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

Check out Skywatch Friday

Little Flinders Lane sign for Sign2

 

A rustic sign such as this impresses precisely because of what it says and how little it needs to say. Sprinkler stop valve inside. The words are plain, functional, and unadorned, yet they carry the quiet authority of purpose. There is no invitation here, no flourish—only instruction, rendered permanent by material and time.

Set along Little Flinders Lane, the sign belongs to the working grammar of the city. It speaks from an era when buildings were designed to be understood by those who maintained them, when safety and utility were marked clearly and left to do their work without spectacle. Its weathered surface bears the accumulated patience of years, the grain and fading evidence of a life spent outdoors, watching the lane change around it.

There is a classical restraint in such honesty. The sign does not pretend to be art, yet it achieves a kind of unintended poetry through endurance. In a city now saturated with curated surfaces and clever interventions, this simple notice remains grounded, a reminder that Melbourne was once built from instructions as much as ambitions.

“Sprinkler stop valve inside” reads almost like a quiet aside to the initiated—a message meant for hands rather than eyes, for responsibility rather than admiration. And yet it draws attention precisely because it has survived. In the narrow light of Little Flinders Lane, it stands as a modest relic of civic care, where even the most utilitarian object was made to last, and in lasting, acquired grace.

Sony A7RV

FE 16mm f1,8 GM

Linking Sign2

2026 lamb commercial made me laugh again 

Brighton Beach, Melbourne for Skywatch Friday

 

It had been a long while since my last visit to Brighton Beach, long enough for memory to soften its edges and for familiarity to turn almost abstract. The drone footage, hovering calmly above the shoreline, arrived as a quiet reminder of why this place is so deeply lodged in Melbourne’s collective imagination. From above, the geometry of sea and sand resolves into something deliberate and ceremonial, as though the coast itself had been composed rather than eroded. I realised, watching the footage, that my drone had sat idle for years—updated rarely, flown infrequently—despite the fact that it was built precisely for moments like this. Perhaps it is time to return to it, and to the habit of looking again, from a little higher up.

Brighton Beach is not merely scenic; it is storied. Long before it became an emblem on postcards and calendars, the shoreline was part of the Country of the Boon Wurrung people, who understood the bay not as a boundary but as a living system—provider, pathway, and presence. European settlement in the mid-nineteenth century redefined the beach’s meaning, transforming it into a site of leisure and retreat for a growing city eager to escape its own density. By the 1860s and 1870s, Brighton had become a fashionable seaside destination, its calm bay waters offering a gentler alternative to the wilder surf beaches further south.

The bathing boxes, now so inseparable from Brighton’s identity, began as modest, practical structures—simple timber sheds designed to preserve modesty in an era when sea bathing was a regulated and ritualised act. Over time, these huts evolved into expressions of personality and privilege, painted, rebuilt, and embellished across generations. Today, their bright façades form a disciplined yet playful procession along the sand, a gallery of private ownership displayed in public space. From the air, they appear almost architectural in their precision, a neat punctuation between land and sea.

What the drone reveals—what the ground conceals—is scale and continuity. The gentle arc of Port Phillip Bay, the ordered repetition of the boxes, the city skyline hovering faintly in the distance: all of it speaks to Melbourne’s long negotiation with its coastline. Brighton Beach is not dramatic in the way of cliffs or headlands; its power lies in restraint. It offers calm, rhythm, and a sense of return. Generations have walked this sand, entered these waters, and looked back at the same horizon, each time believing it their own discovery.

To revisit Brighton Beach, even indirectly through a lens, is to be reminded that some places do not demand reinvention. They wait. And when we finally look again—whether with a drone lifted into the air or simply with renewed attention—they give back more than nostalgia. They offer continuity, and a quiet invitation to re-engage with the tools, the habits, and the seeing we once valued but set aside.

