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

Balnarring Beach Sunset for Skywatch Friday

 

Joel and I were at Balnarring Beach for the water—for that long exposure where the tide usually softens itself around the pylons. Instead, the bay had retreated to an extraordinary low, the lowest I have seen here, leaving the pylons fully exposed. They rose from the sand like a stripped framework of memory, their timber blackened and silvered by salt, their lower posts furred with barnacles and weed, each one carrying the slow record of tides, storms, and passing years. Without the water’s movement, their age was no longer hinted at but plainly stated.

The town itself felt profoundly asleep. Balnarring offered no spectacle, only a quiet so complete it seemed deliberate, as though sound had been thinned out by the same withdrawing tide. The beach widened into stillness, and the bay refused to perform, holding to a flat, patient calm.

Joel was beside me, though not within the frame. His earlier suggestion lingered—that one might one day retire to a place like this, where time loosens its grip and days are allowed to repeat without consequence. Standing there, with the pylons rooted and the water absent, the thought felt less like an idea and more like something the landscape itself had already decided.

Sony A7RV

FE 20-70mm f4 G

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Balnarring Beach Cape Schanck for Water H2O Thursday

 

We miscalculated the tide.
Balnarring Beach, which we had imagined brimful and reflective, met us instead in retreat, the sea drawn back into itself, exposing long bands of wet sand and the quiet ribs of the shore. The pylons we came to photograph at high tide stood more naked than expected, their purpose momentarily suspended between water and air.

In the distance is Joel. As always, he has rushed ahead, pulled forward by instinct or impatience, it is hard to say. Seen from afar, his figure becomes a measure rather than a subject, offering scale to the frame and reminding the eye how wide this coast really is. Against the vastness of the beach, a single human presence sharpens the sense of space and time.

Balnarring Beach has long been shaped by such rhythms of advance and withdrawal. For thousands of years, the Bunurong people knew this shoreline intimately, reading tides, winds, and seasons as living knowledge rather than variables to be checked. Later, European settlers arrived along Western Port’s fringes, drawn by fishing, grazing, and the promise of a gentler bay. The weathered pylons and scattered maritime remnants along this coast speak quietly of those eras: utilitarian structures built to serve trade, boats, and labour, now repurposed by photographers and walkers as anchors for memory.

Low tide reveals what is usually hidden. It flattens the drama but deepens the story, exposing textures, scars, and distances that high water conceals. Standing there, camera in hand, with Joel already ahead and the sea momentarily absent, the scene becomes less about the image we planned and more about the place asserting itself—patient, indifferent, and enduring, waiting for the tide to return.

Sony A7RV

FE 20-70mm f4 G

Linking Water H2O Thursday

Bridgewater Bay Blairgowrie revisit for Water H2O Thursday

 

Bridgewater Bay at low tide reveals itself as a quiet benediction to those who look closely. As the sea withdraws, the shoreline lengthens and the bay exhales, uncovering a broad intertidal canvas where light, stone, and water enter into a slow and deliberate conversation. For photographers, this brief interval is a gift: the land pauses between immersion and exposure, offering forms and textures usually kept beneath the surface.

Here, the geology speaks with particular clarity. The ancient limestone platforms, shaped over millennia by the patient abrasion of Southern Ocean swells, emerge as pale, sculptural planes. Their surfaces are etched with fissures, shallow pools, and scalloped edges—evidence of long erosion and periodic collapse. These calcarenite formations, born of compacted marine sediments and shell fragments, carry the memory of a time when this coast lay submerged under warmer seas. At low tide, they stand exposed and vulnerable, momentarily reclaimed by the air and the sun.

The rock pools become small, reflective worlds in themselves, holding fragments of sky and drifting cloud. Seaweed clings to the stone in muted greens and rusted reds, softening the hard geometry of the rock. The water, now stilled and shallow, behaves less like an ocean and more like a mirror, catching the changing angle of light and returning it with gentleness. Every step across the platform requires attentiveness; the ground is uneven, alive with detail, and quietly insistent on respect.

Both Joel and I found ourselves moving slowly, unhurried, as if the landscape demanded a different measure of time. The camera became less an instrument of capture and more a means of listening. Each frame felt earned—shaped by the tide’s retreat, the low winter sun, and the restrained palette of the Mornington Peninsula coast. There was no need for spectacle; the power of Bridgewater Bay lies in its restraint.

When the tide eventually turns and the sea advances once more, the limestone will disappear beneath the water, and the bay will resume its familiar outline. Yet for those who have walked it at low tide, the memory lingers: a sense of having witnessed the coast in a more intimate state, where geology, light, and human attention briefly align.

