Bridgewater Bay Blairgowrie for Skywatch Friday

 

Not much cloud gathered above Bridgewater Bay that day in Blairgowrie, just a clean, pale sky opening toward the horizon — but the sun dipped at the perfect angle, and I managed to catch a tight little sunstar flaring between the rocks. I kind of love it: that quiet brilliance, the way it sharpens the whole scene, turning the shoreline into something both wild and tender at once.

To get there from Melbourne’s CBD, the journey itself becomes part of the story. You slip onto the M1, heading south-east, and let the city gradually fall away behind you. At Frankston, the road becomes the Mornington Peninsula Freeway, carrying you through rolling stretches of coastal scrub and pockets of vineyard country. As you reach Rosebud, the landscape softens — tea-tree thickets, dunes, and glimpses of back-beach light. You turn onto Boneo Road, then onto Melbourne Road, and finally wind your way through Blairgowrie’s quiet streets until the sea begins to whisper its presence.

From the carpark near the end of St Johns Wood Road, a sandy path leads you through heathland and low coastal shrubs. The air smells of salt and sun-warmed limestone. Then the land suddenly opens, and Bridgewater Bay reveals itself: rugged rock shelves, tidal pools gleaming like hammered glass, and that western horizon where, if you’re patient and a little lucky, the sun breaks into a star just for you.

Sony A7RV

FE 20-70mm f4 G

Linking Skywatch Friday

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

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

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

Wreck Beach Moonlight Head Beach for Sunday Best

 

Joel and I have journeyed to Wreck Beach on three occasions, each visit impressed upon us by the austere beauty and the peril of that lonely shore. Remote and forbidding, it is a place where the turbulent Southern Ocean pounds without respite, and where the rising tide swallows the sands entirely, climbing high against the sheer cliff faces and leaving no safe passage.

The path thither is no easy one. A descent of more than three hundred steps leads to the long strand, and from there the traveller must endure a walk of nearly five kilometres along soft and yielding sand, each step burdened by the pull of the sea winds. Yet at the end lies a solemn reward: the scattered relics of wrecks long past, anchors and iron fastenings now half-buried in stone and seaweed. These are the remnants of the Marie Gabrielle, driven aground in 1869, and of the Fiji, lost to these merciless waters in 1891. Once proud ships upon the trade routes, they met their fate here, on a coast that mariners dreaded and named a graveyard.

I have shared images of this place twice before, but in revisiting my photographs I felt compelled once again to dwell upon its memory. Wreck Beach is more than a strand of sand—it is a living monument to history, where the power of the sea and the fragility of man’s endeavour stand forever in stark and solemn contrast.

Panasonic G9

Olympus 17mm f1.2 

Linking Sunday Best

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

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

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

Magic Beach Cape Woolamai Phillip Island for Skywatch Friday

 

Magic Beach, revealed only at low tide along the sweeping shores of Cape Woolamai on Phillip Island, is a place where the natural and the personal converge in quiet wonder. When the ocean withdraws, the sea floor unveils a scatter of ancient rocks, their surfaces carved and smoothed over millennia by waves and wind. These formations are the remnants of a powerful volcanic past, for Cape Woolamai itself is born of basaltic flows and granite intrusions that date back millions of years, their rugged cliffs now standing sentinel over Bass Strait. Long before European arrival, this coastline formed part of the lands of the Bunurong people, who knew its rhythms of tide, bird, and season. Today, it remains both a sanctuary for migratory seabirds and a dramatic landscape that draws the eye and stirs the imagination.

It was here, during the pandemic year when Melbourne lay under lockdown, that I came alone with my newly acquired Sony A7RIV, predecessor of the A7RV, eager to explore its capabilities. Magic Beach seemed an apt stage for such an experiment. I found myself entranced by the interplay of light and shadow across tide pools and rocks, using HDR techniques I had never attempted with my earlier Panasonic or Canon cameras. The solitude of that moment—an island shore, a receding tide, the silence broken only by surf—transformed the practice of photography into something almost meditative. In that fleeting communion, I glimpsed both the deep history of Cape Woolamai and the personal magic of discovery, as if the land itself conspired with my lens to etch memory into image.