Linking Skywatch Friday

Collins St Block and Arcade at night for Sign 2

 

Collins Arcade has always held a quiet magic for me—a heritage corridor tucked into the pulse of Melbourne, where time seems to fold in layers. On a humid, stifling evening just before Christmas, I slipped into its cool, shadowed embrace, camera in hand. I chose the FE 14mm f1.8, a lightweight prime lens, knowing I wanted freedom to move, to catch fleeting moments without being weighed down by bulk.

The arcade is more than just a passageway; it is a living memory of the city. Collins Block, the structure that cradles it, dates back to the late 19th century, a time when Melbourne was stretching upward and outward, a city buoyed by gold-rush fortunes and the optimism of civic growth. Its façade, a meticulous blend of classical proportions and restrained ornamentation, hints at the ambitions of the architects who sought to fuse elegance with utility. Pilasters rise subtly along the frontage, and delicate cornices crown the windows, while wrought iron balconies peek out as if whispering the lives of those who once walked above the bustling streets.

Stepping inside the arcade is like entering a miniature urban cathedral. The glass canopy above filters the last of the day’s sun, turning dust motes into suspended jewels. The tiled floor, intricate and deliberate, echoes footsteps from generations past, each step a gentle percussion against the calm of the evening. Shopfronts, framed in timber and brass, carry the weight of history with a quiet dignity. The design is not ostentatious, yet it is purposeful—every line, curve, and reflection crafted to invite a slow, appreciative walk rather than a hurried commute.

I wandered down the arcade with my lens, capturing the candid gestures of passersby, the way light pooled in corners, the reflections that danced along polished surfaces. The air was heavy, thick with humidity and the anticipatory energy of the season, yet the arcade offered a gentle reprieve, a measured rhythm that contrasted with the chaos of the streets outside. Each shot I took felt like a dialogue with history: a small, modern act contained within a space that had already witnessed decades of life.

Collins Arcade is, in a way, a meditation on continuity—a reminder that architecture, when done with care and reverence, can hold stories, tempering the rush of the present with the weight of memory. That evening, walking through its cool corridors, I felt connected to those layers of the city: the ambitions of 19th-century builders, the quiet persistence of shopkeepers, the casual footsteps of strangers, and my own small act of noticing.

And so I walked, lens in hand, carrying not just a camera but a reverence for the arcade’s enduring elegance—a narrow, luminous path through Melbourne’s collective memory.

Sony A7RV

FE 14mm f1.8 GM

Linking Sign2

Pearses Bay Sunset, Blairgowrie for Sunday Best

 

It is a rare comfort to pause after the labours of New Year’s Eve, for the mind does not surrender its haste at once, but asks for several quiet days before it can truly come to rest. The season has been marked by fierce heat and an unrelenting sun, so that the daylight hours press heavily upon the body and make any venture outdoors an exercise in endurance rather than pleasure.

Joel, meanwhile, is carrying his family northward on holiday to New South Wales, chasing a change of air and scene. I shall remain closer to home, content to trace a series of small, wandering excursions through the reaches of the Melbourne Fringe, finding interest in familiar streets seen at a gentler pace.

What follows is another image from my Pearses Bay sunset collection, completed over the course of 2025—a quiet record of evenings when the light softened at last, the heat loosened its grip, and the day surrendered, with a certain grace, to the calm of night.

Sony A7RV

FE 20-70mm f4 G

Linking Sunday Best

Bug macro for Saturday Critter

 

I do not know the name of this insect, yet I am taken by the way its red and green are set in vivid contrast within the frame, as though nature herself had paused to compose a small, living harmony of colour—spotted in the Melbourne Botanic Garden, a place usually rather unremarkable, but here briefly redeemed by this quiet flourish of colour.

