Inverloch Cave Gippsland for Skywatch Friday

 

A severe heatwave has settled across Australia, rendering the sun not merely oppressive but actively hazardous. The air itself seems to press downward with weight and glare, driving people indoors in search of shelter. My friend Joel, currently holidaying in New South Wales, has found his respite reduced to retreat; even leisure demands concealment, and the motel room becomes a necessary refuge rather than a convenience. News broadcasts underline the extremity with almost surreal demonstrations—eggs reportedly boiling in a saucepan left beneath the open sky—an image both faintly absurd and deeply unsettling, emblematic of a climate moment that borders on the unreal.

Against this backdrop of heat and confinement, the image at hand offers a contrasting meditation on endurance and restraint. It depicts one of the remaining sea caves at Inverloch that has not yet succumbed to collapse. At high tide, this cave is ordinarily submerged, claimed by seawater and shadow. Here, however, the perspective is from within the cave, looking outward—a framing that emphasises both shelter and exposure, enclosure and release. The rock walls bear the quiet authority of geological time, shaped patiently by water and pressure, indifferent to the urgencies that dominate human experience.

The photograph itself is the product of multiple stacking, a technique that lends depth and clarity while softening the transient. This method mirrors the subject matter: layers accumulated over time, each contributing to a single, coherent form. The resulting image feels less like a moment seized and more like a duration distilled, as though the cave has briefly agreed to reveal its inner stillness.

In a season defined by excess—of heat, of light, of urgency—this image stands as a study in measured survival. The cave endures not by resisting the sea, but by yielding to it rhythmically, disappearing and re-emerging with the tides. It reminds us that persistence is not always loud or triumphant; sometimes it is quiet, shadowed, and patient, waiting for the waters to recede and the light to return at an oblique, bearable angle.

Sony A7RV

FE 16-35mm f2.8 GM

Linking Skywatch Friday

Bridgewater Bay Sunset Blairgowrie for Skywatch Friday

 

This, the final frame, was taken ere I departed the bay, ere darkness fell and made perilous the walk upon the exposed sea-floor. Bridgewater Bay, with its sands laid bare by the retiring tide, bears the memory of countless ages—fishermen of old, skiffs gliding over these waters, and the early settlers of Blairgowrie, who first tamed these shores. Even as the light waned, the gentle murmur of the sea seemed to recount their stories, and I lingered, mindful of the history written in every ripple and grain of sand. 

Sony A7RV

FE 20-70mm f4 G

Linking Skywatch Friday

More infrared images from Bridgewater Bay Blairgowrie for Treasure Tuesday

 

In continuation of the Sunday post, I have shared three images from Bridgewater Bay, Blairgowrie, including the renowned arch for which the location is famed. Victoria is home to three Bridgewater Bays, yet this particular one remains the most readily accessible from suburban Melbourne.

Joel had his compact camera modified to capture infrared at a wavelength of 720 nanometres, while I entrusted my Sony A7RIV to conversion at 520 nanometres—a process that cost approximately seven hundred Australian dollars and required three months to complete. Though I acknowledge the expense and delay, I found myself more drawn to the aesthetic of the 500-nanometre wavelength, whose results possess a strikingly unconventional and almost otherworldly character.

I visit Bridgewater Bay with such frequency that I welcome variation in its portrayal; indeed, the coloured renditions captured on that day, close to Christmas, proved particularly remarkable.

Of particular note, the residence depicted in the third image commands a market value exceeding ten million dollars—a striking testament to the extraordinary ‘sea change’ phenomenon and the remarkable surge in coastal property values.

Sony A7RIV

infra red converted

FE 16mm f1.8 GM

Linking Treasure Tuesday

Montforts Beach Blairgowries for Skywatch Friday

 

It was only a quick shot, taken mid-ascent as I climbed the stairs toward the carpark, already half turned toward home. Yet the moment held me. The sky had thickened into a dense yellow, as if the light itself had been steeped too long, heavy and saturated. Below, the sea breathed upward, its air swollen with moisture, rich and almost tangible, clinging to skin and clothing alike.

