Lal Lal Waterfall near Ballarat Victoria for Sunday Best

 

In the soft golden haze of late afternoon, the dam stretches across the countryside south of Ballarat, its still waters reflecting clouds that drift lazily overhead. This reservoir, cradled by gentle slopes and scattered eucalypts, holds the quiet power of seasons captured in liquid form, a resting heart for the land, calm and contemplative under the sun. The embankments rise with deliberate strength, a testament to human effort, shaping nature’s flow into something that sustains both people and place.

Follow the river’s path east, where the land tilts and basalt cliffs bear the marks of ancient fire, and you reach the Lal Lal Falls. Once, these waters thundered over jagged rocks, leaping with joy into the valley below, their voice echoing for miles. The cliffs, dark and volcanic, framed a curtain of white, a spectacle that drew both awe and reverence. Today, the falls are quiet, their basin largely dry, water reduced to a meandering thread. Yet even in stillness, the scene hums with memory — of rains that poured, of currents that danced, of seasons long passed.

Together, the reservoir and the falls tell a story of time, of human shaping and natural endurance. The calm of the dam mirrors the sky, serene and reflective, while the muted waterfall whispers of vitality once unbridled. In this landscape, past and present converge — in rock and water, in light and shadow, in the hush that follows the roar.

DJ Mini Pro4

Linking Sunday Best

Seagull spotted at Balnarring Beach for Saturday Critter

 

Owing to my half-hearted pursuit of rarer wings, I find myself returning—again and again—to the incidental sovereigns of the shoreline: the gulls. They require no pilgrimage, no whispered coordinates, no patient staking out of reed beds at dawn. They are simply there—abundant, unapologetic, prevailing.

Along the coast, gulls stitch the horizon together. They stand like punctuation marks on pylons, patrol the tideline with bureaucratic diligence, and lift in sudden white gusts when the wind shifts its mind. While I may have failed to chase the elusive heron or the shy tern, the gulls present themselves with democratic generosity—every outing a parliament of pale feathers and sharp eyes.

They dominate the littoral theatre. Where there is tide, there are gulls. Where there is trawler wake, there are gulls. Where there is salt on air and chips in hand, there are certainly gulls. Their prevalence is not mere presence but occupation—an ecological tenancy secured by adaptability and audacity.

So my coastal portfolio, sparse in exotic rarity, fills instead with these commonplace mariners. Incidental, perhaps—but never absent.

Sony A7RV

FE 70-200mm f4 G

Linking Saturday Critter

Goornong Sunrise for Sky watch Friday

 

In earlier years I drove long arterial roads into the rural margins of Victoria, the boot packed with files and instruments, the morning still undecided between frost and light. The work took me through paddocks silvered with dew and towns that woke slowly, bakeries first, then fuel stations, then the school crossings. I learned the discipline of dawn: how it breaks differently over stubble than over pasture, how mist lifts from creek flats in long, patient veils.

On the run north from Bendigo toward the Murray, the highway passes through Goornong—a small settlement set amid broadacre farming country. Its name is commonly traced to an Aboriginal word, often said to refer to mallee fowl, a reminder that this was once a landscape of woodland and grass before wheat and sheep laid their geometry across it. The district gathered itself in the late nineteenth century, when selectors and railway lines stitched the interior to markets; the railway’s arrival in the 1870s helped turn a scattering of holdings into a town with a school, a hall, and the steady rhythms of agricultural life.

By the time I was passing through for clinics, Goornong kept its quiet competence. Silos stood like sentinels against a wide sky. Fences ran straight as ruled lines. In summer the fields browned to parchment; in winter they breathed green again. And always, on the eastbound stretches, the sun would lift without apology—low, fierce, and perfectly aligned with the windscreen. It poured into the car in molten bands, turning the bitumen into a river of light and forcing me to squint behind the visor.

Those drives became a kind of liturgy. The glare was inconvenient, yes, but it was also exacting and honest—an unfiltered sunrise over country that has endured cycles of cultivation and drought, rail and road, departure and return. In that brief corridor between Bendigo and Echuca, the day announced itself without ornament, and I carried its brightness with me into the clinic rooms.

Sony A7RV

FE 70-200mm f2.8 GM

Linking Skywatch Friday

Balnarring Beach Cape Schanck for Water H2O Thursday

 

Joel and I drove down toward the southern edge of the Mornington Peninsula, chasing the promise of a generous tide. Along this stretch of coast near Balnarring Beach, the sea can be theatrical at dusk—when wind, moon, and current conspire, waves climb the timber pylons and strike them high, flinging light into spray as the sun dissolves beyond Cape Schanck.