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FE 20-70mm f4 G

Linking Water H2O Thursday

Bushrangers Bay Cape Schanck for Sunday Best

 

Bushrangers Bay is one of the new frontiers we have set for ourselves in 2026, a place that demands both patience and return. Reaching it requires a deliberate walk—close to fifty minutes along a largely flat coastal trail that slowly eases you away from the ordinary world. With each step, the signal fades completely; reception disappears, and with it the low hum of obligations. What remains is distance, time, and anticipation.

The path itself offers little drama, yet this restraint sharpens the senses. Low coastal scrub leans into the track, shaped by years of salt and wind, and the ground carries a quiet firmness underfoot, as if it has learned endurance. The bay does not announce itself early. It waits. Only near the end does the sound of the sea begin to overtake your thoughts, a deeper, more insistent rhythm than anything the city can produce.

Bushrangers Bay opens abruptly, raw and uncompromising. The water sits heavy and dark against pale rock, the shoreline carved with geological patience. Wind moves through the cove without apology, pressing hard against the body and pulling heat from the skin even as the sun bears down relentlessly. On our first visit, the air was thick with heat, yet the wind never relented—an exhausting, elemental contradiction that left no room for comfort.

This is not a place for quick work or casual visits. The bay reveals itself slowly, changing with light and tide. We already know we will return several times, particularly for the long, slanting hours of golden light, when the cliffs soften, the water begins to glow, and the severity of the landscape briefly turns generous. In those moments, the bay feels less like a destination and more like a conversation—one that cannot be rushed, and that insists on being met again and again, on its own terms.

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FE 20-70mm f4 G

Linking Sunday Best

Inverloch Cave Gippsland for Skywatch Friday

 

A severe heatwave has settled across Australia, rendering the sun not merely oppressive but actively hazardous. The air itself seems to press downward with weight and glare, driving people indoors in search of shelter. My friend Joel, currently holidaying in New South Wales, has found his respite reduced to retreat; even leisure demands concealment, and the motel room becomes a necessary refuge rather than a convenience. News broadcasts underline the extremity with almost surreal demonstrations—eggs reportedly boiling in a saucepan left beneath the open sky—an image both faintly absurd and deeply unsettling, emblematic of a climate moment that borders on the unreal.

Against this backdrop of heat and confinement, the image at hand offers a contrasting meditation on endurance and restraint. It depicts one of the remaining sea caves at Inverloch that has not yet succumbed to collapse. At high tide, this cave is ordinarily submerged, claimed by seawater and shadow. Here, however, the perspective is from within the cave, looking outward—a framing that emphasises both shelter and exposure, enclosure and release. The rock walls bear the quiet authority of geological time, shaped patiently by water and pressure, indifferent to the urgencies that dominate human experience.

The photograph itself is the product of multiple stacking, a technique that lends depth and clarity while softening the transient. This method mirrors the subject matter: layers accumulated over time, each contributing to a single, coherent form. The resulting image feels less like a moment seized and more like a duration distilled, as though the cave has briefly agreed to reveal its inner stillness.

In a season defined by excess—of heat, of light, of urgency—this image stands as a study in measured survival. The cave endures not by resisting the sea, but by yielding to it rhythmically, disappearing and re-emerging with the tides. It reminds us that persistence is not always loud or triumphant; sometimes it is quiet, shadowed, and patient, waiting for the waters to recede and the light to return at an oblique, bearable angle.

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FE 16-35mm f2.8 GM

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No 16 Beach, Rye for Skywatch Friday

 

Upon the evening of my visit to Number Sixteen Beach at Rye, the heavens lay utterly cloudless, and the setting sun cast its mellow radiance across the waters. Though this stretch of coast is among the most frequented along the Mornington Peninsula, fortune granted me solitude; not a soul was present to disturb the tranquillity. The waves, breaking upon the sand with unhurried constancy, left a delicate froth in the foreground, a lacework of the sea that I found singularly pleasing.

Number Sixteen Beach, so named after the original trackway once marked by numbered posts guiding visitors through the dunes, has long held a reputation both for its rugged beauty and its perilous seas. Unlike the sheltered bay beaches of Rye, this ocean front faces the Bass Strait, and its powerful surf has made it a place admired by walkers and naturalists rather than a safe haven for swimmers. The limestone cliffs and rock platforms that frame the beach bear silent testimony to the restless shaping hand of wind and tide through countless ages. In former times, the local Bunurong people knew these coasts intimately, gathering shellfish from the rock shelves and reading in the land and waters the signs of season and story.