Everything felt suspended in that brief pause between leaving and lingering—the day not quite finished, the weather not yet broken. The stairs rose behind me, the ocean remained at my back, and the world seemed steeped in colour and breath, quietly insisting on being noticed before I went.

Sony A7RV

FE 20-70mm f4 G

Linking Skywatch Friday

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

Flinders Blowhole coast Mornington Peninsula for Water H2O Thursday

 

At Flinders Blowhole, the coast feels ancient and untamed, a place where the continent seems to breathe through its fissures. Along the wild edge of Cape Schanck on the Mornington Peninsula, the sea is never still; it coils and uncoils in restless whirls, slipping into crevices and exploding upward in sudden white plumes. The rocks—dark, jagged, and uncompromising—stand like the exposed bones of the earth, their edges sharp-pointed and raw, shaped by millennia of wind, salt, and ceaseless surf.

In the golden hour, the landscape softens but never surrenders its power. Light pours over the volcanic basalt headlands, catching on each facet as though the cliffs were lit from within. The blowhole itself pulses with the tide, inhaling the ocean’s force and releasing it in rhythmic bursts, as if reciting a story older than language. Shadows lengthen across the headland, and the sky takes on that fleeting hue between fire and dusk—an amber wash that gilds the furious motion of the sea.

Cape Schanck’s natural history is written into every cliff line and cove. Formed from ancient volcanic activity, the peninsula’s southern tip bears the hallmark of its fiery origins: basalt columns, fractured plateaus, and boulders that seem to have been flung into place by some prehistoric force. Over thousands of years, wind and waves carved the coast into its present rugged form, sculpting the blowhole where the sea funnels through a narrow passage and erupts against the stone.

The surrounding scrublands—windswept coastal tea-tree, hardy grasses, and pockets of low heath—cling to the slopes with stubborn resilience. This is a landscape accustomed to extremes: fierce summer heat, winter storms that lash straight from the Southern Ocean, and salt spray that coats every living surface. Sea birds wheel above the cliffs, taking advantage of the updrafts, while beneath them the waves roar against the chasm, grinding stone into sand grain by grain.

To stand here in the last light of day is to witness a meeting of elements in their purest form—rock, sea, and sky in an eternal conversation. Flinders Blowhole at golden hour becomes not just a viewpoint but a living theatre of the Mornington Peninsula’s deep natural history, lit briefly in gold before surrendering to the blue hush of evening.

Sony A7RV

FE 20-70mm f4 G

Linking Water H2O Thursday

Flinders Blowhole Melbourne for Treasure Tuesday

 

I haven’t visited this place for some time, and yet Flinders Blowhole at Cape Schanck greets me as though no days have passed. The rugged coastline stretches in quiet defiance against the ceaseless surge of the Southern Ocean, and in the distance, a solitary, large rock rises like a sentinel over the restless waters. Each wave that rushes forward tumbles over its surface, forming a miniature waterfall that never ceases, a constant, shimmering cascade that mirrors the relentless heartbeat of the sea.

As the sun leans toward the horizon, the golden hour bathes everything in its tender, amber glow. The light catches each droplet, turning spray into scattered sparks, and sets the rock aglow with a warmth that belies the ocean’s chill. Shadows lengthen across the sand and jagged cliffs, and the sound of the surf—deep, rhythmic, and insistent—fills the air with a meditative cadence.

There is a quiet poetry in the way nature balances motion and stillness here: the steadfast rock, the ever-moving water, the sky’s fleeting palette of gold and rose. Each moment feels suspended, as if time itself slows to honor the simple, profound beauty of the scene. I linger, drawn by the hypnotic rhythm of waves and light, feeling both small and infinite in the embrace of Cape Schanck’s wild, luminous edge.