We had come for that spectacle: high water at sunset, the pylons braced against a rising, copper-lit sea. But the ocean keeps its own counsel. The tide was only halfway in—ambitious, but not yet triumphant. Instead of thunder at the posts, there was a measured breathing: long, slanting lines of swell shouldering up the shore, then slipping back with a whisper.

This coast answers to the wide fetch of Bass Strait. Its tides are typically semi-diurnal—two rises and two falls each day—yet the amplitude here is modest compared with the great estuaries further north. Wind often proves the decisive hand. A southerly can heap the water higher against the beach; a still evening leaves the sea contemplative, content to polish the sand rather than assault the timber.

So we recalibrated. I framed the half-filled shoreline, where wet sand mirrored the afterglow and the pylons stood patient, waiting their hour. The receding water braided silver channels around their bases, and the horizon held a low, molten seam of light. Not the drama we had scripted, perhaps—but a quieter tide, attentive and exacting, offering its own kind of grace.

Sony A7RV

FE 70-200mm f4 G

Linking Water H2O Thursday

Pesgraves Place Arts and Signs for Sign2

 

Tucked just off the restless current of Swanston Street, Pesgraves Place feels less like a laneway and more like a living sketchbook pressed into the spine of Melbourne’s CBD. Its brick walls and service doors have long since surrendered to colour. Layers of stencil, paste-up, mural and marker accumulate there like urban sediment—each generation of artists leaving a signature, a protest, a joke, a love note.

What began as a modest pedestrian cut-through evolved organically into a sanctioned canvas. As Melbourne’s street art culture gathered momentum in the late twentieth and early twenty-first centuries—shaped by graffiti crews, stencil artists, illustrators and muralists seeking visibility beyond galleries—laneways such as this became informal studios. The city’s gradual recognition of street art as cultural capital rather than vandalism shifted the atmosphere. Council tolerance, festival programming, guided tours and the rise of Hosier Lane as an international draw created a wider ecosystem in which smaller spaces like Pesgraves Place could thrive.

Here, community development has not followed a formal blueprint; it has unfolded through participation. Emerging artists test styles. Established names return to refresh a wall. Photographers document the churn. Small businesses nearby benefit from the steady pilgrimage of curious visitors. The art changes weekly, sometimes daily—an evolving commons rather than a curated exhibition. Workshops, collaborations and spontaneous repainting sessions reinforce a sense that authorship is shared and temporary.

Pesgraves Place embodies Melbourne’s distinctive urban ethic: creativity embedded in infrastructure, public space as democratic gallery, and art as conversation rather than commodity. It is never finished. It is rarely quiet. And in its constant reinvention, it reflects the city itself—layered, self-aware, and always mid-sentence.

Sony A7RV

FE 20-70mm f4 G

Linking Sign2

Forest Glade Park in Macedon Victoria for Treasure Tuesday

 

Perched on the shoulder of Mount Macedon, Forest Glade Gardens feels less like a garden and more like a carefully composed sonata in green. Ten dollars at the gate is a modest toll for entry into a landscape shaped by devotion, patience, and decades of vision. On rainy, mist-laden days, the place exhales. Gravel paths darken, stone steps glisten, and the clipped hedges seem to hold their breath. There is almost no one about—only the soft percussion of droplets on leaves and the hush of fog folding itself around statues and urns. Photographing it then feels intimate, as though the garden has agreed to sit for a portrait.

The story begins in the 1940s when the property was transformed by its most influential custodians, philanthropists who drew inspiration from European estates and formal Italianate design. Terraced lawns, ornamental ponds, and axial vistas were laid out with deliberate geometry. Imported statuary and classical follies punctuated the landscape, while cool-climate plantings—maples, conifers, camellias, and masses of seasonal bloom—were layered to create year-round spectacle. Over time, the garden matured into a synthesis of European structure and Australian mountain atmosphere, its character defined as much by drifting mist and volcanic soil as by design intent.

In wet weather, colour deepens and petals glow against the grey. The absence of crowds grants space for contemplation; each frame becomes less documentation and more meditation. I may well return to these paths again and again, sharing images gathered across years as the seasons revise the script.

Joel, meanwhile, remains unconvinced. Floral photography, he insists with a laugh, leans too far toward the delicate. Yet standing among these terraces in the rain, watching magnolias bow under silver light, it is difficult to imagine anything more resolute—or more enduring—than a garden that has shaped beauty from mountain air for generations.