Sony A7RIV

FE 16-35mm f2.8 GM

Linking Skywatch Friday

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

Portsea Back Beach for Skywatch Friday

 

My visit to this area during an unusually low tide proved most rewarding in terms of photographic endeavour. The light, delicate and fleeting, was at its finest just before the onset of complete darkness. The exposed ocean floor took on a strange, otherworldly appearance—almost alien in aspect. Portsea itself, a refined and affluent enclave favoured by the wealthy, remains largely untouched by the ordinary tourist trail. Few ventures beyond the cave gate that marks the divide from London Bridge, lending this particular stretch a sense of quiet seclusion and hidden charm.

Sony A7RV

Laowa 9mm f5.6

Linking Skywatch Friday

Tenby Point, Gippsland for Water H2O Thursday

 

Tenby Point is but a modest township situated on the fringe of metropolitan Melbourne. Access to the beach lies discreetly beside the rear gate of a local residence, with space for merely two vehicles. The area is best approached during low tide, for the path leads across muddy flats rather than firm sand. The seabed itself is composed entirely of soft, viscous sludge—mud that I invariably carry into Joel’s car. For this reason, we seldom visit during summer. Instead, we favour the winter months, when the weather deters us from venturing far afield, and proximity becomes a comfort.

The aged pylons that rise solemnly from the tide are favoured subjects for photography. There is, I believe, a quiet significance to our collective urge to document them—perhaps a longing to preserve a vestige of a bygone era, or a reverence for the passage of time made manifest in timber and tide.

Presently, I am soon to commence another locum shift in regional Victoria—a favour rendered to a friend. Consequently, my blog may, on occasion, fall silent for a day or two, owing to the unpredictable demands of being on call at a country hospital. I only hope this venture does not once again lead me down the path of indulgence and weight gain, as such postings sometimes do.

Sony A7RV

FE 20-70mm f4 G

Linking Water H2O Thursday

Portsea back beach, Mornington Peninsula for Water H2O Thursday

 

Joel will be engaged with his in-laws over the coming fortnight, so we resolved to visit the back beach at Portsea before the demands of daily life took hold once more. The excursion was imbued with a creamy noir quality, lending the moment a sense of quiet drama and reflection. It also afforded me the opportunity to test my new neutral density filter paired with the 35mm f/1.4 lens.

Sony A7RV

FE 35mm f1.4 GM

Linking Water H2O Thursday

Montforts Beach Sunset Mornington Peninsula for Water H2O Thursday

 

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

Loch Ard Gorge, Great Ocean Road for Treasure Tuesday

 

Loch Ard Gorge, situated along the Great Ocean Road in Victoria, Australia, is one of the most captivating coastal landscapes in the country. I miss this spot very much. Though windy and rainy most times, the sea is a gift from nature—a powerful, ever-changing presence that both humbles and inspires.

Geologically, the gorge is a testament to the raw force of erosion. Formed from soft limestone laid down 15 to 20 million years ago during the Miocene epoch, the cliffs and sea stacks of this coastline have been sculpted by wind, rain, and relentless wave action. Loch Ard Gorge itself came into being when an underground cave collapsed, leaving behind a narrow inlet framed by towering limestone walls and a hidden sandy beach. This is part of a larger system that includes other famous landmarks like the Twelve Apostles and London Arch—all gradually shaped and reshaped by the sea.

But the gorge holds more than just natural beauty; it carries a poignant human story. In 1878, the clipper ship Loch Ard struck a reef near nearby Mutton-bird Island in heavy fog after a long voyage from England. Of the 54 passengers and crew on board, only two survived—Tom Pearce, a ship’s apprentice, and Eva Carmichael, a young Irishwoman. Their dramatic survival and rescue unfolded within the very gorge that now bears the ship’s name, turning it into a place of both natural wonder and quiet remembrance.

