Moth Macro seen in my garage for Saturday Critter

 

The moth held its place on the windscreen, a small, improbable presence in the quiet of the garage. When the flash fired, its eyes answered back—fluorescent green, sudden and unearthly, as if lit from within. For a moment, the ordinary glass of the car became a stage, and the night folded itself around this fragile visitor.

There was something intimate about the encounter. The garage smelled faintly of oil and dust, the day fully extinguished, yet here was this insect carrying its own light. The flash did not frighten it away; instead, it revealed a hidden brilliance, a reminder that even the most overlooked corners—a parked car, a closed space—can hold unexpected colour and quiet wonder.

Linking Saturday Critter

Bridgewater Bay Blairgowrie for Treasure Tuesday

 

Bridgewater Bay reveals a quieter temperament in this light, as if the coastline itself has agreed to pause. The long exposure smooths the restless surface into a sheet of silk, disguising the true mood of the water, which only moments before had been choppy and impatient. What remains is an illusion of calm, a visual courtesy offered by time stretched thin, where motion is not denied but gently persuaded into stillness.

At sunset, the bay becomes a natural archive of colour. The sky spills amber, rose, and indigo into the shallows, and the water receives them without argument, holding each hue briefly before surrendering it to dusk. This hour has always belonged to transition: day loosening its grip, night arriving without ceremony. It is the most honest time to see the land, when contrasts soften and everything appears briefly reconciled.

Bridgewater Bay sits along a coast shaped by endurance rather than spectacle. Its limestone platforms were laid down millions of years ago when this land lay beneath a shallow sea, built slowly from compressed shells and marine life. Wind and tide have since worked with patient insistence, carving the rock into shelves and pools, opening crevices where salt-tolerant plants take hold and seabirds rest between flights. The bay has long served as a refuge—first for marine life in its calmer pockets, later for people drawn to its relative shelter along the Mornington Peninsula’s exposed edge.

Even now, the place carries that layered memory. The stillness seen here is not permanent; it is borrowed. Soon the water will resume its chatter against stone, and the colours will drain from the sky. Yet for a moment, Bridgewater Bay allows itself to be seen as something almost contemplative—a meeting point of geology, light, and time, where the sea briefly pretends to be at rest.

Sony A7RV

FE 20-70mm f4 G

Linking Treasure Tuesday

Collins St Block and Arcade at night for Sign 2

 

Collins Arcade has always held a quiet magic for me—a heritage corridor tucked into the pulse of Melbourne, where time seems to fold in layers. On a humid, stifling evening just before Christmas, I slipped into its cool, shadowed embrace, camera in hand. I chose the FE 14mm f1.8, a lightweight prime lens, knowing I wanted freedom to move, to catch fleeting moments without being weighed down by bulk.

The arcade is more than just a passageway; it is a living memory of the city. Collins Block, the structure that cradles it, dates back to the late 19th century, a time when Melbourne was stretching upward and outward, a city buoyed by gold-rush fortunes and the optimism of civic growth. Its façade, a meticulous blend of classical proportions and restrained ornamentation, hints at the ambitions of the architects who sought to fuse elegance with utility. Pilasters rise subtly along the frontage, and delicate cornices crown the windows, while wrought iron balconies peek out as if whispering the lives of those who once walked above the bustling streets.

Stepping inside the arcade is like entering a miniature urban cathedral. The glass canopy above filters the last of the day’s sun, turning dust motes into suspended jewels. The tiled floor, intricate and deliberate, echoes footsteps from generations past, each step a gentle percussion against the calm of the evening. Shopfronts, framed in timber and brass, carry the weight of history with a quiet dignity. The design is not ostentatious, yet it is purposeful—every line, curve, and reflection crafted to invite a slow, appreciative walk rather than a hurried commute.

I wandered down the arcade with my lens, capturing the candid gestures of passersby, the way light pooled in corners, the reflections that danced along polished surfaces. The air was heavy, thick with humidity and the anticipatory energy of the season, yet the arcade offered a gentle reprieve, a measured rhythm that contrasted with the chaos of the streets outside. Each shot I took felt like a dialogue with history: a small, modern act contained within a space that had already witnessed decades of life.