Sony A7RV

FE 24mm f1.4 GM

Check out Treasure Tuesday

Chippendale Murals Sydney for Mural Monday

 

Chasing murals through Chippendale is a quiet kind of treasure hunt—laneways folding into each other, brick walls hiding colour from the casual walker. By foot they slip past you; by car the streets tighten into a restless maze. Yet persistence rewards the slow observer. Between warehouses and student flats, fragments of paint bloom like sudden conversations with the past.

Once a working-class pocket shaped by factories, breweries, and migrant labour, Chippendale carried the grit of industrial Sydney—rows of terraces packed with workers who built the city’s backbone. As industry faded, artists, students, and small galleries crept in, turning old loading docks into studios and forgotten walls into public canvases. Now the murals echo that layered culture: labour and reinvention, resistance and creativity, stories brushed onto brick where history refuses to stay silent.

Sony A7RV

FE 20-70mm f4 G

Linking Mural Monday

Cat Bay Phillip Island for Sunday Best

 

Nursing my injured left knee, I found myself wandering back through earlier frames from Cat Bay on Phillip Island—those long sea exposures I once dismissed without much thought. Time has softened my judgment. Now, in their quiet stillness, I feel something gentler: the hush of tide and wind, the slow breath of water smoothing the edges of memory. What once seemed ordinary reveals a calm persistence, a peacefulness that lingers long after the waves have withdrawn.

Sony A7RV

FE 20-70mm f4 G

Linking Sunday Best

White-naped Honeyeater in Bendigo for Saturday Critter

 

The White-naped Honeyeater is a small, quick-moving woodland bird commonly encountered in central Victorian box-ironbark forests, making Crusoe Reservoir near Bendigo an ideal setting for sightings. Around 13–15 cm long, it shows olive-green upperparts, pale underparts, a neat black cap, and a crisp white band across the nape. In good light, the tiny reddish patch above the eye can be seen as it flicks through the canopy.

At Crusoe Reservoir, the mix of eucalypt woodland, regenerating bushland, and open water edges provides abundant nectar sources and insect life. The bird is often heard before it is seen — a sharp, busy caller moving restlessly among flowering gums and ironbarks. It feeds high in foliage, gleaning insects from leaves and bark while also taking nectar from blossoms common in the Bendigo region, particularly during seasonal flowering cycles.

In this part of Victoria, White-naped Honeyeaters may appear in small foraging parties and sometimes join mixed flocks with other honeyeaters as they move through the forest in response to flowering patterns. Their constant motion and canopy preference mean they can be easily overlooked despite being locally regular.

Within Bendigo’s bush reserves like Crusoe Reservoir, they are part of the characteristic box-ironbark bird community, reflecting the resilience of remnant woodland habitat that still supports nectar-feeding species despite the surrounding urban fringe.

Sony A7RV

FE 200-600mm f5.6-6.3

Linking Saturday Critter

St Kilda Cafe St Kilda for Skywatch Friday

 

The pavilion dispensed its ritual of overpriced coffee and indulgent desserts, yet every table was claimed and the queue never thinned. I sat there with a grumbling Joel, who would have much preferred a simple walk to the nearby Greek souvlaki shop, muttering that it would have been quicker and far more satisfying. Parking, as always, was an exercise in futility — endless circling, narrowing gaps, quiet frustration. By the time we reached the jetty, we found ourselves wondering why we had bothered at all. The inner-city bustle felt contrived and wearying, a stark contrast to the ease and honest calm of a true coastline, where the sea asks nothing and the day unfolds without effort.

Sony A7RV

FE 20-70mm f4 G

Linking Skywatch Friday

Pearses Bay Blairgowrie for Water H2O Thursday

 

Joel rang and let his thoughts spill across the line — weekend protests swelling through the city like a recurring tide, workplace grievances layered with the quiet fatigue of routine. I mostly listened, content to be an attentive harbour. These conversations have become windows into a world I now touch only lightly. My own days move more softly, more inward; the only steady human encounters are with frail elders in care homes, their stories measured, their needs immediate, their pace far removed from the clamour Joel describes.

The image above captures a frame I have kept hidden until now. Water unfurls across the surface in a radiant fan — pink, orange, and violet dissolving into one another — as though the sea itself were exhaling colour. At Pearses Bay, such moments can only be wrestled from the cliff face, where the wind claws at the tripod and the salt spray seeks to fog every lens. Long-exposure work there is an exercise in patience and stubbornness: balancing shutter speed against shifting light, calculating the rhythm of waves that refuse predictability, waiting for that rare convergence when the sea smooths into silk yet retains its shape. A fraction too long and the water becomes lifeless mist; too short and the magic fractures into restless ripples.

Perhaps Joel and I will seek another beach this weekend — another edge of land where time slows, where the camera forces stillness, and where conversation can stretch out like the tide itself, lingering between the quiet roar of the ocean and the slow turning of the sky.