Linking to Saturday Critter

Signs in Causeway Melbourne for Sign2

 

The section of the Causeway in Melbourne’s central business district has long been the object of public attention, having languished under construction for the better part of two decades. At last, the work is complete, yet the outcome provokes little in the way of wonder or admiration; the finished streetscape presents nothing particularly remarkable. One is left to ponder the motives behind such prolonged endeavours. Perhaps the authorities, in their desire to bolster employment figures, have directed labour to tasks of marginal utility, creating the appearance of productivity where purpose is diffuse.

Nevertheless, some shops have reopened, their signage presented simply as chalk on blackboards—a modest and understated flourish amid the otherwise ordinary thoroughfare. Remarkably, the area has so far been spared any acts of violence, a relief in a city that has elsewhere contended with such concerns.

In this unassuming completion of the Causeway, one discerns both the quiet persistence of municipal endeavour and the subtle absurdities of governance. The street stands renewed, practical yet uninspired, a testament to the sometimes tedious interplay of civic ambition, economic policy, and the rhythms of everyday urban life.

Sony A7RV

FE 35mm f1.4 GM

Linking Sign2

More infrared images from Bridgewater Bay Blairgowrie for Treasure Tuesday

 

In continuation of the Sunday post, I have shared three images from Bridgewater Bay, Blairgowrie, including the renowned arch for which the location is famed. Victoria is home to three Bridgewater Bays, yet this particular one remains the most readily accessible from suburban Melbourne.

Joel had his compact camera modified to capture infrared at a wavelength of 720 nanometres, while I entrusted my Sony A7RIV to conversion at 520 nanometres—a process that cost approximately seven hundred Australian dollars and required three months to complete. Though I acknowledge the expense and delay, I found myself more drawn to the aesthetic of the 500-nanometre wavelength, whose results possess a strikingly unconventional and almost otherworldly character.

I visit Bridgewater Bay with such frequency that I welcome variation in its portrayal; indeed, the coloured renditions captured on that day, close to Christmas, proved particularly remarkable.

Of particular note, the residence depicted in the third image commands a market value exceeding ten million dollars—a striking testament to the extraordinary ‘sea change’ phenomenon and the remarkable surge in coastal property values.

Sony A7RIV

infra red converted

FE 16mm f1.8 GM

Linking Treasure Tuesday

Signs 2 in Melbourne

 

In the first, the elevated frame opens onto a quiet exchange: a couple seated in unguarded ease, absorbed in the gentle theatre of people passing by. They watch the world as it unfolds below them, and in turn I watch them, a second layer of observation settling over the scene. The moment holds a calm reciprocity—seeing and being seen—where nothing is posed, yet everything feels composed.

The second image shifts tone. Here stands the grey man, the familiar spectre of every parked car’s unease. Muted and indistinct, he inhabits the edge between presence and authority, a figure defined less by personality than by consequence. His neutrality is his power. Where the first scene lingers in leisure and quiet curiosity, this one carries a low, practical tension—the reminder that order, time, and limits are always quietly enforced.

Sony A7RV

FE 20-70mm f4 G

Linking Signs2

No16 Beach in Rye for Sunday Best

 

No. 16 Beach in Rye is known, of course, for its Dragon Head Rock — that craggy silhouette rising from the restless sea like an ancient sentinel carved by wind and tide. Yet it is not only the famous formation that holds the eye. What fascinated me more that day was the exposed ocean floor, revealed in shifting patches as the waves inhaled and exhaled. Ridges of kelp, stone, and sand emerged like the ribcage of the earth itself, each glistening plate a quiet record of centuries of tides, storms, and moonlit nights. Here, the sea writes its diary in saltwater ink.

Joel and I lingered on the shoreline, lingering in the breeze that smelled of brine and age. Our footsteps pressed into sand that had once been sacred to the Boon Wurrung people, the traditional custodians of this stretch of the Mornington Peninsula. For thousands of years they moved along these windswept dunes and coastal flats, gathering shellfish, watching the migration of birds, reading the tides with an intimacy that modern visitors can only imagine. Long before the beach became a photographer’s haven, it was a living classroom, a place of food, ceremony, and story.

