St Kilda Pier sunset sky for Skywatch Friday

 

St Kilda has changed so much over the years that I sometimes feel as though I am visiting a place caught between memory and reality. I was glad, at least, to find the old pier still stretching into the water, a familiar landmark holding its ground against the passing of time. Beyond it, Melbourne’s skyline continues to grow wider and taller, its ever-expanding collection of buildings reshaping the horizon I have known for decades.

Time really does change everything. I have lived in Melbourne for more than 36 years now. When I stop to think about it, that is a substantial part of a lifetime. Yet, people still occasionally ask me when I jumped off the boat, as though I have only recently arrived on these shores. Perhaps it is my accent that gives me away, an unusual blend that belongs neither exclusively to Mandarin nor to any of the other Chinese dialects I speak. What makes it rather amusing is that I completed my medical training entirely here in Australia, working my way through the local system from beginning to end, much like any other locally trained doctor. Apparently, even three and a half decades are not always enough to convince people that you have been here for a while.

St Kilda, too, has lost some of the little things that once made it familiar. My favourite café, where I used to indulge in its excessively sweet ice cream and decidedly overpriced fish and chips, is no longer there. Perhaps the food was never quite as good as I remember it, but that was never really the point. Some places become part of our lives through the simple repetition of ordinary pleasures, until one day we realise that we have been collecting memories without knowing it.

The old pier remains, the skyline keeps rising, and the familiar streets continue to change their faces. I suppose Melbourne has been moving forward all these years, just as I have. Yet, standing in St Kilda today, I cannot help feeling that a little piece of the place I once knew has quietly slipped away.

Perhaps that is what time does best. It leaves enough behind for us to recognise, but takes just enough away to remind us that we can never truly return to the past.

Sony A7RV

FE 20-70mm f4 G

Linking Skywatch Friday

Mount Wellington in Tasmania for Sunday Best

 

Thirteen years ago, during that same Tasmanian photographic trip, Joel and I ventured up Mount Wellington. What awaited us at the summit was something neither of us had quite bargained for — a heavy fall of snow, turning the mountain into a world of white.

Joel, the poor lad, bravely drove us higher and higher along that winding mountain road, without a single chain on the tyres. The road was slippery, the bends seemed endless, and the car occasionally skidded beneath us. I remember thinking, somewhere between one corner and the next, that this was probably how a perfectly good photographic expedition might come to a rather unfortunate end. I was nearly having a heart attack.

And then, having survived the ascent, we discovered that we had prepared ourselves beautifully for photography, but almost completely neglected the small matter of winter clothing. We stood there in the snow, cameras in hand, shivering like two fools who had wandered into the wrong season.

Eventually, there was little choice but to huddle together for warmth. Two grown men, somewhere near the summit of Mount Wellington, cuddling simply because neither had thought to bring a proper coat. It was hardly the heroic mountain adventure we had imagined.

For the next two days, we both wandered around with dripping noses, nursing the consequences of our alpine enthusiasm. At the time, it was cold, uncomfortable and slightly ridiculous.

Now, thirteen years later, it has become one of those memories that makes me smile.

Perhaps that is what time does to travel memories. The fear fades, the discomfort disappears, and even the foolishness becomes part of the charm. What remains is the laughter, the companionship, and the strange little stories that photographs alone can never quite tell.

These are the images I took that day, preserved from those early days when photography was still a simple adventure for the two of us. Joel also made a panorama from the mountain, which I eventually had printed. It has since found a permanent place on the wall of my home in Bendigo.

Every time I look at it, I see more than a snowy Tasmanian mountain. I see two younger men, an unprepared winter expedition, a terrifying drive up a winding road, two frozen photographers huddling together for warmth — and, somehow, a very good day.

Thirteen years have passed, but the snow is still there on my wall, quietly keeping the memory alive.

Canon 6D

EF 70-200mm f2.8 

Linking Sunday Best

Bridgewater Bay Blairgowrie for Skywatch Friday

 

You’re probably getting a little tired of seeing sunsets from Bridgewater Bay, Blairgowrie. But perhaps the sunset was never really the reason we came.

This was from a few months ago, one of those evenings when Joel and I simply needed to get away for a while. He had a lot on his mind and needed someone to listen, and I was happy to be that person. There are times when friendship is nothing more complicated than walking beside someone while they empty their thoughts into the open air.

We talked, wandered along the coast, stopped now and then, and watched the day slowly surrender to night. The sea was restless, but somehow the evening itself felt gentle. Five minutes before darkness settled completely, the last light turned everything purple and pink, and the long exposure softened the turbulent water into something dreamlike—a mirage of sea and cloud.

I took the photograph almost incidentally.

What I remember more clearly is having Joel beside me.

Perhaps these are the moments I value most in friendship—not the grand adventures, but the quiet hours when you can simply be there for each other, sharing the same horizon, listening without needing to fix anything.

