Mount Cook in New Zealand for Water H2O Thursday

 

There are countless photographs from my journey to New Zealand earlier this year that remain unshared, held back like quiet memories waiting for the right moment. I remember the scene with clarity: a sky veiled in cloud, its muted light softening the contours of the land, and below it the striking blue-green water of the lake—glacial, cold, and luminous—as if lit from within. Across the hills, snow settled lightly on the brown, wind-worn grasslands, creating a stark and beautiful contrast unique to this region.

Beyond these shifting elements rose Aoraki / Mount Cook, the great summit of the Southern Alps and the highest peak in New Zealand. Born of immense tectonic uplift where the Pacific and Indo-Australian plates collide, the mountain has been shaped over millennia by advancing glaciers, winter storms, and the long patience of erosion. To Ngāi Tahu, Aoraki is more than a landmark: he is an ancestor, a figure of sky and land intertwined, forever fixed in stone.

In the quiet interplay of clouded sky, glacial water, and ancient hills, the natural history of this place becomes almost audible—a reminder that these landscapes carry stories older than any traveller, and yet remain generous enough to offer new ones to those who stand in their presence.

Sony A7RV

FE 70-200mm f4 G

Linking Water H2O Thursday

Balnarring Jetty Mornington Peninsula for Water H2O Thurday

 

I have spent the past few days in a state of unrelenting toil, as if bound to some cruel taskmaster. The town in which I find myself—Mingham in New South Wales—is a place seemingly forsaken. There is no supermarket, no fast-food outlet, not even a solitary restaurant to offer relief. The unit I occupy is tainted with mould; dampness clings to the walls, and the bed linens, upon first touch, were sticky and sullied, as though long neglected. The local health service is scarcely better, staffed so poorly that it recalls the worst of neglected nursing homes. Fate, it seems, has played a bitter jest, offering hardship in abundance, comfort in none.

Yet, amidst this weariness, I have managed to compose a few posts, a small defiance against the exhaustion that presses upon me, before returning to endure the remainder of the shift.

In my mind, I often escape to a place long cherished: Balnarring Jetty, that weathered pier of Victoria. Its creaking boards, the gentle undulation of water beneath, the hush of the waves—these memories are a balm, a tender refuge far from the harshness of my present surroundings.

Mingham bears its own melancholy. Not long past, the town and its surrounds were consumed by floods of unprecedented fury. Torrential rains transformed roads into rivers, swallowing homes, and leaving streets marooned beneath waters swollen beyond memory. The river, once modest and tranquil, surged to heights unseen in a century, breaching its banks with merciless force. Entire neighborhoods were evacuated, bridges rendered impassable, and the land bore the scars of that relentless inundation for months thereafter.

In this place of lingering adversity, I find a strange resonance between the land and my own condition. Just as waters overflowed, unrestrained and unstoppable, so too has the neglect and hardship of this town broken through the fragile walls of my endurance. And yet, even amid such trials, the memory of Balnarring Jetty persists—a quiet, enduring symbol of stability and grace—reminding me that even in isolation and turmoil, beauty and calm can still be glimpsed.

Sony A7RV

FE 20-70mm f4 

Linking Water H2O Thursday

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

Pearses Bay Blairgowrie for Water H2O Thursday

 

Joel and I lingered far too long at the souvlaki shop on our way here, and by the time we arrived, dusk had already deepened into shadow. We hurried to our respective corners, cameras in hand, striving to capture what little light remained before the sun slipped entirely beyond the horizon. There was no time for the elegance of long exposure—only swift, instinctive shots taken in haste.

In my rush, I stumbled and twisted my ankle, the sharp pain dulled only by the chill of water seeping into my shoes. Joel, ever steadfast, came to my aid—only to meet misfortune himself, slipping and taking a fall soon after. Thus the evening unfolded: a pursuit of fading light, marked by mishap and the quiet grace of shared endurance.

Sony A7RV

FE 20-70mm f4 G

Linking Water H2O Thursday

Pearses Bay Sunset moment for Treasure Tuesday

 

Last weekend, Joel immersed himself in the intensity of a Metallica concert, their first Australian tour in eleven years—a testament to his enduring devotion to heavy metal music. I, on the other hand, wandered the coastline alone, finding quiet solace in the rhythmic rise and fall of the high tide. Pearses Bay, now celebrated as a prime vantage for sunsets, cast its golden reflections across the water, offering the perfect scene for my photography and a gentle reminder of the beauty found in solitary exploration.

