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
.jpg)