The sunset eventually disappeared, as all sunsets do. But the companionship stayed.

And sometimes, that is the photograph worth keeping.

Sony A7RV

FE 20-70mm f4 G

Linking Skywatch Friday

Blairgowrie sunset at Bridgewater Bay for Water H2O Thursday

 

At Bridgewater Bay, the evening seemed to lose its edges.

Mist drifted through the last hour of light, softening the horizon until sea, sky and distant rock began to melt into one another. Everything was reduced to a quiet blur, steeped in the gentlest golden glow — a sunset less seen than felt.

Perhaps that was why I didn’t feel like reaching for my phone. Some evenings seem to ask for nothing but slowness: to stand still, let the world blur a little, and watch the light leave without trying to hold on to it.

I stopped updating Instagram this week. Then again, I haven’t updated the site for a few months either, lol. Life has been catching up with me, and perhaps I’ve been learning to let it.

I still prefer the slow web of Blogger to the hurried rhythm of Instagram. There’s something more intimate about it — a small, personal corner where photographs can linger, quietly, without needing to be seen by everyone.

And, of course, I don’t have to pay a subscription for it. That helps too.

Sony A7RV

FE 20-70mm f4 G

Linking Water H2O Thursday

Bridgewater Bay Blairgowrie for Treasure Tuesday

 

This was probably one of the most unusual scenes I have ever managed to capture at Bridgewater Bay, Blairgowrie, over the past twenty years. There was something almost painterly about it—an unexpected oil-painting quality, with a touch of impressionism woven into the frame. I absolutely love it.

Joel was around another corner, attempting his own experiment on the same view, though his version didn’t quite come together. I think I may have caught this one a little better than he did, lol.

The foreground water was silky and dreamlike, wrapping softly around the exposed sea-floor rocks, while beyond, the waves fell into a loose rhythm, their movement drawing the eye towards the distance. Above, the sky was steeped in a warm golden brew, with the distant arch quietly anchoring the horizon.

For once, the sea, the rocks and the sky seemed to forget they belonged to nature and decided, just for a moment, to become a painting.

Sony A7RV

FE 20-70mm f4 G

Linking Treasure Tuesday

Bridgewater Bay Sunset for Skywatch Friday

 

This is Bridgewater Bay without the long exposure, just as the evening was settling in. The ripples in the foreground worked like a treat, catching the last traces of light and giving the water a gentle texture. Behind it all, the sky opened into a warm golden glow, complimenting the scene like a good golden brew at the end of a long day.

I might try to get outdoors this weekend. It has been a while since I managed to catch up with Joel, and perhaps a little fresh air, a camera, and some time together are exactly what I need.

Sony A7RV + FE 20-70mm f4 G

Linking Skywatch Friday

Montforts Beach Sunset for Skywatch Friday

 

The sunset at Montforts Beach was particularly memorable that day. The rocks stood fierce and sharply jagged, their dark edges cutting into the glowing horizon. Below them, the sea appeared almost thick and viscous, its heavy surface catching the molten light. Above it all, the setting sun burned an intense, almost fiery orange, casting the entire shore in a strange and beautiful glow.

Sony A7RV

FE 20-70mm f4 G

Linking Skywatch Friday

Pearses Bay Sunset for Water H2O Thursday

 

The sea foam gathers around the solitary rock at the heart of Pearses Beach like froth on the rim of a teacup, delicate yet restless, swirling and folding with every breath of the tide. Above the water, the last glimmer of sunset catches the surface, scattering a quiet golden light across the waves and turning this small corner of the Mornington Peninsula into something almost dreamlike.

Sony A7RV

FE 20-70mm f4 G

Linking Water H2O Thursday

Montforts Beach in Mornington Peninsula for Skywatch Friday

 

In broad daylight, Montforts Beach can seem almost unassuming—quiet, familiar, perhaps not quite as extraordinary as one might expect. Yet when the sun begins to descend, everything changes. The rocks catch fire with warm gold, the shadows lengthen, and the shoreline seems to reveal a secret it keeps hidden through the ordinary hours of the day. There is a particular magic in that fleeting golden hour, when the landscape becomes softer, richer, and almost dreamlike.

These days, Joel and I have found ourselves feasting our way through Melbourne, discovering new places to eat and enjoying the pleasures of good food, partly because the weather has been so unkind to the kind of light and atmosphere we long to capture with our cameras. Perhaps that is why returning to these old photographs feels unexpectedly precious.

Looking back at them is like opening a small window into another moment—a reminder of evenings when the light was generous, the coast was glowing, and we were simply there, waiting for the landscape to become beautiful. Some photographs do more than preserve a place; they preserve the feeling of having once stood there, together, beneath a sky that knew exactly when to turn to gold.