Thus, standing alone at sunset, with the waves whispering their endless song, one is not merely a solitary observer of beauty but also a quiet inheritor of a long continuum of human presence, reverence, and memory upon this shore.

Sony A7RV

FE 14mm f1.8 GM

Linking Skywatch Friday

Point King Jetty, Sorrento for Treasure Tuesday

 

Last weekend, when the weather turned unfavourable, Joel and I sought shelter and diversion in the comfort of a Japanese bar, where we enjoyed a glass of sake together. Another quiet weekend of food and drink, and the indulgence that inevitably follows.

Point King Jetty, once the preserve of Melbourne’s affluent elite, was originally constructed in the 19th century to provide a landing place for the distinguished visitors who travelled by steamship to the Mornington Peninsula. The secluded shoreline of Sorrento became, for a time, a playground of privilege, a place where the wealthy could disembark directly onto their own stretch of sand, shielded from the crowds. Today, however, such exclusivity has long since dissolved, and the jetty—though weathered by time—welcomes visitors of every kind, including casual wanderers such as ourselves.

On that particular day, the sky unfolded in sweeping dramas of cloud, shifting and curling above the calm waters of the bay. The photograph I share was taken during that visit. The curious shade of blue is not the true reflection of the sea, but rather the result of a known issue with the Sony camera’s sensor I once used. At the time, I lacked the patience to correct the colours in post-editing, yet the image remains for me a testament not only to the scene itself, but also to the imperfections and character of the tools with which it was captured.

Sony A7III

FE 16-35mm f2.8 GM

Linking Treasure Tuesday

Forest Cave Phillip Island for Water H2O Thursday

 

I have sought a somewhat high-key approach in this composition. Though it is not the product of a long exposure, I endeavoured to capture the advancing waves as they swept across the shore, smoothing the sand as though polishing a vast marble floor. The shutter was set at neither too swift nor too languid a pace, thereby rendering a natural softness in the motion of the sea.

This scene unfolds upon one of Phillip Island’s secluded forest-fringed cave beaches, where rugged cliffs and weathered rock bear silent witness to millennia of wind and tide. The dense coastal woodland above, with its canopy of eucalypt and tea-tree, whispers of an ancient landscape that has sheltered wildlife and echoed with the passage of the Bunurong people long before European discovery. Here, in the meeting of forest, stone, and sea, the rhythms of history and nature are inscribed in every grain of sand and every retreating wave.

Sony A7RV

FE 20-70mm f4 G

Linking Water H2O Thursday

Portsea Back Beach in Mornington Peninsula for Treasure Tuesday

 

At times, once an image is captured, I find it impossible to recreate it again, even when returning to the same location under seemingly similar lighting conditions. For a period, I frequently ventured alone along the shore, experimenting with various shutter speeds and techniques. I persisted in my pursuit irrespective of the weather. These photographs were taken during that time at Portsea—a locale not renowned as a popular tourist destination yet distinguished by its exposed ocean floor at low tide. Though these scenes may not captivate the majority, I hold a profound affection for these two particular images

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FE 16-35mm f2.8 GM

Linking Treasure Tuesday

Portsea Back Beach for Skywatch Friday

 

My visit to this area during an unusually low tide proved most rewarding in terms of photographic endeavour. The light, delicate and fleeting, was at its finest just before the onset of complete darkness. The exposed ocean floor took on a strange, otherworldly appearance—almost alien in aspect. Portsea itself, a refined and affluent enclave favoured by the wealthy, remains largely untouched by the ordinary tourist trail. Few ventures beyond the cave gate that marks the divide from London Bridge, lending this particular stretch a sense of quiet seclusion and hidden charm.

Sony A7RV

Laowa 9mm f5.6

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Balnarring Jetty at Mornington Peninsula for Thursday H2O Thurdsay

 

I am presently undertaking a three-week placement in regional Victoria. The first week involves continuous 24/7 on-call duties, leaving little opportunity for personal time.

The photograph shared here was taken late last year. Joel and I had become quite captivated by the idea of capturing a particular perspective of an old jetty pylon. Though we never quite achieved the precise image we had envisioned, the final photograph possesses a distinct character of its own.

Sony A7RV

FE 20-70mm f4 G

Linking Water H2O Thursday

Bridgewater Bay Blairgowrie for Water H2O Thursday

 

There has been scarcely any significant low tide in recent months along this stretch of coast. Thus, I seized a brief moment to capture a photograph from the stairway, looking down toward the shore. Nearby, one of the sand cliffs has given way, its collapse engulfing the entire shoreline beneath a shroud of earth and debris.