Sony A7RV

FE 20-70mm f4 G

Linking Treasure Tuesday

Wulai, Taipei for Sunday Best

 

Wulai, a small mountain township south of Taipei, was a place my father often took me to during my childhood. In those days, its beauty was dimmed by neglect — the river that wound through the valley was choked with refuse, and litter drifted upon its surface with every passing day.

Many decades have since passed, and Wulai has undergone a quiet transformation. The once-polluted waters now run clear and green, reflecting the verdant slopes that rise steeply on either side. Though the old timber houses and narrow lanes of the hot spring town remain, their weathered facades speak not of decay, but of endurance.

Wulai, whose name in the Atayal language means “hot water,” has long been known for its natural thermal springs and its place within the cultural heartland of the Atayal people, one of Taiwan’s indigenous groups. Once scarred by industrial waste and unregulated tourism in the latter half of the twentieth century, it has in recent years been restored through sustained conservation efforts and local stewardship.

Today, the air is fresh with mountain mist, the river shimmers with jade clarity, and Wulai stands as a living testament to renewal — a place where memory, nature, and history quietly converge.

Sony A7RV

FE 20-70mm f4 G

Linking Sunday Best

Stingray Bay Warrnambool sunset for Skywatch Friday

 

This small estuarine inlet adjoining Stingray Bay is a hidden gem, lying less than a kilometre from where I once stayed, with road access that remains remarkably convenient. The still waters below capture exquisite reflections of sky and vegetation, a mirror to the tranquility of the surrounding landscape.

Stingray Bay itself forms part of the sheltered mouth of the Merri River at Warrnambool, where freshwater mingles with the tides of the Southern Ocean. The area is renowned for its tidal flats and rock platforms, rich in marine life and bird activity — herons, cormorants, and sandpipers frequent the shallows, while stingrays glide silently over the sandy bottom from which the bay takes its name.

Along the inlet’s edge, the weathered wooden barrier now stands as more of an ornament than a necessity, its timbers softened by time and tide. Once built to define or protect, it now blends into the natural scene — a quiet relic of human purpose slowly yielding to nature’s rhythm.

Sony A7RV

FE 20-70mm f4 G

Linking Skywatch Friday

Waixi Creek Taipei for Water H2O Thursday

 

Waixi Creek winds quietly through the misty hills of Pingxi, its water a shade of deep green that seems to hold the reflection of the forest itself. Upstream, I crossed a semi-abandoned bridge, its timbers darkened by age and softened by moss. The air was still, save for the low whisper of water and the faint creak of wood beneath my steps. Ahead, a small fan-shaped waterfall spilled gracefully over rocks, its delicate spread catching the morning light. I lingered there, letting the sound of the water wash over me, not yet in sight of the great Shifen Waterfall but already feeling its presence—somewhere ahead, where the creek gathers itself into strength.

Shifen Waterfall lies deep within the Pingxi Valley of northern Taiwan, where the Keelung River winds through layered stone and forest. The name “Shifen” dates back to the Qing dynasty, when ten families settled in this fertile gorge and divided the land into ten equal portions. Over the centuries, the river shaped the valley into what it is today: a landscape of cliffs, pools, and narrow ravines, where countless tributaries like Waixi feed into the main flow. The region’s bedrock slopes against the direction of the water, forcing it into a magnificent arc as it drops nearly twenty meters across a span of forty. When sunlight pierces the rising mist, a rainbow sometimes forms across the pool, and locals call it the “Rainbow Pond.”

The Shifen area once thrived as a coal-mining settlement during the Japanese colonial period. The Pingxi railway line was built through the valley to carry black coal to the port cities, and its narrow track still runs alongside the river today. Over time, as mining faded into memory, the valley’s rhythm returned to one of water and forest. The old bridges, tunnels, and stone paths remain, quietly reclaimed by moss and vines, linking the past to the present with every weathered beam and rusted nail.

As I followed Waixi upstream that morning, I felt that mixture of age and renewal in every sight—the rustic bridge standing like a remnant of an older world, the creek’s green current alive and changing, and the fan-shaped waterfall fanning out in a quiet gesture of welcome. The larger Shifen Waterfall waited farther down, roaring and majestic, but here in the upper stream there was a gentler beauty. It was a place of pause, where time moved as slowly as the drifting ripples on the water’s surface.

