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

Portsea Beach, Mornington Peninsula for Skywatch Friday

 

This steadfast rock has ever been my compass for long exposures, a sentinel against the shifting tides and the passing of seasons. Last weekend the heavens conspired with storm and rain, and so I turned from the unruly present to the stillness of my archives, where calmer skies and gentler seas remain preserved.

Portsea Beach itself is a place where time and tide weave their eternal dance. The cliffs and outcrops, born of sandstone and limestone laid down in forgotten oceans, stand weathered yet unyielding, their faces etched by centuries of wind and wave. Each stone bears the script of ages, each ripple of sand a fleeting verse upon the vast poem of the shore.

Here the sea gathers its strength, for the Southern Ocean presses against the narrow Heads, surging into Port Phillip Bay with a restless spirit. The waters may gleam like glass beneath a quiet dawn, yet within them lies the memory of tempests, of ships dashed and lives claimed. Beneath it all, the Bunurong people once walked these sands with reverence, their footsteps bound to the rhythm of tide and season, reading the coast as one might a sacred text.

To stand upon Portsea Beach is to linger at the threshold of worlds—the ancient and the present, the serene and the perilous. It is a place where nature holds dominion, and where the solitary rock, enduring amid the breakers, becomes not merely a subject for the lens but a symbol of patience, memory, and the silent grandeur of the sea.

Sony A7RV

FE 20-70mm f4 G

Linking Skywatch Friday

Bridgewater Bay Blairgowrie for Water H2O Thursday

 

Both Joel and I longed to breathe the briny air and hear again the timeless voice of the sea. A fortnight past, we made our way once more to the cliff-tops overlooking Bridgewater Bay at Blairgowrie, drawn by the desire to attempt long-exposure photography in a place yet untried. Though the conditions were far from perfect, the novelty of the location, with its rugged beauty and the promise of new discovery, gave the venture a certain poetry of its own. Joel, ever patient, came to collect me from my home, but through my own misjudgment—having earlier taken my mother to supper—I delayed him by forty minutes. That tardiness weighed heavily upon me, for I felt I had stolen time from both him and the sea itself.

Bridgewater Bay, where we stood, is no ordinary shoreline. It is a place where the restless waters of Bass Strait carve their legend into limestone cliffs and sandstone shelves, where tidal pools mirror the heavens and the wind carries whispers of ancient times. Once a hunting and gathering ground for the Boonwurrung people, who knew the rhythms of these shores long before our cameras sought to capture their moods, it later became part of the maritime frontier of the Mornington Peninsula. The bay has borne witness to shipwrecks and storms, and its eroded rock formations—arched, honeycombed, and sculpted by centuries—stand as natural monuments to endurance.

Thus, as Joel and I set up our tripods against the evening light, I could not help but feel that our own small pursuit of a perfect image was but a fleeting gesture in the vast theatre of time. The bay, with its layered history of people, tides, and stone, seemed to forgive my lateness, reminding me that all human haste dissolves before the patience of the ocean

Sony A7RV

FE 16mm f1.8 G

Linking Water H2O Thursday

Ryūzu Falls in Japan for Treasure Tuesday

 

Many years ago, I found myself wandering the mountain paths of Nikkō with only a small point-and-shoot camera and a tripod as my companions. My intention had been to capture the splendour of autumn leaves, but the season had already slipped away, leaving the branches bare and the forest quiet. What might have seemed a disappointment at first revealed itself instead as a rare gift: in the absence of fiery foliage, the falls themselves became the focus, luminous and unadorned. I pressed the shutter only a few times, yet this image has endured as one of the few remaining from that period of my life. Looking back, I would not dare attempt such a venture again, yet the memory remains as vivid as the sound of the water that day.

The cascade before me was Ryūzu Falls (Ryūzu no Taki, 竜頭の滝), the Dragon’s Head Waterfall, whose twin streams tumble down the rocks in a white veil that, with a touch of imagination, resembles the horns and mane of a mythic creature. The Yukawa River feeds its ceaseless descent, carrying the mountain’s breath from Lake Yunoko down toward Lake Chūzenji, tracing a course carved over countless centuries.

Ryūzu has long been cherished not only for its beauty but for its spirit. In Japan, waterfalls are often regarded as sacred thresholds where nature reveals its force and purity, and where pilgrims once paused for contemplation on their way to the shrines of Nikkō. Standing before the falls, one senses that same timeless quality: the mingling of power and grace, the endless renewal of water against stone. In autumn, the spectacle is even more profound, when maples and beeches ignite in red and gold, as though the dragon itself were breathing fire into the forest. Even out of season, however, the falls hold their majesty—reminding the traveler that beauty is not confined to the height of autumn but lingers quietly in every moment of the year.

What remains most precious to me is not the photograph itself, but the silence and humility it recalls. The memory of Ryūzu Falls is a reminder that nature does not perform for us; it simply endures, and in its endurance, offers us a glimpse of something eternal.