Collins Arcade is, in a way, a meditation on continuity—a reminder that architecture, when done with care and reverence, can hold stories, tempering the rush of the present with the weight of memory. That evening, walking through its cool corridors, I felt connected to those layers of the city: the ambitions of 19th-century builders, the quiet persistence of shopkeepers, the casual footsteps of strangers, and my own small act of noticing.

And so I walked, lens in hand, carrying not just a camera but a reverence for the arcade’s enduring elegance—a narrow, luminous path through Melbourne’s collective memory.

Sony A7RV

FE 14mm f1.8 GM

Linking Sign2

Sydney Harbour Bridge at night for Treasure Tuesday

 

On my most recent journey to Sydney, I found myself once more compelled to photograph the city by night. As ever, the train bore me across the city to the bridge, that great span from which Sydney reveals itself most eloquently after dark. Yet the experience proved unlike my previous visits; the familiar scene appeared altered, as though the city had chosen to show me a different aspect of its character, quieter and more reflective, yet no less commanding.

The bridge itself, the Sydney Harbour Bridge, stands as one of the defining works of Australian engineering and civic ambition. Conceived in the early years of the twentieth century, it was born of a pressing need to unite the northern and southern shores of the harbour, which until then were linked only by ferry. Designed by Dr John Bradfield, whose vision shaped much of Sydney’s modern infrastructure, the bridge took form under the engineering firm Dorman Long and Company of Middlesbrough, England. Construction began in 1923 and employed thousands during the difficult years of the Great Depression, becoming both a source of livelihood and a symbol of national resolve.

Completed and opened in 1932, the bridge is the world’s largest steel arch bridge of its kind, its vast curve rising with austere grace above the harbour waters. Built from more than 52,000 tonnes of steel and held together by millions of rivets, it was assembled from both shores toward the centre, the two halves meeting with remarkable precision high above the water. Its opening was marked by ceremony and controversy alike, famously interrupted when a ribbon was cut prematurely in political protest, an episode now woven into the bridge’s lore.

Since that day, the Harbour Bridge has carried trains, vehicles, cyclists, and pedestrians, serving not merely as a crossing but as a constant presence in the life of the city. By night, when its arch is traced in light and reflected upon the dark water below, it appears less a feat of industry than a great, luminous gesture—binding shore to shore, past to present, and the restless city to its enduring harbour.

Sony A7RV

FE 20-70mm f4 G

Linking Treasure Tuesday

Pearses Bay Sunset, Blairgowrie for Sunday Best

 

It is a rare comfort to pause after the labours of New Year’s Eve, for the mind does not surrender its haste at once, but asks for several quiet days before it can truly come to rest. The season has been marked by fierce heat and an unrelenting sun, so that the daylight hours press heavily upon the body and make any venture outdoors an exercise in endurance rather than pleasure.

Joel, meanwhile, is carrying his family northward on holiday to New South Wales, chasing a change of air and scene. I shall remain closer to home, content to trace a series of small, wandering excursions through the reaches of the Melbourne Fringe, finding interest in familiar streets seen at a gentler pace.

What follows is another image from my Pearses Bay sunset collection, completed over the course of 2025—a quiet record of evenings when the light softened at last, the heat loosened its grip, and the day surrendered, with a certain grace, to the calm of night.

Sony A7RV

FE 20-70mm f4 G

Linking Sunday Best

Signs around Darling Harbour Sydney for Sign2

 

By day, Darling Harbour performs its duties efficiently—ferries arrive and depart, cafés hum, families drift between museums and promenades. But it is after dusk that the place reveals its true temperament.

When night settles, the harbour exhales. Glass towers loosen their grip on the sky and begin to speak in reflections, their lights unspooling across the dark water like careful calligraphy. Neon signage, garish in sunlight, softens into something theatrical, glowing with intention rather than insistence. The waterfront paths become ribbons of light, guiding footsteps past palm silhouettes and quiet eddies where the water holds the city’s colours without complaint.