Sony A7RV

FE 20-70mm f4 G

Linking Treasure Tuesday

Pulpit Rock Cape Schanck for Sunday Best

 

It has been a long while since I last found myself here. These are a few frames gathered earlier in the year, moments I never quite managed to share until now. Returning to them feels a little like returning to the cliff’s edge itself—wind-washed, salt-stung, and alive with the ancient pulse of the coast.

Pulpit Rock at Cape Schanck rises where Bass Strait exhales against the Mornington Peninsula, its basalt columns forged from volcanic fire long before any eye beheld them. The land here was shaped by eruptions millions of years ago, when lava cooled into dark, rugged stone that now stands like an altar to the restless sea. Beneath it, the waters swirl in ceaseless ceremony, carving, smoothing, and reshaping the shoreline with patient force.

Walking the boardwalk and tracing the steps down toward the rock, you feel the story of the headland underfoot—its long geological memory, its storms, its calm blue intervals, its steady endurance. These images carry traces of that place: the raw grandeur, the deep time etched into every cliff face, and the way the horizon always seems to pull a little farther into the unknown.

Perhaps that’s why I return, even after long absences. The land remembers, and the sea keeps speaking.

Sony A7RV

FE 20-70mm f4 G

Linking Sunday Best

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

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

Vivid Signs light up Sydney for Sign2

 

These photographs, taken during my visit to Sydney in May this year, capture moments I had not yet shared — fragments of a city transformed beneath the luminous spell of Vivid Sydney. Each evening, as twilight descended upon the harbour, the city awakened into a living tableau of light and imagination.

The familiar landmarks of Sydney assumed an otherworldly grandeur. The Opera House, that timeless symbol of grace and geometry, stood resplendent as its sails came alive with shifting hues and intricate projections — a celestial dance of pattern and story. Images of oceanic depths, constellations, and dreamlike abstractions swept across its curved façade, as though the building itself drew breath from the tides below.

Along the harbour’s edge, the spectacle deepened. Sculptures and installations of light rose from the darkness, some bold in stature, others delicate as whispers. Neon phrases glowed like poetry suspended in air, while radiant structures pulsed and shimmered in measured rhythm to unseen music. Even the most familiar forms — the bridge, the quay, the promenade — seemed reborn, veiled in an ethereal luminance that rendered the ordinary sublime.

The city skyline itself became a symphony of colour and reflection. Towers mirrored the hues of the harbour, and the water carried back those same tones, multiplying the beauty until it seemed the heavens had descended to mingle with the sea.

Crowds moved as one body through the illuminated avenues — children with faces upturned, couples strolling hand in hand, and solitary wanderers pausing in reverent stillness. There was, in that mingling of light and humanity, a rare harmony: the sense that for a brief season, Sydney had transcended its material self to become a city of pure light, where art, architecture, and imagination converged in radiant accord.

Sony A7RV

FE 20-70mm f4 G

Linking Sign2

Bunurong Coast Cave for Treasure Tuesday

 

This sea cave along the Bunurong Coast has long since collapsed, its vault surrendered to the sea. Looking back, I am grateful to have captured its likeness when it still stood—through the wide and wondering eye of my beloved Laowa 9mm f/5.6 lens. There is a certain dreamlike distortion in that image, as though the rocks themselves breathed and swayed beneath the ocean’s spell.

The Bunurong Coast, stretching eastward from Inverloch toward Cape Paterson in southern Victoria, bears the ancient imprint of time and tide. Its cliffs, carved from Cretaceous sandstone, reveal layers of the earth’s deep past—here, the footprints of dinosaurs once pressed into mud more than a hundred million years ago; there, fossils of giant ferns whispering of the age before man. Long before European discovery, this rugged shoreline was home to the Bunurong people of the Kulin Nation, who lived in harmony with its rhythms. They fished its rock pools, gathered shellfish from its tidal flats, and told stories of creation woven with the waves and wind.