This took place at Bridgewater Bay, situated in Blairgowrie on the Mornington Peninsula, south of Melbourne. Renowned for its rugged coastal beauty, Bridgewater Bay features sweeping limestone cliffs, secluded rock pools, and crescent-shaped sands that are accessible only during favourable tides. In calmer times, its natural amphitheatre and tidal platforms attract walkers and beachcombers alike. Yet nature’s forces here are ever at play — carving, shaping, and at times overwhelming the very landscape they adorn.

Sony A7RV

FE 20-70mm f4 G

Linking Water H2O Thursday

Tenby Point, Gippsland for Water H2O Thursday

 

Tenby Point is but a modest township situated on the fringe of metropolitan Melbourne. Access to the beach lies discreetly beside the rear gate of a local residence, with space for merely two vehicles. The area is best approached during low tide, for the path leads across muddy flats rather than firm sand. The seabed itself is composed entirely of soft, viscous sludge—mud that I invariably carry into Joel’s car. For this reason, we seldom visit during summer. Instead, we favour the winter months, when the weather deters us from venturing far afield, and proximity becomes a comfort.

The aged pylons that rise solemnly from the tide are favoured subjects for photography. There is, I believe, a quiet significance to our collective urge to document them—perhaps a longing to preserve a vestige of a bygone era, or a reverence for the passage of time made manifest in timber and tide.

Presently, I am soon to commence another locum shift in regional Victoria—a favour rendered to a friend. Consequently, my blog may, on occasion, fall silent for a day or two, owing to the unpredictable demands of being on call at a country hospital. I only hope this venture does not once again lead me down the path of indulgence and weight gain, as such postings sometimes do.

Sony A7RV

FE 20-70mm f4 G

Linking Water H2O Thursday

Bay of Islands in Blairgowrie Mornington Peninsula for Water H2O Thursday

 

There exist three distinct locations bearing the name Bay of Islands within the state of Victoria, Australia. I have had the pleasure of visiting each of them. Of these, the one situated closest to Melbourne holds a particular charm for me. Nestled along the Mornington Peninsula, this coastal enclave offers a striking interplay of sea cliffs, hidden inlets, and crystalline waters—ideal for moments of quiet reflection or aerial exploration.

When my companion Joel and I are not preoccupied with the pursuit of sunset landscapes, we often retreat to this locale to fly our drone and capture sweeping views of the coastline. The rugged contours and tranquil hues lend themselves beautifully to this form of observation.

The second Bay of Islands lies within the famed Great Ocean Road region, west of Peterborough. This is perhaps the most well-known of the three, celebrated for its dramatic limestone stacks rising from the Southern Ocean—remnants of a landscape carved by centuries of wind and wave.

The third, more remote and lesser known, is found near the shores of Corner Inlet in Gippsland. Here, coastal serenity and the subtle presence of birdlife create a setting marked by calm rather than spectacle. Each Bay of Islands bears its own character, yet all share the same elemental spirit—where land meets sea in timeless conversation.

Linking Water H2O Thursday

Montforts Beach Sunset Mornington Peninsula for Water H2O Thursday

 

Montforts Beach, nestled along the wild and windswept southern coast near Melbourne, remains one of the few coastal enclaves where photographers may still pursue the elusive golden hour even during the rise of high tides. This hidden gem, rarely frequented due to its seclusion, offers a dramatic tableau of nature’s enduring craftsmanship. Towering cliffs of ancient sandstone, layered with millennia of geological memory, descend into tessellated basalt formations—remnants of long-extinct volcanic activity that once shaped the Mornington Peninsula. The beach itself, a narrow strip of coarse golden sand, lies hemmed in by rock pools, tidal shelves, and kelp-strewn shallows, all bathed in the shifting hues of the setting sun.

Yet the approach to this remarkable place has grown increasingly difficult. What was once a discernible trail has, in recent seasons, been overtaken by vigorous coastal vegetation. Low-hanging tea-trees twist and arch over the track, their limbs heavy with salt-laden air, while dense undergrowth of banksia, bracken, and coastal wattle obscure the path beneath. The bush seems to reclaim the land with a quiet persistence, and each step forward requires both care and instinct.

On this most recent journey, Joel and I found ourselves disoriented amid the overgrowth. The once-familiar route seemed to vanish into the thicket, and we moved forward more by memory and determination than by sight. Despite the hardship of the passage—scratched limbs, uncertain footing, the whisper of the wind bearing no answer—we pressed on, compelled by the promise of what lay beyond. And at last, as the trail opened up to the vast, moody expanse of sea and stone, we were reminded why Montforts remains, for all its resistance, a sacred haunt of light and solitude.