The air feels warmer at night, even in cooler seasons, carrying the mingled scents of salt, food, and river damp. Conversations drift more slowly. Laughter echoes off pylons and under footbridges, lingering longer than it does during the rush of daylight. Boats glide through the harbour like deliberate thoughts, their wakes briefly breaking the perfect mirror before the water gathers itself again.

Here, Sydney’s modernity is at its most persuasive. The entertainment precinct—so exposed and crowded by day—turns intimate, almost reflective. Light installations and illuminated signs do not compete; they converse, tracing the harbour’s edges and framing the skyline beyond. The city does not overwhelm the water at night; instead, it learns to share the space.

Darling Harbour after dark is not merely a brighter version of itself—it is a different place altogether. Less functional, more lyrical. A harbour that waits for the sun to disappear before showing how beautifully it knows how to shine.

Sony A7RV

FE 35mm f1.4 GM

Linking Sign2

Pearses Bay Sunset Blairgowrie for Skywatch Friday

 

No clouds—only a brief, transient wash of cyan and pink in the sky, lingering for a moment before the light gives way to complete darkness. At Pearses Bay, dusk arrives cleanly, without ceremony, as though the day knows it has said enough.

For Joel and me, this small bay has always been the easiest pause from the city: a place where the air feels older, less disturbed. Long before it became a convenient refuge, the shoreline carried other lives and rhythms. The water remembers them. The bay once fed and sheltered people who read tide and season as instinct, who left no monuments except paths worn into the land and stories held in memory. Later came boats, industry, and the measured ambitions of settlement, each leaving its own faint mark—names, pylons, remnants half-claimed by salt and weed.

Standing here now, the past feels close, not dramatic but persistent. The hush after sunset seems layered, as if the quiet itself has been used before. Footsteps fade, conversations soften, and the bay resumes its long habit of waiting. In that waiting, Pearses Bay offers more than fresh air; it offers continuity—a reminder that the city is only the most recent chapter, and that even in a brief moment of color before night, the land is still telling its older story.

Sony A7RV

FE 20-70mm f4 G

Linking Skywatch Friday

Maldon Night Sky for Skywatch Friday

 

Another photograph emerges from my earlier endeavours to capture the Milky Way arcing over the night sky of Maldon—a small Victorian town whose silence after dusk seems made for stargazing. The Milky Way hangs there like a memory etched in light, undisturbed by the slow breathing of the land below. Standing beneath that celestial sweep, I recall a decade-old exchange: my tentative enquiry with the local hospital about employment, and their firm insistence that only the most renowned specialists in the country were fit for service in this quiet town. It felt an irony of scale—a remote settlement with modest economic activity aspiring to impossible standards—one that gently closed a door before it ever opened.

Time, however, has a curious way of circling back. Over the years, invitations and requests to provide services here have drifted my way, as persistent as the evening breeze that moves through the gums. And yet, I find myself declining, not out of resentment, but from a quiet shift in purpose. I have come to prefer observing Maldon rather than working within it—studying its contours through the lens, not the clinic. These days, I arrive only with a camera, drawn more to its stories than its needs.

Maldon itself is a place where history does not lie dormant; it glows softly beneath the surface like embers of an old fire. During the gold-mining era of the 1850s, this was a town alive with feverish promise. Its hills, now calm and draped in native scrub, once rang with the clatter of picks and the rumble of quartz-crushing batteries. Tents rose like temporary dreams, shops and hotels sprang up overnight, and fortunes were made or shattered in the dust of a single day. The goldfields carved the character of Maldon—its wide verandahs, its brick shopfronts, its still-standing chimneys—and left behind a heritage precinct now cherished for its rare preservation.

By daylight, the remnants of that past lie scattered across the landscape: abandoned shafts, rusted machinery, and slopes reshaped by human determination. But under the night sky, these relics recede into silhouette, and Maldon returns to a kind of primordial quiet, older even than the gold rush. It becomes a meeting place of eras—the ancient light above and the colonial history below, with my camera simply bearing witness.