Today, visitors to Loch Ard Gorge can explore trails and lookouts that offer views of the dramatic coastline and read about the shipwreck that gave the site its name. The area also lies within the traditional lands of the Gunditjmara people, whose deep connection to this region stretches back tens of thousands of years.

Standing there, with the wind whipping through the gorge and waves crashing against the cliffs, it’s easy to feel both the immense power of nature and the layers of history it holds. Though often moody with weather, the sea remains a gift—timeless, untamed, and unforgettable.

Linking Treasure Tuesday

Balnarring Beach, Mornington Peninsula for Skywatch Friday

 

In the first photograph, Joel is visible in the distance, intently focused on photographing seaweed along the shoreline. The air has grown markedly cooler, and the sky bears the pale, steely blue that signals the quiet approach of winter. It is in such moments that the necessity of reconnecting with the natural world becomes most apparent—calming, grounding, and essential to the soul.

Balnarring Beach, located on the Mornington Peninsula southeast of Melbourne, stretches along the calm waters of Western Port Bay. Its gentle crescent shape and serene outlook toward Phillip Island make it a place of both quiet retreat and natural charm. The area is known for its safe swimming waters, expansive foreshore reserves, and the peaceful rhythm of tidal life.

The name “Balnarring” is thought to originate from Indigenous words meaning “little” and “gumtree,” a poetic nod to the native landscape. European settlement began in earnest in the 1840s when pastoral stations were established, and by the latter half of the 19th century, Balnarring had grown to include a post office, a school, and a church. The arrival of the railway in the early 20th century further connected the township with surrounding areas, allowing more visitors to discover its coastal beauty.

Balnarring Beach—once also known as Tulum Beach—has long held a quiet reputation as a haven for holidaymakers and nature lovers. In more recent times, it was honoured as one of Australia's cleanest beaches, a testament to the community's stewardship and respect for the land.

Even as seasons shift and the cold edges in, Balnarring Beach remains a place of stillness and reflection—a coastal landscape where history, nature, and memory meet in tranquil harmony.

Sony A7RV

FE 20-70mm f4 G

Linking Skywatch Friday

The past fortnight has been exceedingly busy for me. Despite the considerable amount of work I have undertaken, the returns have felt rather meagre. Joel and I have been diligently studying investments in the Japanese stock market, prompted by Warren Buffett’s decision to reallocate his wealth into Japanese equities.

Second Valley Beach, South Australia for Sky Watch Friday

 

Second Valley Beach in South Australia is a hidden gem, known for its rugged cliffs, crystal-clear waters, and peaceful ambiance. I was lucky to visit the beach on a cloudless day, when the sky stretched endlessly above in a perfect, uninterrupted canvas of blue. Everything was sheer blue—the sky, the ocean, even the reflections dancing on the rocky shoreline. The calm, gentle waves lapped against the shore as if time had slowed down just for that moment. It was a serene experience, where nature's beauty felt both overwhelming and calming all at once.

Sony A7RV

FE 20-70mm f4 G

Linking Skywatch Friday

Mural at an abandoned beach resort

 

The once grand mosaic mural, now decayed and abandoned, was, I believe, a vast composition depicting various landmarks of Taipei.

Sony A7RV

FE 20-70mm f4 G

Linking Mural Monday

I have returned to diligently addressing the backlog of delayed referrals from last week, and the effort is certainly taking its toll. Over the weekend, Joel was unable to join the planned trip to Pinnacles, having discovered at the last moment that he had a prior commitment to a family dinner. In his absence, I devoted my time to attending to a rather tedious volume of paperwork.

Laomei green moss beach, Taipei for Water H2O Thursday

 

In the later days of spring, the Laomei Shimen Green Moss Coast in northern Taiwan is said to be transformed into a breathtaking spectacle, as a lush emerald carpet of moss blankets the entire shoreline, resembling a masterpiece of nature’s artistry. Alas, during my brief visit, I was unable to witness this enchanting scene.

Sony A7RV

FE 20-70mm f4 G

Linking Water H2O Thursday