Walking toward the main falls, I realised that what draws one to Shifen is not only the grandeur of the waterfall itself, but the quiet journey toward it. The bridges, the green pools, the minor cascades—each holds a story, a small breath of history and nature intertwined. In that gentle space before the thunder of the falls, the world feels balanced between motion and stillness. The creek, the valley, and the waterfall together form a kind of living memory—Taiwan’s heart reflected in water, stone, and light.

Sony A7RV

FE 20-70mm f4 G

Linking Water H2O Thursday

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

Sierra Nevada Rocks Sunset, Portsea for Skywatch Friday

 

A place I once frequented, though visiting has become increasingly difficult to plan. The Laowa lens creates a pronounced vignetting that deepens the atmosphere of this sombre image, casting an almost timeless mood over the scene.

The Nevada Rocks of Portsea, located along the Mornington Peninsula’s rugged southern coast, form part of the dramatic basalt and sandstone formations that have withstood relentless winds and tides from Bass Strait for millennia. These rocks tell the story of ancient volcanic activity and gradual marine erosion that shaped Victoria’s coastal geology. Over time, the elements carved out weathered ledges and sculptural outcrops that today stand as both a natural wonder and a silent witness to the passage of time.

Human presence here has long been intertwined with the sea. Early European settlers and fishermen sought shelter in the coves, while Portsea itself grew into a seaside retreat in the late nineteenth century, famed for its cliff-top mansions and its proximity to Fort Nepean—once a sentinel guarding the entrance to Port Phillip Bay. Today, Nevada Rocks remains a place of quiet solitude and untamed beauty, where the power of nature meets traces of human history in equal measure.

Sony A7RV

Laowa 9mm f5.6 

Linking Skywatch Friday

Cadillac Gorge San Remo beachscape for Water H2O Thursday

 

This image was captured with a telephoto zoom lens from a considerable distance. Such an approach is uncommon in landscape photography, yet I chose to remain afar — for good reason. The place, known as Cadillac Gorge near San Remo, possesses a beauty both austere and perilous. Beneath its brooding cliffs, the restless sea breathes with deceptive calm before breaking into sudden fury. Local fishermen know its temperament too well; from time to time, a rogue wave surges without warning, sweeping the unwary from the rocks into the cold embrace of the Bass Strait. From afar, the gorge appears serene — a meeting of wind, water, and rugged stone — yet its silence carries the echo of untold stories, both majestic and tragic.

Sony A7RV

FE 70-200mm f4 G

Linking 

Water H2O Thursday

Bore Beach Sunset San Remo for Skywatch Friday

 

The place I was meant to visit was actually immersed in sea water right there. Another day of miscalculation. But before the staircase down to the beach, I spotted these misty glow in the valley nearby. It is quite pleasant

Sony A7RV

FE 20-70mm f4 G

Linking Skywatch Friday

Bore Beach San Remo at Gippsland for Water H2O Thursday

 

My apologies in advance — over the coming weeks, my posts will be devoted entirely to the seascapes of this beloved coast. I find quiet joy in the short drive and in the patient search for light, texture, and tide along its edge.

Bore Beach at San Remo carries a history woven deep into Victoria’s maritime past. Once part of a rugged fishing and trading route, it served as a working shoreline where boats were launched into the often restless waters of Bass Strait. In the late nineteenth century, the nearby township of San Remo grew around the bridgehead that linked the mainland to Phillip Island, becoming a small but vital port for granite, coal, and the island’s dairy produce. Local fishermen would gather at Bore Beach before dawn, their lanterns swaying like low stars, setting out to sea for snapper and salmon.

Today, the beach remains quieter — its industry replaced by contemplation. The wind carries only traces of those early voices, mingling with the cry of gulls and the rhythmic pull of the tide. To wander here is to feel both the endurance of the sea and the fragile beauty of human memory along its shore.

Sony A7RV 

FE 20-70mm f4 G

Linking Water H2O Thursday

Pearses Bay Track Blairgowrie for Treasure Tuesday

 

Pearses Bay has become our chosen trail—Joel’s and mine—a place where the land curves gently toward the restless sea. The walk unfolds with a quiet grace, the salt wind brushing softly against the face like a familiar hand. There is solace in its constancy, a rhythm of air and tide that speaks without words.

With a telephoto lens, I linger by the shore, studying the water as it folds and unfurls in endless conversation with the rocks. Each ripple, each surge, becomes a stanza of motion and light. It matters little whether the sky is bright or brooding; the sea always offers a new language to read, a shifting mirror for the mind. And so, we return—drawn by the hush between the waves, where observation becomes a kind of prayer, and the simple act of looking feels like belonging.