Today the coast remains a place of austere beauty—where history, both human and geological, converges in the song of the surf. Though the cave itself has fallen, its spirit endures in memory and in the photograph: a fleeting vision of what once was, suspended between earth and sea, and rendered eternal by the lens.

Sony A7RV

Laowa 9mm f5.6 

Linking Treasure Tuesday

Valley in San Remo Gippsland for Sunday Best

 

All was green and veiled in mist, the soft radiance of the golden hour diffusing gently through the fog. The air shimmered with that rare union of stillness and light — when the day seems to pause between breath and memory. I lingered there on a Friday afternoon, content simply to witness the quiet splendour of San Remo, Gippsland — where sea and land speak in whispers.

This tranquil place rests upon the traditional lands of the Bunurong people of the Kulin Nation, whose ancestors walked these shores long before the tides carried new names to them. The cliffs, the grasses, and the mists all hold the memory of their presence — stories of fishing grounds, gathering places, and sacred connections that endure beyond time.

Amid the drifting fog and soft gleam of the sinking sun, it felt as though the land itself remembered — its ancient rhythm still pulsing beneath the calm green surface, inviting reflection and quiet reverence.

Sony A7RV

FE 20-70mm f4 G

Linking Sunday Best

Sierra Nevada Rocks in Portsea for Skywatch Friday

 

I realise there is only a small portion of sky visible in this photograph, yet it still fits within the theme. This image was captured during a period when I was completely fascinated by my ultra-wide 9mm Laowa lens. I was captivated by its ability to exaggerate perspective and include vast surroundings within a single frame, and I found myself experimenting with it in all sorts of situations.

This particular shot was taken at the Portsea sea caves on the Mornington Peninsula, Melbourne. These coastal formations, sculpted over centuries by relentless waves and wind, are renowned for their rugged beauty and dramatic textures. The interplay of light filtering through the cave openings and the reflections from the ocean create a mesmerising scene—one that challenges any photographer to balance composition, exposure, and timing. Creativity should certainly count for something, especially when working in such dynamic and unpredictable natural settings.

Sony A7RV

Laowa 9mm f5.6 

Linking Skywatch Friday

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

Princes Pier Pylon Port Melbourne for Treasure Tuesday

 

The photograph was taken at Port Melbourne’s historic Princes Pier, though not during the golden hour that so often bathes the sea in honeyed light. Rather, it was a spontaneous shot—one of those unplanned moments that arise when the day’s itinerary dissolves and the camera remain the only faithful companion. Joel and I had wandered aimlessly that afternoon, having run out of places to go, when the glimmer of light on the water caught my eye. The air was mild, tinged with the scent of salt and timber, and the long-weathered pylons stood solemnly like sentinels of the past. I pressed the shutter almost absentmindedly, more out of habit than expectation. Yet, to my astonishment, that very image would later win a prize in a national photography competition. It felt strange and humbling that a fleeting, almost casual moment could be recognized amidst so many crafted works.

Afterwards, Joel and I drove to St Kilda, that lively seaside district known for its old amusement pier and cosmopolitan charm. We found a small souvlaki joint tucked between the shops, the sort of place that greets you with the aroma of grilled lamb and oregano before you even step inside. The lamb chops were extraordinarily juicy, glistening with their own fat, charred just enough to release a whisper of smoke. We ate in companionable silence, watching the slow descent of twilight over the esplanade—the sea turning from steel to violet, the city lights beginning their nightly shimmer.

In retrospect, that day feels like a quiet meditation on chance and reward—the way beauty can appear without warning, and how memory often attaches itself to the simplest acts: a photograph taken without intention, a meal shared without ceremony. Princes Pier, in its weathered grace, seemed to speak of time’s patient endurance, the lamb in St Kilda, of life’s earthy pleasures. Between them lay the essence of the day—an unassuming harmony between art, friendship, and the small felicities that make an ordinary afternoon unforgettable.

Sony A7RV

FE 16-35mm f2.8 GM

Linking Treasure Tuesday

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