Sony A7RV

FE 20-70mm f4 G

Linking Water H2O Thursday

Sydney Cheap Eat Sign for Sign2

 

Tucked within the living pulse of Sydney’s Chinatown sits a modest place that once felt like a quiet sanctuary at the break of day. I remember it as the only doorway open to the hungry and the sleepless at six in the morning — a refuge for early workers, night owls, and wanderers drifting between darkness and dawn. The streets outside would still be half-asleep, neon signs fading against the pale blue of morning, while inside the small shop the air carried the deep, comforting perfume of simmering broth.

Bowls arrived steaming, humble yet generous, their warmth spreading through chilled hands. The signature dish was a duck offal soup — rich, earthy, and unapologetically traditional. Each spoonful held layers of flavour shaped by long hours over a gentle flame: the depth of duck bones, the subtle sweetness of herbs, and the quiet resilience of ingredients often overlooked yet profoundly nourishing. It was a meal that belonged not to fashion or trend, but to memory, migration, and the endurance of culinary heritage.

Around me, conversations murmured in multiple dialects, chopsticks tapped against porcelain, and the city slowly awakened beyond the doorway. In that early hour, the restaurant felt less like a business and more like a communal hearth — a place where nourishment was both physical and cultural, where stories travelled as easily as steam rising from the bowls. Even now, recalling it, I remember not only the taste of the soup but the sense of belonging that lingered in the soft light of morning.

Sony A7RV

FE 20-70mm f4 G

Linking Sign2

Safety Beach Melbourne for Treasure Tuesday

 

Joel’s son marked his birthday over the past weekend, and amid the quiet margins of that family celebration I set out alone for a brief drive toward the city’s shoreline, drawn by the promise of sunset and the reflective stillness that accompanies the day’s last light. The roads gradually widened and flattened as they approached the coast, the air acquiring that faint mineral scent of salt and seaweed long before the water itself came into view. It was a small pilgrimage — not merely to witness a sunset, but to stand in a place where the rhythms of the city yield to the older, more patient cadence of the ocean.

City beaches in Australia carry layered histories that extend far beyond their modern role as recreational landscapes. Long before promenades, car parks, and lifeguard towers appeared, these shores were gathering grounds for Indigenous communities whose connection to the coastline was ecological, cultural, and spiritual. The intertidal zones provided shellfish and fish; dunes sheltered native grasses and birdlife; tidal pools became quiet classrooms of observation and respect for the living sea. With European settlement came a gradual transformation: jetties constructed for trade, bathing pavilions erected in the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries as seaside leisure became fashionable, and eventually surf lifesaving clubs — uniquely Australian institutions — formed to patrol waters that were both alluring and unforgiving.

As I arrived, the tide was easing outward, exposing stretches of wet sand that mirrored the sky like darkened glass. The urban skyline behind me seemed to dissolve into silhouettes, while the ocean absorbed the shifting colours of evening — ochres, pale violets, and the deepening copper of a sun sinking toward the horizon. Gulls circled in uneven arcs, their calls punctuating the low percussion of waves collapsing onto the shore. Families lingered with takeaway coffees, runners traced steady lines along the water’s edge, and solitary figures paused as if caught between the urgency of city life and the timeless pull of the sea.

The sunset unfolded gradually rather than theatrically — a patient dimming that rendered the beach both intimate and expansive. Each grain of sand, each ripple of tide, felt like part of a much older narrative, one that long predates birthdays, buildings, and passing weekends. Standing there, watching the light dissolve into dusk, the day’s small obligations seemed to soften. The city receded; the shoreline remained — a threshold between histories, between human stories and the enduring, elemental presence of the ocean.

Sony A7RV

FE 70-200mm f4 G

Linking Treasure Tuesday

Adnate Mural Melbourne for Mural Monday

 

This piece is by Adnate (real name Matthew Adnate), one of Melbourne's most renowned and internationally recognized street artists. Adnate is celebrated for his large-scale, hyper-realistic portraits—often of Indigenous people, refugees, or everyday individuals—that carry deep emotional weight and social commentary. He blends photorealism with a painterly, atmospheric style using spray paint, creating figures that feel alive and connected to their surroundings.In many of his works, including pieces around Hosier Lane, AC/DC Lane, and other CBD spots, he incorporates natural or environmental elements to add layers of meaning—like growth, resilience, or harmony with nature—much like the tree branches here reaching out as if embracing or emerging from the subject. His murals often appear on towering walls, turning urban spaces into thought-provoking canvases.Adnate has painted massive works across Australia (including some of the tallest murals in the Southern Hemisphere) and globally, from Miami to Europe. He's a key figure in Melbourne's street art movement, which thrives in laneways like Hosier, where pieces evolve constantly.

