch TV in their underpants would need to keep a wary eye on the curtains, lest the casual gaze of a dog-walker or evening stroller turn their lounge into a theatre of embarrassment. Charming, in its own way, but certainly not built with privacy in mind.
I stepped out of the car and made my way to the boot to retrieve the gear. True to summer habits, I’d dressed in a pair of well-worn outdoor shorts and my neoprene wet shoes—the ones more often used for kayaking or paddle boarding than photography. Though marketed as hiking sandals, they’re ideal for this kind of coastal excursion: lightweight, waterproof, and perfectly suited to the business of wading through saltwater pools without a second thought. There’s something liberating about not having to dance around puddles or worry about soggy socks.
From the edge of the promenade, I looked down toward the beach. The sun was still high, but already beginning to mellow, its brightness tinged with a hint of warmth that signalled the beginning of its slow descent. A few clouds loitered in the sky—welcome company, in my view for this evenings bout of seascape photography. A completely clear sky might be pleasant for sunbathers, but for photographers it lacks depth and texture. A scattering of cloud adds tonal variation, a kind of subtle drama that a blank canvas never quite achieves.
Frustration, Adjustment and First Shots
I scanned the shoreline, eyes searching for the timber groynes I’d seen on Google Maps—the very ones I had imagined forming the perfect lead-in to the setting sun. But they were nowhere to be seen. Instead, a long, uneven barricade of enormous granite boulders stretched along the beach. It seemed the local council had taken it upon themselves to replace the old timber structures with something far more robust in their battle against coastal erosion. King Cnut came to mind—not just the futility of his gesture with the waves, but the image of him, perhaps, now forced to attend mandatory diversity training and undertake a H&S Risk Assessment prior to demonstrating his monarchical powers. Even King’s are not above bureaucracy. A shame, really, about the groynes. I’d had a composition in mind—something striking, with lines drawing the eye straight to the sun—but truth be told, the angle of the setting sun wasn’t ideal tonight anyway. Perhaps in autumn, when the sun tracks further south, the alignment would be better. Timing, as always, is everything.
Turning from disappointment to opportunity, I noticed a network of shallow water channels weaving across the beach toward the receding tide. Far on the horizon, the silhouettes of offshore wind turbines stood in orderly ranks—a reminder of our modern age, and thankfully far enough offshore not to interfere with the natural landscape too much. I picked my way carefully over the granite boulders, minding each step, until the stone gave way to soft sand. There, in front of me, a wide pool of seawater glinted in the late evening light, fed by a small stream running down the beach toward the open sea.
The low sun cast long shadows across the sand, pulling out textures and highlights that danced with the reflections from the still water. I pulled the camera from the bag, swapped out the lens, clipped the body into the tripod bracket, and began composing my first shots. All around me, the tide was retreating, leaving behind rippled sand patterns and glimmering wet surfaces—ideal foreground interest. I opted for long exposures to soften the sea’s movement, although there wasn’t much swell to begin with; just a gently undulating surface, calm and flat.
As the sun dipped closer to the horizon, the sky ignited with colour. I moved about the beach, conscious to avoid trampling through unspoiled patches of sand—nothing ruins a shot like a trail of footprints or a pawprint from someone’s overenthusiastic Labrador. At one point, I found myself thigh-deep in a pool, fumbling with neutral density filters to extend the exposure even further. It was at that moment the sun met the line of the turbines on the horizon. I switched to my longer lens and zoomed in to catch the orb sinking behind the skeletal silhouettes of steel—elegant, even noble, in the right light.
It was one of those times when I cursed my own forgetfulness. The lens converter, that small, featherweight piece of kit that doubles my reach, was sitting at home. It weighs almost nothing, and yet, somehow, I’d left it behind. I made a mental note to drop it straight into the Billingham bag the moment I got home—no excuses next time I undertake some seascape photography.
Playing with Motion and Heading Home
Despite that small oversight, I had the distinct sense that—for once—the photography Gods were smiling. The sky flared into copper and gold as the sun disappeared, leaving behind a burnished afterglow that made everything shimmer. Seizing the moment, I decided to experiment. I’d long admired those abstract seascape images created with Intentional Camera Movement—ICM, as it’s known—but had never actually tried it. Unlike those endlessly dreary woodland ICM shots (which rarely do much for me, especially when the trees are just slightly blurrier versions of themselves), seascapes at sunset offer a more vibrant, painterly effect. It’s all about the colour and contrast.
With the camera set to continuous firing mode, I panned smoothly across the horizon, trying to keep the line level while sweeping left to right—and then right to left—creating bands of horizontal blur that turned the scene into something between a memory and a dream. There’s an art to the movement: too slow, and the image just smears; too fast, and it loses form entirely. But somewhere in the middle lies magic.
As twilight deepened and the air turned cool, I paused to take it all in. The light was fading fast now, the graduated hues of dusk slipping toward blue. I was cold, damp, and pleasantly tired—always a good sign. From what I could see on the back of the camera, I’d got a solid haul: enough to justify the drive, the solitude, and the time spent wading through seawater with a camera clutched to my chest.
I slung the Billingham bag over one shoulder, tripod and camera over the other, and began the slow walk back up the beach. My sandals were now filled with sand, of course—they always are. Experience has taught me that it’s best to get rid of it before climbing into the car and grinding it into the footwell carpeting. As luck would have it, a couple of saltwater pools lay conveniently in my path. I waded through them, rinsing off the worst of the grit, then climbed the concrete steps to the promenade and found a spot to sit.
With the wind picking up and the air now fully turned to evening, I kicked off the sandals and gave them a vigorous slap against the concrete wall, freeing the last stubborn grains. My feet, at least, were thoroughly exfoliated.
I wandered the final few yards back to the car, the glow of the horizon fading behind me. My thoughts had already turned to the digital darkroom—to how the images might look on the big screen come morning. I opened the car door, placed the camera, tripod and bag carefully onto the back seat, then climbed in behind the wheel. With a satisfying click, the engine started. I tapped the sat nav and set the route for home.
And with that, I rolled away from the sea, quietly content.