Sony A7RV

FE 20-70mm f4 G

Linking Treasure Tuesday

Lake Boga town silo art mural for Mural Monday

 

I often pass through Lake Boga on my monthly journeys to Swan Hill. The town’s name, often misheard as “Lake Bogan,” belies its gentle charm — a small holiday township set beside a broad, tranquil lake where families gather for boating and water-skiing.

The lake itself, though now a haven for leisure, bears a deeper history. For countless generations it was home to the Wemba-Wemba people, whose connection to its waters long preceded European arrival. Major Thomas Mitchell recorded the lake in 1836, noting the Aboriginal encampments that dotted its shores. A brief Moravian mission followed in the 1850s, an early but short-lived attempt at settlement. With the coming of the railway in 1890, the township flourished as an agricultural district, its fields and dairies nourished by the lake’s waters.

During the Second World War, Lake Boga gained national significance as a secret Royal Australian Air Force base, where Catalina flying boats were repaired and maintained — a vital, if understated, contribution to Australia’s war effort. This proud history now finds renewed expression in a striking new mural by Tim Bowtell, painted upon the town’s grain silos. His work portrays the Catalina aircraft and its commanding officer, George “Scotty” Allan, bathed in the golden light of a Mallee sunset.

Thus Lake Boga endures — a place where the quiet rhythm of rural life mingles with echoes of ancient habitation and wartime service, its still waters mirroring both the passage of history and the enduring artistry of those who call it home.

Sony A7RV

FE 20-70mm f4 G

Linking Mural Monday

Pearses Bay Blairgowrie for Water H2O Thursday

 

Last weekend, Joel and I made a quick visit to Pearses Bay near Blairgowrie. The bay remains remarkably untouched and little visited, a quiet stretch of coastline where rugged limestone cliffs frame the ocean and narrow pathways lead down to the sand. The sound of waves breaking against the rocks echoes through the coves, and on a calm day the water takes on a striking clarity, with hues of turquoise blending into the deep blue of Bass Strait. It is the kind of place where one feels both secluded and restored, far from the busier beaches nearby.

On returning, I found myself once again immersed in a heavy workload. My professional commitments have increased significantly over the past month, which has made me reflect on how quickly circumstances can shift. Not long ago, I was contemplating the idea of semi-retirement. In some ways, the widespread acceptance of telehealth by those living in regional areas has reshaped the practice of medicine—sometimes into a model that can feel reduced to what one might easily search for online. To add to the challenge, I have also endured a series of flu infections contracted from the nursing homes I visit.

Sony A7RV

FE 16mm f1.8 G

Linking Water H2O Thursday

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

Bridgewater Bay Sunset on the cliff for Water H2O Thursday

 

Standing upon the sand cliffs of Bridgewater Bay at Blairgowrie, one is immediately struck by the deceptive stillness of the landscape. The cliff edge on which I stood was, in truth, precariously poised above a cavern hollowed out over centuries by the ceaseless force of wind and tide. Beneath my feet lay a deep cave, its roof eroded and thinned to a fragile crust that may collapse at any moment. My companion, Joel, wisely urged me to step back, reminding me that the grandeur of the view is often matched by the peril of the elements that have shaped it.

These overhanging caves are a signature feature of the Mornington Peninsula’s rugged coastline. Formed by the relentless pounding of Bass Strait waves against the friable sandstone, they represent both the transience and endurance of natural architecture. Over time, the softer layers of rock are worn away, leaving behind dramatic vaults and caverns beneath seemingly solid ground. Such formations are not uncommon in this part of Blairgowrie, where the interplay of geology and oceanic power has carved out a coastline as beautiful as it is dangerous.

The sand cliffs themselves bear witness to an ancient story. Much of the Peninsula’s coastal geology is composed of calcarenite, a form of dune limestone laid down during the last Ice Age when sea levels were lower and winds piled sand into vast dunes. In subsequent millennia, these dunes hardened into stone, only to be gnawed once more by the restless sea. Thus, what today appears as a sheer and formidable cliff is in fact a fragile palimpsest of natural history, its fate determined by the invisible pressures at work beneath the surface.

On this occasion, I carried my newly acquired FE 16mm f1.8 GM lens. Yet the wide angle, though technically perfect, seemed inadequate to capture the sense of awe and danger embodied in those cliffs. For no lens, however fine, can wholly convey the vertiginous impression of standing on ground that trembles with impermanence, overlooking caverns sculpted by time and tide.

Sony A7RV

FE 16mm f1.8 GM

Linking Water H2O Thursday

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