Sony A7RV

FE 20-70mm f4 G

Linking Mural Monday and SITAR

Balnarring Beach Cape Schanck for Sunday Best

 

At Balnarring Beach, the tide recently retreated farther than it does for most of the year, unveiling a hidden landscape that usually lies beneath restless water. What emerged was not smooth sand or gentle shoreline, but a rugged seabed — a terrain of sharp, ancient stones scattered like broken bones of the ocean. Dark rocks, slick with salt and time, carried the weight of countless tides that had passed unnoticed above them.

Sea plants and tangled weeds draped themselves over the jagged surfaces, softening the harsh edges with wavering greens and browns. Some clung stubbornly to crevices, their fronds trembling in the wind now that the sea had momentarily abandoned them. Others lay sprawled across the rocks like forgotten ribbons, glistening under a thin sheen of trapped water.

Walking across this exposed floor felt like trespassing into a private world — one that belongs to currents, shells, and silent creatures rather than human feet. The air carried a thick, briny scent, and every step revealed textures rarely seen: rough, slippery, alive with hidden movement. For a brief moment between tides, the ocean’s secret architecture was laid bare — raw, untamed, and quietly beautiful, reminding us that beneath the familiar waves lies a harsher, more intricate world waiting patiently to be covered again.

Sony A7RV

FE 20-70mm f4 G

Linking Sunday Best

Gull at Kilcunda Beach Gippsland for Saturday Critter

 

My left knee has decided to slow me down—an uninvited editor cutting movement from my days. So this week I stayed close to stillness, watching rather than chasing, waiting rather than wandering. The body sets its own tempo when it hurts; the world grows quieter when you have no choice but to listen.

I went back through my photographs looking for a critter to post, something lively enough to stand in for the adventures I cannot currently have. None appeared. Instead, I found a sea gull suspended in the amber hush of a Kilcunda sunset in Gippsland—a moment I hadn’t planned to keep, taken while I was really chasing the falling light. The gull was an accident, a white interruption against a sky dissolving into copper and violet.

Looking at it now, I realise how honest that image feels. The bird is neither majestic nor rare. It is simply present, riding the coastal wind with the confidence of something that belongs entirely to the moment. Behind it, the sea darkens, the horizon softens, and the day closes without ceremony.

Injury narrows the world, but it also sharpens attention. I notice the quiet resilience of small things: the rhythm of waves, the way salt air moves through memory, the fact that even an unintended photograph can carry a story forward. The gull becomes a stand-in for motion while I remain still—a reminder that the world keeps moving, and that I will too, eventually.

For now, I hold onto that sunset and its accidental companion, letting the image do the walking my knee cannot.

Sony A7III

Canon 300mm f4 

Linking Saturday Critter

Maldon Car Shell under a Milkyway sky for Sky Watch Friday

 

This location is known as the German Mine, an abandoned remnant of the gold-mining era near Maldon, Victoria. I made this image approximately four years ago. Although the site lies relatively close to the centre of Maldon, it sits beyond the reach of mobile phone reception, and this technological absence amplifies a sense of isolation that feels disproportionate to its actual distance from town.

The mine belongs to the broader history of the Maldon goldfields, which emerged during the Victorian gold rush of the 1850s. After the initial discovery of alluvial gold, the district evolved into a major centre for quartz reef mining as surface deposits were exhausted. The German Mine was part of a network of deep underground workings developed along mineral-rich reef lines in the latter half of the nineteenth century. These mines were driven vertically and horizontally into the hard rock, supported by timbering, steam engines, and crushing batteries that once echoed continuously across the landscape. The labour was intensive and dangerous, undertaken by miners who worked long shifts in confined, poorly lit conditions, often contending with flooding, heat, and unstable ground.

As the decades progressed, declining yields and rising costs led to the gradual abandonment of many of these operations. By the early twentieth century, the mine had fallen silent, leaving behind shafts, mullock heaps, and scattered industrial debris to be reclaimed by darkness and bush. What remains today is not merely a physical site, but a layered record of ambition, endurance, and eventual exhaustion embedded in the land.

When I made the photograph, the mine interior was extremely dark. To illuminate the rusted car shell within the frame, I relied solely on the light from my mobile phone. At that time, I had not yet acquired specialised lighting equipment, and the process demanded improvisation rather than precision. Looking back now, I find I do not mind the result at all. The image retains a raw, exploratory quality that reflects who I was then—curious, unguarded, and willing to work within limitations. It carries the quiet weight of the place itself, where history lingers not as spectacle, but as shadow, silence, and the residue of human effort slowly yielding to time.