So I wander through the town not as a clinician, nor as a would-be specialist, but as someone content to capture what remains when ambition has faded: the curve of a starlit street, the loneliness of an old mining headframe, the way the Milky Way spills over Maldon as though blessing both the glory of its past and the gentle obscurity of its present. Photography, here, feels like the truest work I can offer.

Sony A7RV

FE 16-35mm f2.8 GM

Linking Skywatch Friday

Bi Shan Yan Temple, Neihu, Taipei for Sign2

 

I have shared photographs of this temple before, and now I have posted a few new ones. It stands not far from where I once lived in Taipei, a familiar presence along the mountainside. This place is woven tightly into my childhood memory. I often climbed the mountain with my father, step by step, until the red roof of the temple came into view. Those walks were quiet lessons in patience and wonder, the air scented with earth, incense, and the faint echo of bells drifting on the wind.

The first sign simply reads Bi Shan Yan — just that. Yet the name carries the weight of centuries.

Bi Shan Yan sits on a high ridge overlooking the basin below, a vantage point that feels both protective and timeless. Its origins stretch back to the early years of settlement, when a small shrine was first erected on the rocky slope. What began as a modest shelter of stone gradually grew into a full temple complex as generations added halls, terraces, and carved adornments. Over the years it has been rebuilt after storms, expanded by devoted hands, and shaped by the quiet resilience of the community around it.

The temple is dedicated to the revered protector known as the Kaizhang Holy King, a guardian spirit brought from the Fujian region by early migrants. His two loyal generals stand at his side, their presence carved into wood and stone with the solemnity of old devotion. These figures have watched over the hills and valleys for centuries, their legends mingling with the land itself.

Approaching the temple, one passes through a long ascent of stone steps, each bordered by greenery that shifts with the seasons — cherry blossoms in spring, thick shade in summer, the clear sharpness of winter air. The architecture is richly layered: sweeping rooflines adorned with dragons and phoenixes, bright ceramic tiles catching the sun, and columns carved with scenes from myth. The incense coils inside burn slowly, releasing a soft haze that turns the light golden.

From the upper terrace, Taipei stretches out like a living map — rivers winding, buildings rising, mountains holding the horizon. At night, the city becomes a tapestry of lights, and the temple feels like a silent guardian set high above the world.

For me, Bi Shan Yan is not merely a historic site but a place where memory settles gently. Each visit recalls those childhood climbs with my father, the warmth of his hand guiding me, the sense of arrival when the temple finally appeared above the trees. It remains a place where history and personal memory meet — steady, enduring, and filled with the quiet beauty of the past living on in the present.

Sony A7RV

FE 20-70mm f4 G

Linking Sign2

Kisume continued for Treasure Tuesday

 

Ocean Trout sashimi cured 

Gold leaf wrapped toro 

Caviar on top of Merrin 

Wasabi sorbet with water squash 

Blue cod stew

Beef sukiyaki 

I did not manage to share all the photographs from my birthday celebration with Joel last week. The evening unfolded in a gentle crescendo, each of the thirteen dishes arriving as though part of a carefully choreographed feast—small artworks set before us in steady rhythm. I have now posted a handful of those images, fragments of a night where candlelight, conversation, and culinary abundance combined to form a quiet tapestry of contentment. The colours, the steam rising from warm plates, the hushed clatter of cutlery—each detail returns to me with a soft, lingering clarity, as though the celebration still flickers in the background of my days.

In the week that followed, life settled into a muted cadence. Nothing much stirred in the realm of hobbies or personal pursuits; the air felt still, as though the world had briefly paused to inhale. My mind drifted between tasks without urgency or direction, finding its anchor instead in the gentle company of three Netflix series. They filled the silent hours with borrowed stories, their episodes weaving themselves into the margins of my evenings.

There was something almost consoling in that simplicity—in allowing myself to be carried along by the quiet, by narrative instead of activity, by rest instead of aspiration. It was a week both unremarkable and tender, shaped not by accomplishments but by the ease of letting the days unfold exactly as they wished.