Later came the early European settlers, carving tracks through the tea-tree, building fishing huts, and naming the headlands after their own imaginings. The coastline remained wild and ungovernable, storms reshaping its contours with a kind of untamed artistry. Dragon Head Rock itself became a marker for sailors and wanderers — a creature hewn from basalt, watching over the changing generations.

As Joel and I took in this layered landscape, the unexpected happened: a photography group we had once been part of — a group with which the past included frictions and small wounds — wandered into the same stretch of beach. The air, suddenly, felt taut. Once, we had met weekly under the casual banner of shared interests, but the structure frayed when the leader, who struggled with memory impairment, continued to collect a five-dollar annual membership fee as if time had not moved on. Misunderstandings grew. Intentions tangled. A minor sum became a symbol of something heavier — a discomfort none of us knew quite how to name.

Seeing them again here, the old tension rose like a shadow across the sand. Yet it was oddly softened by the scenery. The roar of the waves seemed to dwarf the awkwardness, reminding us that human discord is fleeting compared to ancient coastlines. Dragon Head Rock did not care for our quarrels. The exposed ocean floor continued its shimmering revelations, indifferent to the knots of memory and missteps that people carry.

In that moment, the past felt like another tide — rushing forward, pulling back, reshaping what we thought we understood. And the beach, wise and wide as ever, held all of it: the history of land and water, the footprints of those who came before, and the small human stories that drift through like foam on the surface of a much older sea.

Sony A7RV

FE 20-70mm f4 G

Linking Sunday Best

South Bank Melbourne for Sign2

 

I have posted these two images on the other blog of mine Melbourne Street Photography

Both images were first taken in monochrome, their shadows and silences doing all the speaking. Yet earlier today, with time to spare before the cardiology conference at the Stamford Plaza, I wandered along South Bank in Melbourne and felt the city nudge me toward colour again. The river moved with its usual unhurried grace, reflecting fragments of sky and skyline; the breeze carried the faint scent of roasted coffee from nearby cafés; and the footsteps of passers-by echoed softly along the promenade like a gentle counterpoint to the hum of trams and traffic beyond.

On a whim, I decided to give the photographs a muted colour treatment—just enough for the tones to breathe without losing the quiet dignity of their original monochrome form. The results surprised me. Soft washes of colour settled into the images like memories returning after a long absence: the subdued blues of the Yarra, the mellow greys of the paved walkway, the faintest warmth in the late-morning light. What once felt stark now carries a subtle tenderness, a kind of understated calm that pleases the eye and lingers in the mind.

As I stood by the river, watching the city move at its own measured pace, I realised how these gentle hues mirror the mood of the day—unrushed, contemplative, suspended somewhere between duty and leisure. The photographs now hold that feeling too, quietly echoing the simple pleasure of a solitary stroll along South Bank before the formalities ahead.

Sony A7RV

FE 14mm f1.8 GM

Linking Sign2

Butterfly Macro for Saturday Critter

 

I have packed everything and left for airport early this morning. This post was prepared earlier. A macro shot of butterfly compound eyes was once my obsession as well

Linking Saturday Critter

More Light ups in Lightscape Melbourne for Sign2

 

Knowing it will be rather demanding to begin anew in an interstate post, I have taken the liberty of preparing this entry ahead of time, so that my small rituals of regular posting may continue uninterrupted. We all harbour our gentle obsessions, and mine—flickers of beauty caught between work and travel—seem to follow me like familiar constellations.

In the midst of these preoccupations, my thoughts often return to Lightscape, where the night itself becomes a gallery and the earth a living canvas. There, luminous pathways wind through shadowed gardens, and the air hums with quiet enchantment. Most arresting are the installations inspired by Aboriginal culture: towering totems glowing with ancestral colours, their forms rising like spirits of country, guiding the wanderer with a dignified, ancient presence. They stand as eloquent testaments to stories older than memory—symbols of kinship, land, and the unseen forces that thread through all living things.