Linking Treasure Tuesday

Flinders Blowhole Beach in Mornington Peninsula for Sky Watch Friday

 

This stretch of beach was where I often wandered in search of crabs hiding in the rock pools, timing my steps just before the sun began to sink low over the horizon. The tide left behind pockets of still water that mirrored the sky and, most strikingly, the cave nearby whose reflection shimmered with the changing light. It was a fleeting but beautiful moment, where the ordinary act of looking into shallow puddles revealed both life and landscape in harmony.

The cave and blowhole are part of the rugged coastline at Flinders, on the southern edge of the Mornington Peninsula, about an hour and a half from Melbourne. The region tells a story that stretches back millions of years, when volcanic activity left behind the dark basalt cliffs that now meet the sea. Over time, the powerful swells of the Bass Strait relentlessly carved into these rocks, hollowing out sea caves and forming the blowhole that today draws both visitors and locals. The air there often carries the salt spray of crashing waves, and on windy days the ocean surges with a force that reminds you of its timeless authority.

Flinders itself has long been appreciated for its natural beauty, with its cliffs, rock shelves, and tide pools offering endless opportunities for exploration. Beyond its geology, the area is steeped in human history too: the coastline was known and traversed by the Bunurong people, who relied on its waters for food and held deep connections to its land and sea. Later, it was named after the navigator Matthew Flinders, who charted much of Australia’s southern coast in the early 1800s.

Standing at the blowhole today, watching the sun lower across the horizon and catching glimpses of crabs in the pools, I felt the convergence of many timelines. The fleeting moment of a reflection in water was layered atop a landscape shaped by fire and ocean, and upon traditions that stretch back thousands of years. In that sense, the Flinders Blowhole is not only a place of natural drama but also one of quiet continuity, where the vastness of history meets the intimacy of memory.

Sony A7RV

FE 20-70mm f4 G

Linking Skywatch Friday

Serenity falls, Queensland for Sunday Best

 

Serenity Falls, hidden within the lush embrace of Buderim Forest Park on Queensland’s Sunshine Coast, is a place where the natural world seems to speak in a softer, older language. The track that winds through the forest leads the visitor past three distinct cascades, each with its own charm, before arriving at the falls themselves—a ribbon of water tumbling gracefully over weathered rock into a shaded pool below. The journey is as captivating as the destination, for the path meanders beneath a canopy of subtropical rainforest that has flourished here for centuries. Strangler figs with their immense buttressed roots stand like sentinels, while piccabeen palms rise in elegant clusters, their fronds swaying with the faintest breath of breeze. Ferns, mosses, and lichens carpet the shaded gullies, their green hues intensified by the constant moisture.

The atmosphere is one of tranquil vitality. Birdsong drifts through the forest, punctuated by the whipbird’s sharp call and the softer murmur of smaller songbirds moving among the branches. Insects hum in the undergrowth, while the cool air carries the faint, earthy scent of damp leaf litter. The falls themselves seem to gather and release this energy, their waters tumbling with a rhythm that both soothes and enlivens. The light filtering through the canopy adds to the tropical impression, creating shifting patterns of brightness and shadow that dance across the rocks and water.

To linger here is to be reminded of the resilience of Queensland’s rainforests, remnants of ancient ecosystems that once spread far more widely across the continent. Serenity Falls is more than a scenic landmark; it is a living fragment of deep natural history, where the subtropical forest continues to thrive in a delicate balance of shade, moisture, and life. To walk its tracks and stand before its cascades is to step, if only for a moment, into a world both timeless and ever-renewing.

Sony A7RV

FE 20-70mm f4 G

Linking Sunday Best

Kitty Miller Bay Phillip Island for Water H2O Thursday

 

Kitty Miller Bay, situated on the southern coast of Phillip Island, is renowned as a premier destination for surfing, drawing enthusiasts with its consistently favorable waves and striking coastal scenery. The bay, framed by dramatic cliffs and pristine sandy shores, bears witness to both natural and human history. Its geological formations tell the story of ancient coastal processes, while the surrounding vegetation reflects the island’s unique flora adapted to the harsh marine environment. Historically, the area has attracted mariners, and remnants of shipwrecks along the shore serve as poignant reminders of the perilous seas that once challenged early navigation. I once visited Kitty Miller Bay in pursuit of capturing a compelling photograph of one such shipwreck, seeking to preserve the interplay of natural beauty and historical resonance in a single image.

Sony A7RV

FE 70-200mm f4 G

Linking Water H2O Thursday

Powlett River of Kilcunda, Gippsland for Treasure Tuesday

 

There was a time when I did not care for long-exposure photography. I preferred instead the water in its “natural” state, unsoftened, its surface rippling and restless, rather than rendered into a silken blur. Yet I must concede that the long-exposed image has its own particular merit, offering a dreamlike interpretation of movement and time.