Sony A7RV

FE 20-70mm f4 G

Linking Skywatch Friday

Cape Schanck Sunset for Water H2O Thursday

 

Beside Pulpit Rock at Cape Schanck, the waves seemed to gather in a natural hollow, splashing and swirling in a water-worn pool before slipping back towards the sea. Beyond the dark rocks, the horizon was slowly surrendering to evening, brushed with delicate shades of pink and molten orange. For a fleeting moment, the restless ocean and the quiet sunset seemed to meet in the same breath—a wild corner of Melbourne softened by the last gentle light of day.

Sony A7RV

FE 20-70mm f4 G

Linking Water H2O Thursday

Melbourne Sunset Skyline Silhouette for Skywatch Friday

 

Beneath Melbourne's cityline, the evening seemed to pause in a wash of pure orange. From the Northcote side, we watched the skyline rise in silhouette against the glowing horizon, every tower reduced to a dark, elegant stroke beneath the fading sun.

Joel and I had arrived with no great plan except to wait for that brief, magical hour when daylight softens and the city begins to sparkle. In the meantime, we sat together, happily chewing away at our favourite souvlaki—the simplest kind of dinner, wrapped in paper and eaten while the sky performed its own spectacle.

The sunset deepened, turning the horizon molten, while Melbourne stood quietly before us in silhouette. For a little while, there was nowhere else to be: just two people, a favourite meal, and a city waiting patiently for the blue hour to arrive.

Sony A7RV

FE 20-70mm f4 G

Linking Skywatch Friday

Balnarring Beach long exposure Cape Schanck for Water H2O Thursday

 

At Balnarring, the retreating tide leaves behind a quiet world of shimmering textures. With a long exposure, the sea softens into a silky veil, its gentle movement rendered in muted shades of pale brown and warm yellow, glowing beneath the subdued coastal light. Across the exposed sea floor, tubular seaweed lies scattered among the shallows, catching the light like delicate strands of old gold.

For a brief moment, the restless ocean seems almost still—a translucent wash of colour and motion, revealing a hidden landscape that disappears again when the tide returns.

Sony A7RV

FE 20-70mm f4 G

Linking Water H2O Thursday

Cape Schanck Sunset Melbourne for Skywatch Friday

 

Down the steep stairway we went, winding our way to the bottom of the cliffs beneath the lighthouse at Cape Schanck. The afternoon was slipping quietly toward evening, and the sea below seemed to hold its breath.

Then the sun began to pour its last light across the horizon—a deep, glowing gold, like a warm brew slowly steeped in the sky. The cliffs darkened into silhouettes, while the water caught the fading light in scattered ribbons of amber. For a little while, everything felt suspended between earth and sea, day and night, washed in the quiet richness of sunset.

Sony A7RV

FE 20-70mm f4 G

Linking Skywatch Friday

Lake Charm Victoria for Skywatch Friday

 

Lake Charm lies quietly in the Mallee, where broad skies meet still water and time seems content to linger. Seen from the drone, the lake reveals a geometry that is impossible to appreciate from the ground—its gentle shoreline tracing pale ribbons against the deep blue, surrounded by the muted ochres and greens of a landscape shaped as much by drought as by flood.

Despite its inviting name, there is little here beyond the lake itself. The surrounding country is sparsely settled, and silence is the prevailing companion. My only company that afternoon came in the form of a few stray dogs, who took great exception to the unfamiliar buzz of the drone and pursued me across the dusty tracks with admirable determination, as though defending their forgotten kingdom.

Lake Charm is one of the many natural lakes scattered across Victoria's Mallee, part of an ancient landscape moulded over thousands of years by the shifting courses of the Murray River and the inland floodplains that once spread across this region. In wetter years these lakes became havens for waterbirds, fish and the people who depended upon them, while in leaner times they retreated, leaving behind salt and stories carried on the wind. The nearby township grew as a modest farming community, sustained by irrigation and the resilience demanded by life in this often unforgiving country.

From above, however, history gives way to abstraction. The lake becomes a polished mirror set within an immense canvas of cultivated paddocks and native scrub, its tranquil surface reflecting the boundless Victorian sky. It is a place that asks for little and offers even less in the way of spectacle, yet therein lies its quiet grace. In a region where the horizon stretches almost without interruption, Lake Charm reminds us that beauty often resides not in grandeur, but in solitude—in a lonely sheet of water, an endless sky, and the curious memory of a handful of determined dogs giving chase beneath a humming drone.

Linking Skywatch Friday

Bridgewater Bay Sunset, Blairgowrie for Skywatch Friday

 

A cold winter evening can paint the sky in colours that summer sunsets sometimes cannot match. The air is crisp, the light softer, and the bay lies quieter beneath the fading sky. There are fewer visitors, leaving the shoreline almost entirely to the gentle rhythm of the waves and the reflections shimmering across the water.