Thus, even as I step into the busyness of unfamiliar work and distant horizons, I hold close these moments of contemplative light—reminders that art, tradition, and wonder accompany me wherever I am compelled to go.

Sony A7RV

FE 135mm f1.8 GM

Linking Sign2

Kisume Birthday Dinner for Treasure Tuesday

 

My cocktail before the meals 

Toro sandwich 

Sea Urchin in egg chawan 

4 different sorts of fish nigiri 

There are, in all, thirteen dishes in the course — thirteen small revelations arriving one after another like chapters in a quietly extravagant tale. Each plate is a whisper of colour and temperature, of textures that startle gently and flavours that linger as if unwilling to leave. The food is, quite simply, exquisite: composed with the kind of precision that feels effortless, and yet carries the unmistakable weight of deep craft. And surprisingly, almost disarmingly, it is priced with a humility rare in a city where fine dining often comes wrapped in hauteur.

What elevated the evening, though, was the chef’s table at Kisumé in Melbourne — that slender crescent of seats where you are close enough to see the breath of the kitchen as it moves. From there, you witness not just cooking but choreography: knife flashes, a small brush painting soy across a gleaming fillet, a bowl lifted and turned as though it were something delicate and living. The chefs speak softly among themselves, attentive to rhythm and timing, but every now and then one catches your eye and offers a quiet explanation of a garnish or a coastal origin of a fish no larger than your palm.

You taste the ocean in a curl of sashimi, the smoke of a charcoal kiss in a morsel barely warm, the brightness of sudden citrus over rice that has been coaxed into perfect tenderness. The sequence feels intimate — a series of personal offerings from people who love their craft without ceremony or arrogance. Time slows. The restaurant hums dimly behind you, but at the chef’s table you inhabit a small world of clarity and intent, where the boundary between diner and maker dissolves.

When the final dish arrived — the thirteenth note of the evening — it felt more like a benediction than an ending. I left Kisumé with that quiet fullness one experiences only after meals that feed both hunger and imagination, grateful for a night that was not merely delicious, but deeply, surprisingly memorable.

Sony A7RV

FE 16mm f1.8 GM

Linking Treasure Tuesday

Fairfield Bridge Mural for Mural Monday

 

Joel and I havent ventured into mural hunting for some time. This one was a lady portrait and the artist unknown. The place smells quite bad too. But it would be a good location for abstract and geometrical photography

Sony A7RV

Laowa 9mm f5.6

Linking Mural Monday

Cadillac Gorge San Remo for Skywatch Friday

 

The day at Cadillac Gorge unfolded beneath a brooding sky, the kind that promises both revelation and ruin. The rocks at the edge of San Remo glistened with the residue of centuries — dark volcanic shelves scarred by relentless tides, their surfaces mottled in lichen and salt. The wind carried the scent of brine and kelp, mingling with the low thunder of the Bass Strait. I had turned my lens toward the gorge, drawn to the strange geometry of stone carved by time and sea — but it was the sky that truly captivated me. The clouds swirled in elaborate layers, their forms restless and alive, the kind of sky that seems to think its own thoughts.

Five seconds later, the world turned. A rogue wave — silent until it wasn’t — rose from the depths like a living wall and struck the rocks with merciless force. I had no time to retreat. The surge crashed over me, drenching my gear, soaking through every seam and stitch, and in that instant, all sense of separation between self and sea dissolved. From the hill ridge behind, Joel was filming the scene — my small figure caught between water and wind, framed by the vast grey theatre of the Southern Ocean. Later, he said the footage looked almost staged — the sea claiming its own drama, the sky its witness — but in that moment, there was nothing contrived about it. Only the raw pulse of nature at Cadillac Gorge, San Remo — beautiful, treacherous, and impossibly alive.