Sony A7RV

FE 16mm f1.8 

Linking Treasure Tuesday

More Light ups in Lightscape Melbourne for Sign2

 

Knowing it will be rather demanding to begin anew in an interstate post, I have taken the liberty of preparing this entry ahead of time, so that my small rituals of regular posting may continue uninterrupted. We all harbour our gentle obsessions, and mine—flickers of beauty caught between work and travel—seem to follow me like familiar constellations.

In the midst of these preoccupations, my thoughts often return to Lightscape, where the night itself becomes a gallery and the earth a living canvas. There, luminous pathways wind through shadowed gardens, and the air hums with quiet enchantment. Most arresting are the installations inspired by Aboriginal culture: towering totems glowing with ancestral colours, their forms rising like spirits of country, guiding the wanderer with a dignified, ancient presence. They stand as eloquent testaments to stories older than memory—symbols of kinship, land, and the unseen forces that thread through all living things.

Thus, even as I step into the busyness of unfamiliar work and distant horizons, I hold close these moments of contemplative light—reminders that art, tradition, and wonder accompany me wherever I am compelled to go.

Sony A7RV

FE 135mm f1.8 GM

Linking Sign2

Kisume Birthday Dinner for Treasure Tuesday

 

My cocktail before the meals 

Toro sandwich 

Sea Urchin in egg chawan 

4 different sorts of fish nigiri 

There are, in all, thirteen dishes in the course — thirteen small revelations arriving one after another like chapters in a quietly extravagant tale. Each plate is a whisper of colour and temperature, of textures that startle gently and flavours that linger as if unwilling to leave. The food is, quite simply, exquisite: composed with the kind of precision that feels effortless, and yet carries the unmistakable weight of deep craft. And surprisingly, almost disarmingly, it is priced with a humility rare in a city where fine dining often comes wrapped in hauteur.

What elevated the evening, though, was the chef’s table at Kisumé in Melbourne — that slender crescent of seats where you are close enough to see the breath of the kitchen as it moves. From there, you witness not just cooking but choreography: knife flashes, a small brush painting soy across a gleaming fillet, a bowl lifted and turned as though it were something delicate and living. The chefs speak softly among themselves, attentive to rhythm and timing, but every now and then one catches your eye and offers a quiet explanation of a garnish or a coastal origin of a fish no larger than your palm.

You taste the ocean in a curl of sashimi, the smoke of a charcoal kiss in a morsel barely warm, the brightness of sudden citrus over rice that has been coaxed into perfect tenderness. The sequence feels intimate — a series of personal offerings from people who love their craft without ceremony or arrogance. Time slows. The restaurant hums dimly behind you, but at the chef’s table you inhabit a small world of clarity and intent, where the boundary between diner and maker dissolves.

When the final dish arrived — the thirteenth note of the evening — it felt more like a benediction than an ending. I left Kisumé with that quiet fullness one experiences only after meals that feed both hunger and imagination, grateful for a night that was not merely delicious, but deeply, surprisingly memorable.

Sony A7RV

FE 16mm f1.8 GM

Linking Treasure Tuesday

Lightscape Melbourne for Sign2

 

Each winter, Joel and I make our annual pilgrimage to Lightscape Melbourne, a festival that transforms the Royal Botanic Gardens into a luminous wonderland. This year’s edition, running from 20 June to 10 August, stretches along a 2‑kilometre winding trail through the gardens, where every step reveals a new marvel of light and color.

We wander beneath glowing floral canopies, through neon-lit tunnels, and past shimmering “Effervescence” carpets, cameras in hand, capturing moments where art and nature intertwine. Interactive installations respond to sound and movement, while reflections dance across the garden lakes, offering endless opportunities for striking compositions. Even the simplest of lights—an illuminated stem here, a glowing petal there—possess a quiet charm that draws the eye and rewards patient observation.

For photographers like us, Lightscape is more than a festival; it is a playground of luminous textures, shadowed pathways, and ephemeral beauty. Joel, ever the devoted heavy metal fan, occasionally pauses to imagine the lights pulsing in rhythm with a driving guitar riff, while I linger, chasing the perfect reflection on the water or the fleeting glow of a neon tunnel. Warm drinks in hand, we move through this nocturnal garden, grateful for the magical interplay of light, art, and winter night air.