The Powlett River, near Kilcunda on Victoria’s south coast, is no grand stream but rather a modest watercourse, carving a narrow channel through the sand before it yields itself to the Bass Strait. I am fond of it precisely for this reason: it is unassuming, like a quiet canal pressed into the earth. The river originates in the foothills near Wonthaggi and meanders through farmland and wetlands before finding its way to the ocean. Its estuary, fringed by dunes and saltmarsh, provides habitat for birdlife such as herons, egrets, and the shy Latham’s snipe, while native grasses and coastal scrub bind the shifting sands against the sea winds.

Though small in scale, the Powlett has played a quiet but enduring role in the natural and human history of the district. The Bunurong people knew its waters and fished its estuary long before European settlement. In the nineteenth century, the river valley served as fertile ground for agriculture and grazing. Today, it is valued both as a place of ecological significance and as a site of tranquil beauty—its modest waters flowing steadily toward the restless ocean, unchanged in essence by the passing of time.

Sony A7III

Canon 35mm f1.4 L

Linking Treasure Tuesday

Turpin Waterfall, Bendigo for Water H20 Thursday

 

Turpin Falls, not far from Bendigo, remains etched in my memory as one of those rare discoveries that seem almost too wondrous to share. I visited the falls some four years ago, and though I cannot recall quite how I came upon the exact vantage point that day, I remember well the sense of awe as the basalt cliffs opened before me and the water poured in a silver sheet into the deep pool below. The cliffs themselves tell of a distant volcanic age, their dark basalt columns rising like the walls of some vast natural cathedral, while the surrounding country speaks of long habitation by the Dja Dja Wurrung people, for whom this landscape has always held meaning. For over a century, the falls have drawn summer visitors, who would climb down to the base for swimming and relief from the heat, their laughter echoing against the stone. Yet such visits belong now to memory, for the track to the base has been permanently closed, both to preserve the fragile environment and to ensure safety upon those treacherous rocks. In a sense, this loss lends a heightened value to my recollection: a private moment of communion with the wild spirit of the place, both a traveller’s fleeting encounter and a glimpse into the deep natural and cultural heritage of Turpin Falls.

Sony A7RV

FE 70-200mm f2.8 GM

Check oout Water H2O Thursday

Beauchamps waterfall in Beech Forest Great Ocean Road for Water H2O Thursday

 

I remain on call for another week, my days confined to a unit, tethered to a telephone, awaiting summons from hospital staff. Life in such circumstances is uneventful, and my movements are dictated by the ring of a bell rather than my own volition. Within these narrow confines, my one liberty is to share images of water when the opportunity presents itself.

In my university years, I was captivated by the art of photographing waterfalls, seeking them out with a fervour I no longer possess. One such cascade was Beauchamp Falls, among the three principal waterfalls in the Beech Forest region, situated north of Apollo Bay along the famed Great Ocean Road. The walk to the falls is a return trek of approximately two hours—moderate in exertion yet rich in reward. The path descends through cool temperate rainforest, where towering mountain ash (Eucalyptus regnans), tree ferns, and myrtle beech cast deep shade upon the forest floor. Birdsong echoes faintly through the canopy, and in summer the air hums with the persistent presence of mosquitoes, undeterred by human intrusion.

The falls themselves descend in a singular veil of white water, dropping approximately 20 metres into a clear pool encircled by moss-covered rocks and lush undergrowth. They are named in honour of William Beauchamp, an early settler in the district, and stand as a quiet testament to the enduring beauty of the Otways. Fed by the East Barham River, their flow remains steady even in drier months, owing to the high rainfall and dense forest cover of the catchment. Visiting Beauchamp Falls is less an act of travel than a passage into a living remnant of Victoria’s ancient Gondwanan forests—timeless, green, and untamed.

Pentax K10D

FE 30mm f1.8 limited 

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

Sony A7RV

FE 16-35mm f2.8 GM

Linking Treasure Tuesday

Killen Falls Ballina NSW for Sunday Best

 

I have visited this waterfall on several occasions, primarily during my locum postings in either Ballina or Lismore, New South Wales. While I have previously shared several images of the falls, I had not, until now, revealed the singular perspective from within the cave behind the cascade. On that particular visit, the conditions were exceedingly damp, the air thick with mist and the roar of falling water echoing within the hollowed rock.

Killen Falls, part of the Emigrant Creek catchment, is a vestige of the region's ancient volcanic history—its basalt cliffs formed by lava flows from the long-extinct Mount Warning shield volcano. The waterfall plunges over a semi-circular basalt overhang, allowing one to stand within the cave and behold the curtain of water from behind, a rare and immersive vantage point in nature.

Following this wet and awe-filled exploration, I ventured to a nearby township where I partook in a traditional Jewish breakfast—an experience that remains warmly entwined with the memory of that elemental and storied place.

Sony A7RV

FE 20-70mm f4 G

Linking Sunday Best

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