Sony A7RIV

FE 16-35mm f2.8 GM

Linking Skywatch Friday

Brighton Beach Sunset Melbourne for Water H2O Thursday

 

Last week was marked by unsettled weather, which led me to remain at home. During this time, Joel and I exchanged messages and shared recommendations on a range of political podcasts, comparing perspectives and formats that we each found engaging.

The photograph itself may be regarded as visually distracting by conventional standards, as the foreground is dominated by out-of-focus branches rendered in pronounced bokeh. In traditional or classical photography, such foreground obstruction is often discouraged, as it can divert attention from the primary subject and disrupt compositional clarity. However, I do not find this problematic. On the contrary, the layered blur introduces a sense of depth and visual tension, challenging the expectation of a clean, unobstructed frame. I tend to lose interest in images that are overly polished or pristine, unless they deliberately embrace a minimalist aesthetic. In this context, the intrusion of foreground bokeh becomes an expressive choice rather than a flaw, resisting classical norms in favour of a more personal and interpretive visual language.

Sony A7RV

FE 70-200mm f4 G

Linking Water H2O Thursday

The Crag township near Warrnambool for Sign2

 

It has taught me to lift the camera even when a place feels ordinary, because time has a way of polishing the overlooked into something quietly profound. A frame taken without expectation can later bloom with meaning, like a memory that ripens long after the day has passed.

The Crag near Warrnambool greets visitors not with grandeur but with wind. It moves through broken fences and rattling tin, threads itself between weathered sheds and the bleached bones of old timbers. Salt rides in from the Southern Ocean and settles into every crack, hastening the slow surrender of paint and mortar. What first appears run down begins, on a second glance, to speak.

This stretch of coast was shaped long before any township took root, its cliffs carved from ancient basalt laid down by volcanic flows that once blanketed the plains. Later, waves and weather gnawed at that dark rock, opening hollows and ledges where seabirds nested and fishermen sought shelter. In the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries, small coastal settlements like this grew around modest industry and stubborn hope: rough cottages for labourers, storage sheds for tools and catch, narrow tracks linking paddocks to jetty and road. Some thrived briefly on agriculture and coastal trade; others faded as transport routes shifted and larger towns drew people inland.

The Crag carries that ebb and flow in its textures. Corrugated iron freckles with rust where sea spray has kissed it for decades. Stone footings outlast the timber frames they once held. Disused outbuildings lean into the wind, their doors hanging open like unfinished sentences. These are not ruins of catastrophe but of gradual departure, a place thinned by time rather than shattered by it.

In photographs, the decay becomes narrative. Lichen paints maps across old walls. Grasses reclaim thresholds. The horizon, always restless, reminds the town that it stands at the edge of a vast, unsoftened ocean. What felt unimpressive in the moment reveals itself later as a study of endurance and erosion, of how human intention meets elemental force.

To photograph here is to accept the wind as a collaborator and history as a quiet subject. Every image holds a fragment of a coastal story: basalt born of fire, cliffs shaped by water, dwellings raised by hand and slowly given back to salt and sky.

Sony A7RV

FE 20-70mm f4 G

Linking Sign2

Infra-Red Sierra Navada Rocks at Portsea Melbourne for Treasure Tuesday

 

Looking back through the archive felt like walking a quiet trail through time, each image a footprint from journeys taken without any intention to impress, only to remember. Joel and I wandered with our cameras the way others might wander with conversation, letting light and landscape fill the spaces of our shared silence. Those photographs were never trophies; they were small, private fragments of place and moment, gathered from ridgelines, river bends, and wind-cut passes where the world seemed briefly ours alone.

The infrared series from the Sierra Nevada once struck me as strange and unappealing, their tones inverted, their colours unfamiliar. Yet with distance, they have grown luminous. In that altered spectrum, the granite spine of the range reveals a different truth. Ancient batholiths rise in pale monoliths, their coarse crystals forged deep underground and lifted skyward over millions of years. Glacial valleys carve broad U-shaped troughs between the peaks, remnants of ice rivers that once ground the rock into polished domes and sharp arêtes. Moraines lie like frozen waves along the slopes, and high cirques cradle tarns that mirror the thin alpine sky.

Under infrared light, the forests blaze ghost-white as chlorophyll reflects what the eye cannot see, while the heavens darken to near obsidian. Meadows soften into silver plains threaded by meltwater streams, and the fractured faces of the cliffs stand out in stark relief, every joint and fissure etched with geologic memory. What once felt alien now feels revelatory: a reminder that the land holds more layers than ordinary sight allows, and that returning to old images can uncover landscapes we never realised we had already seen.