Sony A7RV

FE 135mm f1.8 GM

Linking Sign2

Old Vintage Hardware Store in Maldon at night for Skywatch Friday

 

This photograph was taken several years ago. The tungsten street lighting along the roadside proved a formidable obstacle to achieving a proper long-exposure capture of the Milky Way. As can be seen, the galactic core appears somewhat distorted, and the roadside sign bears an intense orange-yellow hue that disrupts the serenity of the scene. In post-processing, I was compelled to subdue the colour saturation almost entirely. Perhaps a monochrome rendering might better preserve the atmospheric quality of the composition.

Yet, despite its technical imperfections, the image remains a cherished memory. I would not now venture into the quiet hours of the night to attempt such a shot again—too great the risk of passing traffic or untoward encounters on those dim country roads.

The scene was taken near the old hardware store in Maldon, Victoria—a fine relic of the gold rush era. Established in the late nineteenth century, its timber façade and pressed metal signage speak of a time when craftsmanship and commerce flourished hand in hand. The store once supplied miners and settlers with shovels, nails, and kerosene lamps—tools that built not only homes but entire communities. Even now, its weathered walls stand as a reminder of Maldon’s industrious past, the first town in Australia to be officially classified by the National Trust for its historical significance.

Thus, the photograph—though imperfect in exposure—captures more than the night sky: it holds a fragment of history, both personal and regional, where the stars and the spirit of an old goldfields town meet in quiet dialogue.

Sony A7RV

FE 16-35mm f2.8 GM

Linking Skywatch Friday

Sidney at night for Sign2

 

During my visit to Sydney in May this year, I found myself captivated by the quiet poetry of the city’s nocturnal signs. Each evening, I wandered alone through its luminous streets — a gentle form of walk therapy, where movement and solitude met in quiet accord. The first and second photographs were taken at the Estée Lauder light-up event — a touch theatrical, perhaps, yet undeniably radiant against the cool night air. The third captured an aged warehouse sign near Chinatown, its faded letters whispering of another era. The final image revealed the grand entrance of Luna Park, aglow beneath the stars, where nostalgia and laughter seem forever suspended in the shimmer of electric light.

Sony A7RV

FE 20-70mm f4 G

Linking Sign 2

Maldon Milkyway Sky for Sky watch Friday

 

I once shared a vision of the Milky Way above this quiet township, and now I offer another—its silver arc stretching across the heavens, with the glow of an old shop sign below. This is Maldon, Victoria, where time seems to linger in the stones and timber. In the gold-digging days of the nineteenth century, the town pulsed with restless hope, as seekers from distant lands pressed their hands into the soil in search of fortune. Though the fever of those years has long since passed, the streets remain adorned with weathered facades, each one a relic of dreams pursued. Beneath the eternal canopy of stars, Maldon keeps its vigil, a place where the sky whispers to the earth, and history breathes gently through the night air.

Sony A7RIV

FE 14mm f1.8 GM

Linking Sky watch friday

Melbourne Wheel and neon signs on South Bank for Sign2

 

Night falls over Southbank, and the city transforms. The high-rise towers along the riverbank begin to glow from within, their windows lit in squares and strips of amber, white, sometimes warmer yellows, occasionally a cool blue or green. Some windows are full; others only partially illuminated. Their light spills out onto the Yarra below in shimmering reflections — a mosaic of brightness dancing on the ripples.

Along the Southbank Promenade, street lamps and decorative lighting trace the edges of walkways, railings, and trees, giving form to the river’s edge. The softer glow of these lamps contrasts with the intense brightness of the office towers and apartments. There is also a fairytale quality to it — the river acts as a mirror, doubling the spectacle and blurring the boundary between built structure and reflection.

Sony A7RV

FE 20-70mm f4 G

Linking Sign2

Maldon Milkyway sky for Sunday Best

 

Maldon, situated not far from Bendigo, which I often regard as my second home, is a town of vintage charm and historic resonance. By night, the township lies beneath a deep and pervasive darkness, its obscurity relieved only by the faint glow of a few tungsten lamps in the town centre. These lights, though serviceable to the passer-by, are oft resented by photographers, for the colour cast of tungsten is notoriously harsh and unflattering to the delicate sensitivity of the modern camera sensor.