Sony A7RV

FE 20-70mm f4 G

Linking Skywatch Friday

Lightscape Melbourne for Sign2

 

Each winter, Joel and I make our annual pilgrimage to Lightscape Melbourne, a festival that transforms the Royal Botanic Gardens into a luminous wonderland. This year’s edition, running from 20 June to 10 August, stretches along a 2‑kilometre winding trail through the gardens, where every step reveals a new marvel of light and color.

We wander beneath glowing floral canopies, through neon-lit tunnels, and past shimmering “Effervescence” carpets, cameras in hand, capturing moments where art and nature intertwine. Interactive installations respond to sound and movement, while reflections dance across the garden lakes, offering endless opportunities for striking compositions. Even the simplest of lights—an illuminated stem here, a glowing petal there—possess a quiet charm that draws the eye and rewards patient observation.

For photographers like us, Lightscape is more than a festival; it is a playground of luminous textures, shadowed pathways, and ephemeral beauty. Joel, ever the devoted heavy metal fan, occasionally pauses to imagine the lights pulsing in rhythm with a driving guitar riff, while I linger, chasing the perfect reflection on the water or the fleeting glow of a neon tunnel. Warm drinks in hand, we move through this nocturnal garden, grateful for the magical interplay of light, art, and winter night air.

Sony A7RV

FE 135mm f1.8 GM

Linking Sign2

Monkey Magic Mural for Mural Monday

 

I recall a mural once painted upon the wall of an abandoned factory in North Richmond. At that time, the television series then airing on the ABC was immensely popular, and the mural seemed almost a reflection of that cultural moment. How changed the area is now. The neighbourhood has fallen into neglect and disrepute, its streets shadowed by the presence of the state-sponsored heroin injection facility—an establishment most ill-advisedly situated beside a primary school. What was once a modest but spirited corner of Melbourne has been marred by this ill-conceived social experiment, leaving North Richmond diminished in both safety and dignity.

Pentax K20D

Da 15mm f1.8 limited 

Linking Mural Monday

Pearses Bay Blairgowrie for Water H2O Thursday

 

Melbourne has been drenched in unrelenting rain for the past fortnight, and Joel and I have grown restless, longing to venture out this weekend in search of new coastal sunsets to capture. Among the many memories of our past excursions, the view from Pearses Bay remains vivid in my mind.

Perched upon the overhanging cliff, I took the photograph as the sun sank low over the restless sea. My heart beat rapidly—not only from the precarious height beneath my feet but from the sheer beauty of the scene before me. The light that evening was golden and tender, bathing the rugged coastline in a warmth that seemed to defy the cool ocean breeze.

Pearses Bay, tucked away along the back beaches of the Mornington Peninsula, is a place of quiet splendour—remote, wind-swept, and largely untouched. The journey there winds through narrow sandy trails framed by coastal heath and scrub, where the scent of salt and tea tree hangs in the air. Few visitors make their way down to its crescent of pale sand, hemmed in by weathered limestone cliffs. Standing above it at sunset, one feels suspended between sea and sky—a moment of solitude and awe that lingers long after the light fades.

Sony A7RV

FE 20-70mm f4 G

Linking Water H2O Thursday

Pearses Bay, Blairgowrie for Sunday Best

 

Once again, Joel and I visited this rugged coast last weekend. Our wandering led us to a secluded section of the bay adorned with striking rock formations and restless, foaming waters. There we set up our equipment and devoted ourselves to capturing the scene from various angles, the rhythm of the waves providing both challenge and inspiration. Time slipped away unnoticed; scarcely had we taken a few frames before the sun sank beyond the horizon, casting a final glow upon the sea.

The approach to this spot, along the winding trail of the Back Beach on the Mornington Peninsula, was itself a quiet delight — a path bordered by coastal shrubs and windswept dunes, where the air carried the mingled scents of salt and tea-tree. It is a place that rewards both the patient walker and the watchful eye, revealing new beauty with every turn.

Sony A7RV

FE 20-70mm f4 G

Linking Sunday Best