Sony A7RIV

FE 24mm f1.4 GM

Linking Treasure Tuesday

ACDC Lane Mural Melbourne for Mural Monday

 

This mural with "Melbourne" is often the opening scene for many documentary about street culture here. The mural is now defaced and gone. But it is good to keep this on record for my collection 

Sony A7RV

FE 20-70mm f4 G

Linking Mural Monday

Sunset of Brighton Beach Melbourne for Sunday Best

 

A peculiar radiance spills from beneath the cloudbank, casting a quiet, otherworldly glow across the horizon, while an oil tanker rests in silhouette to the right, steady and immense against the fading light. At Brighton Beach in Melbourne, I find myself returning again and again to this same spectacle: a sunset that seems less an ending of the day than a slow unveiling of hidden fire, where sky and sea conspire to paint the evening in solemn gold and muted flame.

Sony A7RV

FE 70-200mm f4 G

Linking Sunday Best

Moth Macro seen in my garage for Saturday Critter

 

The moth held its place on the windscreen, a small, improbable presence in the quiet of the garage. When the flash fired, its eyes answered back—fluorescent green, sudden and unearthly, as if lit from within. For a moment, the ordinary glass of the car became a stage, and the night folded itself around this fragile visitor.

There was something intimate about the encounter. The garage smelled faintly of oil and dust, the day fully extinguished, yet here was this insect carrying its own light. The flash did not frighten it away; instead, it revealed a hidden brilliance, a reminder that even the most overlooked corners—a parked car, a closed space—can hold unexpected colour and quiet wonder.

Linking Saturday Critter

Brighton Beach, Melbourne for Skywatch Friday

 

At the same stretch of Brighton Beach, where the horizon usually softens into pale blues and orderly pastels, the sunset arrived transformed. The sky did not fade so much as ignite. Persistent bushfires burning through the rural hinterlands had filled the air with smoke fine enough to filter the light, and the sun, lowered to the edge of the world, surrendered its usual brilliance to something deeper and more elemental.

The evening unfolded in layers of orange and molten gold. Smoke scattered the shorter wavelengths of light, leaving behind a spectrum that felt both sumptuous and unsettling. The sea mirrored this altered sky, its surface burnished, as if the day itself were being smelted into colour before it disappeared. What might have been a routine coastal dusk became a spectacle born of distance and destruction—fire shaping beauty far from its source.

There was a quiet tension in that moment. The sky’s richness carried the knowledge of burning forests, of heat and wind moving through rural valleys, of lives and landscapes under strain. And yet, standing on the sand, the light was undeniably arresting: a reminder of how intimately connected city and countryside are, how the atmosphere carries stories across hundreds of kilometres. Brighton’s sunset that evening was not just a closing of the day, but a visible trace of fire, climate, and land—an amber testament to a season that refuses to stay in the background.

Sony A7RV

FE 70-200mm f4 G

Check out Skywatch Friday

Brighton Beach, Melbourne for Water H2O Thursday

 

I have taken countless photographs along Brighton Beach, but lately the calm it is known for feels almost theoretical. On this day, the shoreline was thick with people—towels pressed edge to edge, voices layered over the surf, the beach transformed into a living, shifting mass. Brighton remains one of Melbourne’s most affluent seaside suburbs, but in summer it opens itself to the city, and privilege briefly shares space with everyone willing to endure the heat.

The heat was still lodged in my body. Only days earlier, Swan Hill had been brutal, the temperature pushing toward 50 degrees, the kind of heat that leaves no room for relief. I had been there moving between nursing homes, consulting in slow, airless afternoons where time seemed to stretch and the sun bore down without mercy. Brighton, despite the crowd, felt different—salt air cutting through the heaviness, the bay offering a promise of reprieve even as the sand burned underfoot.

Joel and I navigated through the packed beach, looking for that familiar Instagram vantage point—the frame where the bathing boxes anchor the foreground, the water opens behind them, and the city skyline appears faint and distant across the bay. Finding it required patience: waiting for bodies to shift, for umbrellas to fold, for a brief clearing in the constant motion. The scene was all layers—heritage and leisure in front, the working city hovering far beyond, held together by light and heat.

Brighton itself has shifted with time. Once dominated by old money, restrained architecture, and quiet routines, the suburb now reflects a broader demographic mix. Young families, professionals, and newer migrant communities have reshaped its streets and rhythms. Grand houses have been expanded or replaced, cafés and fitness studios line once-sleepy strips, and the beach—once a symbol of exclusivity—has become a public common in summer, crowded and democratic.