In my own practice of nocturnal photography, I have adopted a particular method of image refinement. For it is a truth, seldom appreciated outside the circles of those who employ a star tracker, that the core of the Milky Way is ablaze with natural hues—crimson, gold, and azure—wrought by the very physics of interstellar gas and dust. Without such aid, these colours often appear subdued, but with patience and careful editing they may yet be revealed in their original splendour.

The town of Maldon itself bears a history no less luminous than the heavens above it. Proclaimed in 1853 amidst the tumult of the Victorian gold rush, Maldon swiftly prospered as miners from near and far sought their fortunes in its quartz reefs. By the mid-nineteenth century, the town was adorned with banks, churches, and fine public houses, their stout masonry and wrought-iron embellishments testifying to both wealth and permanence. Unlike many goldfield settlements that withered when their veins were exhausted, Maldon endured, and in later years became renowned as Australia’s first “notable town” formally classified by the National Trust in 1966, a recognition of its remarkably preserved streetscape of Victorian architecture.

Thus, Maldon is at once a relic of human endeavour and ambition, and a stage upon which the eternal drama of the cosmos may be observed. Its dimly lit lanes, untroubled by the clamour of modern neon, afford the night sky a rare purity—an inheritance both from its miners of old, and from the silence of the stars that wheel above.

Sony A7RV

FE 16-35mm f2.8 GM

Linking Sunday Best

West Gate Park Melbourne for Treasure Tuesday

 

We had initially set our sights on Sandridge Bridge, intending to capture the city skyline at sunset. Much to our surprise and disappointment, the entire area had been cordoned off, denying us access. Undeterred, we sought an alternative vantage point that might render the excursion worthwhile. We turned our course towards Westgate Park, only to discover that it too was undergoing extensive construction works—an added frustration.

Nonetheless, perseverance led us to a suitable spot from which to photograph the twilight. The gentle hues of dusk, softened by the encroaching night, provided some consolation.

Westgate Park itself, situated along the banks of the Yarra River beneath the West Gate Bridge, has long served as a haven for birdlife and city dwellers alike. Once a barren expanse of industrial wasteland, it was transformed during the 1980s as part of Melbourne’s urban greening initiatives. The park is especially known for its striking pink lake—a seasonal natural phenomenon caused by the proliferation of salt-loving algae under specific climatic conditions.

The current redevelopment seeks to enhance visitor access, restore native habitats, and improve ecological sustainability. Though temporarily inaccessible, it promises to return as an even more vibrant urban refuge.

Our evening concluded at a nearby Japanese restaurant, where we sought comfort in freshly pan-fried gyoza. Joel, in high spirits, treated himself to a small carafe of sake—rounding off a day that, though unplanned in its course, retained its moments of charm and reward.

Sony A7RV

FE 20-70mm f4 G

Linking Treasure Tuesday

Piangil Night Sky with light painting for Skywatch Friday

 

Piangil lies approximately half an hour’s drive beyond Swan Hill in Victoria, situated near the threshold of the Australian outback. A modest rural locality surrounded by flat open farmland and distant horizon lines, it offers a profound stillness, especially under the vast dome of the night sky. This particular photograph was taken several years ago, during a period when I was deeply passionate about the art of light painting. At that time, I did not hesitate to rise in the small hours of the night, load the car with equipment, and make the journey into such remote reaches for the sake of a single frame of long-exposure magic.

How times have changed. These days, I find myself lacking the same energy or will to embark on such nocturnal expeditions. Age, it seems, makes its presence known not with fanfare but with small surrenders.

The lens I used then—a Laowa 12mm f/2.8, prized for its rectilinear precision and remarkable field of view—was sold a year later at a price that exceeded its original retail value. I remain mystified by the ways of eBay buyers; why one would pay more for a secondhand item than simply purchase it new from a reputable dealer escapes my understanding. Yet such are the strange economies of online marketplaces.

Sony A7RV

Laowa 12mm f2.8 

Linking Skywatch Friday