Sony A7RV

FE 20-70mm f4 G

Linking Water H2O Thursday

Balnarring Beach, Mornington Peninsula for Skywatch Friday

 

In the first photograph, Joel is visible in the distance, intently focused on photographing seaweed along the shoreline. The air has grown markedly cooler, and the sky bears the pale, steely blue that signals the quiet approach of winter. It is in such moments that the necessity of reconnecting with the natural world becomes most apparent—calming, grounding, and essential to the soul.

Balnarring Beach, located on the Mornington Peninsula southeast of Melbourne, stretches along the calm waters of Western Port Bay. Its gentle crescent shape and serene outlook toward Phillip Island make it a place of both quiet retreat and natural charm. The area is known for its safe swimming waters, expansive foreshore reserves, and the peaceful rhythm of tidal life.

The name “Balnarring” is thought to originate from Indigenous words meaning “little” and “gumtree,” a poetic nod to the native landscape. European settlement began in earnest in the 1840s when pastoral stations were established, and by the latter half of the 19th century, Balnarring had grown to include a post office, a school, and a church. The arrival of the railway in the early 20th century further connected the township with surrounding areas, allowing more visitors to discover its coastal beauty.

Balnarring Beach—once also known as Tulum Beach—has long held a quiet reputation as a haven for holidaymakers and nature lovers. In more recent times, it was honoured as one of Australia's cleanest beaches, a testament to the community's stewardship and respect for the land.

Even as seasons shift and the cold edges in, Balnarring Beach remains a place of stillness and reflection—a coastal landscape where history, nature, and memory meet in tranquil harmony.

Sony A7RV

FE 20-70mm f4 G

Linking Skywatch Friday

The past fortnight has been exceedingly busy for me. Despite the considerable amount of work I have undertaken, the returns have felt rather meagre. Joel and I have been diligently studying investments in the Japanese stock market, prompted by Warren Buffett’s decision to reallocate his wealth into Japanese equities.

Rabbit Rock, Blairgowrie for Water H2O Thursday

 

Rabbit Rock, located in Blairgowrie on the Mornington Peninsula near Melbourne, is a striking coastal formation renowned for its rugged beauty and natural charm. This rocky outcrop, shaped over time by the relentless force of the sea, offers a dramatic contrast to the surrounding sandy beaches and calm waters of Port Phillip Bay. At low tide, visitors can explore the exposed rock pools and fascinating marine life, while photographers are often drawn to its unique silhouette, especially at sunset when the light casts a warm glow across the coastline. A favorite spot for locals and tourists alike, Rabbit Rock embodies the raw, unspoiled allure of Victoria’s southern shores

Joel and I spent a pleasant weekend revisiting Rabbit Rock. Unfortunately, the tide was not sufficiently high, and as a result, we were unable to capture any foreground interest. The sunset, however, proved to be moderately satisfying.

Sony A7RV

FE 20-70mm f4 G

Linking Water H2O Thursday

Second Valley Beach, South Australia for Sky Watch Friday

 

Second Valley Beach in South Australia is a hidden gem, known for its rugged cliffs, crystal-clear waters, and peaceful ambiance. I was lucky to visit the beach on a cloudless day, when the sky stretched endlessly above in a perfect, uninterrupted canvas of blue. Everything was sheer blue—the sky, the ocean, even the reflections dancing on the rocky shoreline. The calm, gentle waves lapped against the shore as if time had slowed down just for that moment. It was a serene experience, where nature's beauty felt both overwhelming and calming all at once.

Sony A7RV

FE 20-70mm f4 G

Linking Skywatch Friday

Kilcunda Trestle Bridge Gippsland for Skywatch Friday

 

This weekend, Joel has expressed a desire to return to the Kilcunda coastline, a place rich in both natural beauty and historical significance. I believe we may seize the opportunity to venture further into the deeper reaches of the sea during low tide, perhaps uncovering aspects of the shoreline previously unexplored.

It is worth noting that Kilcunda is home to the iconic Trestle Bridge, a striking relic of Australia’s early railway era. Constructed in the early 20th century as part of the Wonthaggi railway line, the bridge once served as a vital artery for coal transport, linking the thriving mining town of Wonthaggi to Melbourne. Though no longer in service, the structure remains a testament to the region's industrious past, standing proudly above the Bass Coast as a reminder of Gippsland’s role in shaping Victoria’s economic history.

In returning, we not only revisit a beloved coastal spot but also walk in the shadow of history itself.

Sony A7RV

Sigma 14-24mm f2.8

Linking Skywatch Friday