Standing there with the camera, surrounded by noise, movement, and bodies, the contrast was striking. The bathing boxes remained orderly and unchanged, the skyline still distant, but everything in between was alive and pressing. Brighton, for all its polish, now absorbs the city in waves—accepting the crowd, the heat, and the constant redefinition of who belongs along its shore.

Sony A7RV

FE 70-200mm f4 G

Linking Water H2O Thursday

Japan Historic Signs for Sign2

 

The first image shows a Buddhist shrine bearing the name of a Bodhisattva, while the stone inscriptions record the dates and the year in which it was carved.

Linking Sign2

Bridgewater Bay Blairgowrie for Treasure Tuesday

 

This stretch of Bridgewater Bay at Blairgowrie lay largely forgotten, a rough and secretive margin of coast where few ever wandered. Reaching it required care and nerve, for the rocks were treacherous and the sea claimed the ground for itself most of the time, submerging the path in restless water as though to remind visitors that this place belonged, first and always, to the ocean.

Sony A7RV

FE 16mm f1.8 GM

Linking Treasure Tuesday

Centre Place in Melbourne Cafe for Mural Monday

 

From the narrow mouth of Centre Place, a mural leans outward as if curious about the street beyond, its colours catching the eye before the scent of coffee does. It is glimpsed rather than announced, half-hidden in the laneway’s shade, a reminder that in Melbourne, art rarely asks for attention—it simply waits to be discovered.

Centre Place is one of the city’s older pedestrian lanes, a slim passage running between Collins and Flinders Streets, layered with decades of reinvention. Once a service lane, it has become a vertical corridor of cafés, murals, stickers, and weathered signage, where walls are treated as communal notebooks. Every surface carries something: paint, paste, memory. The lane is narrow enough that voices and footsteps overlap, and the sky appears only as a thin ribbon above.

The coffee, as expected, is expensive, but it comes with theatre: baristas moving with practised confidence, cups placed down with ceremony, conversations drifting between tables barely an arm’s length apart. It is not merely a place to drink coffee, but to linger briefly within the choreography of the city. In Centre Place, even a mural seen from outside feels intentional, as though it has been positioned to reward those who pause, look sideways, and accept that in Melbourne, the smallest spaces often hold the most character.

Sony A7RV

FE 20-70mm f4 G

Linking Mural Monday

Balnarring Beach Cape Schanck for Sunday Best

 

Here are some more frames from Balnarring Beach, looking toward Cape Schanck, taken as the day eased into its last light. Joel appears again in the frame, a familiar figure against the widening horizon as I caught the sunset.

The tide had drawn back, leaving the flats exposed and reflective, a broad sheet of muted silver and bronze that carried the sky downward into the earth. To the south, Cape Schanck held its quiet authority, the dark outline of the headland and its cliffs marking the edge where Bass Strait begins to assert itself. This stretch of coast has always been a place of meeting: calm bay and restless ocean, soft sand giving way to ancient basalt shaped by wind and surge over thousands of years.

As the sun lowered, the light thinned and cooled, spreading long shadows across the beach. Joel’s presence anchored the scene, a human scale set against the immensity of sea and sky, momentary and transient in a landscape that measures time differently. The salt air, the distant sound of water moving over rock, and the slow extinguishing of colour combined into that brief, suspended stillness that belongs only to sunset on this part of the Mornington Peninsula.

Sony A7RV

FE 20-70mm f4 G

Linking Sunday Best

Common Grasshoper in Australia for Saturday Critter

 

Upon the warm timber it rested, as though the day itself had paused to take breath. The grasshopper lay lengthwise along the grain, its body shaped by necessity rather than ornament, every joint and plate a study in restraint. Bronze and umber tones caught the low light, not to dazzle, but to disappear—an insect perfected by the art of not being seen.

Its eye, faceted and immense, held the stillness of fields and afternoons. The antennae reached forward like fine calligraphy drawn against the air, measuring distance and intention. Nothing about it suggested haste. Even its famed leap was only implied, folded neatly into the long geometry of its hind legs, waiting for a reason that had not yet arrived.

There is an ancient economy to the grasshopper’s presence. It belongs to the old rhythm of summer grass and cicada heat, to a world where time is counted not in hours but in light and shadow. It asks nothing of the landscape except to pass through it, leaving behind no mark other than the brief sound of wings and the memory of motion.

In its stillness, the grasshopper becomes emblem rather than insect—a reminder that survival need not be loud, that endurance may be quiet, patient, and perfectly adapted to its place.

Pentax K10D 

A 200mm f4 Macro

Linking Saturday Critter