Bridgewater Bay in Blairgowrie is a beautiful place for an evening stroll—a simple walk made memorable by winter light, still water, and the quiet beauty of the coast.

Sony A7RV

FE 14mm f1.8 GM

Linking Skywatch Friday

Balnarring Beach Cape Schanck for Water H2O Thursday

 

Winter had been reluctant to let go of the rain, so the first truly sunny Saturday in what felt like an age was too precious to waste. Joel and I pointed the car towards Balnarring Beach, eager for a walk beneath a sky washed clean by weeks of grey.

The air carried that unmistakable bite of a Victorian winter, cold enough to numb fingertips, yet the sunlight transformed everything it touched. The sea shimmered like polished glass, long shadows stretched across the sand, and every wave seemed edged with silver. It was the sort of light photographers wait patiently for—gentle, golden and impossibly clear, making even the ordinary feel quietly extraordinary.

After our walk, we returned to the little fish and chip shop we had enjoyed only a few months before. But time, it seems, can change a place as surely as the tide reshapes a shoreline. The familiar faces in the kitchen had disappeared, replaced by three well-meaning teenagers doing their best to keep up. Unfortunately, enthusiasm could not rescue cold, soggy chips and potatoes that had barely met the fryer.

Joel, who rarely disguises disappointment where food is concerned, launched into such an animated critique that one could almost believe he had been temporarily possessed by the spirit of a disgruntled food critic. His colourful commentary provided far more flavour than the meal itself, and before long I found myself laughing harder than I had all week.

So that was our weekend: glorious winter light, a windswept beach, a forgettable dinner, and a reminder that even when the fish and chips disappoint, good company and shared laughter can still make for a memorable day.

Sony A7RV

FE 70-200mm f4 G

Linking Water H2O Thursday

Cape Woolamai sunset for Skywatch Friday

 

This was one of those rare moments at Cape Woolamai when the sky seemed determined to put on a spectacle. Usually cloaked in a veil of grey, the headland is more accustomed to brooding overcast days than brilliance. Yet on this occasion, dramatic clouds gathered like a theatre curtain, their dark forms parting just enough to unleash a dazzling burst of sunlight. The sun spilled through the heavens in radiant shafts, igniting sea and shore with fleeting gold. For a brief moment, Cape Woolamai shed its familiar melancholy and stood transformed, luminous and magnificent beneath a sky alive with drama.

Sony A7RV

FE 16-35mm f2.8 GM

Linking Skywatch Friday

Noosa Sunset in Queensland for Water H2O Thursday

 

At Noosa at sunset, the world seemed reduced to shadow and fire — blackened rocks resting against the tide, the delicate silhouette of a lone tree etched upon the horizon, and above them all, the sky steeped in a golden brew of fading light. The evening lingered like a quiet hymn, where earth became ink and the heavens poured molten amber across the sea.

Sony A7RV

FE 20-70mm f4 G

Linking Water H2O Thursday

Cape Schanck Sunset, Mornington Peninsula for Sunday Best

 

Last Saturday unfolded less as a journey and more as a slow unwinding of intention. Joel, with quiet mischief, stretched the road to Cape Schanck into something elastic—time dilated between interruptions. A call taken mid-drive, his friend seeking the kind of counsel that always seems to find you without ceremony. Then the pause at a petrol station: the soft rustle of paper bags, the salt-warm comfort of chicken nuggets, the sharp clarity of mineral water.

The road resumed, though not faithfully. It bent and strayed, slipping into detours that felt less accidental than deliberate, as though arrival itself was being deferred on purpose. By the time we reached the lighthouse, the coast—your intended destination—had already slipped beyond reach, claimed by the dying light.

So we stayed where we were.

Beside the tower, under a sky dissolving into amber and ash, we caught what remained of the day. The sun sank without waiting, brushing the horizon in quiet resignation. No descent to the shore, no salt on the skin—just a fleeting stillness, and a photograph taken at the edge of something almost reached.

Sony A7RV

FE 20-70mm f4 G

Linking Sunday Best

Brighton Beach Sunset in Melbourne for Sunday Best

 

At Brighton Beach, the evening settles gently, as though the day is exhaling its last quiet breath. The sky softens into molten gold and amber, spilling light across the water in trembling ribbons.

A lone boat drifts beneath the sinking sun, its silhouette cutting a slow, deliberate path through the glow—neither hurried nor still, but suspended in that fragile hour between day and night. The sea holds its reflection like a memory, shimmering and incomplete, while the horizon blurs into something almost dreamlike.

It is a scene that repeats itself endlessly, and yet never quite the same—each sunset a quiet performance, each passing vessel a fleeting note in a composition of light, water, and time.

Sony A7RV

FE 70-200mm f4 G

Linking Sunday Best