Infra-Red Sierra Navada Rocks at Portsea Melbourne for Treasure Tuesday

 

Looking back through the archive felt like walking a quiet trail through time, each image a footprint from journeys taken without any intention to impress, only to remember. Joel and I wandered with our cameras the way others might wander with conversation, letting light and landscape fill the spaces of our shared silence. Those photographs were never trophies; they were small, private fragments of place and moment, gathered from ridgelines, river bends, and wind-cut passes where the world seemed briefly ours alone.

The infrared series from the Sierra Nevada once struck me as strange and unappealing, their tones inverted, their colours unfamiliar. Yet with distance, they have grown luminous. In that altered spectrum, the granite spine of the range reveals a different truth. Ancient batholiths rise in pale monoliths, their coarse crystals forged deep underground and lifted skyward over millions of years. Glacial valleys carve broad U-shaped troughs between the peaks, remnants of ice rivers that once ground the rock into polished domes and sharp arêtes. Moraines lie like frozen waves along the slopes, and high cirques cradle tarns that mirror the thin alpine sky.

Under infrared light, the forests blaze ghost-white as chlorophyll reflects what the eye cannot see, while the heavens darken to near obsidian. Meadows soften into silver plains threaded by meltwater streams, and the fractured faces of the cliffs stand out in stark relief, every joint and fissure etched with geologic memory. What once felt alien now feels revelatory: a reminder that the land holds more layers than ordinary sight allows, and that returning to old images can uncover landscapes we never realised we had already seen.

Sony A7RIV

FE 24mm f1.4 GM

Linking Treasure Tuesday

Bridgewater Bay Blairgowrie revisit for Water H2O Thursday

 

Bridgewater Bay at low tide reveals itself as a quiet benediction to those who look closely. As the sea withdraws, the shoreline lengthens and the bay exhales, uncovering a broad intertidal canvas where light, stone, and water enter into a slow and deliberate conversation. For photographers, this brief interval is a gift: the land pauses between immersion and exposure, offering forms and textures usually kept beneath the surface.

Here, the geology speaks with particular clarity. The ancient limestone platforms, shaped over millennia by the patient abrasion of Southern Ocean swells, emerge as pale, sculptural planes. Their surfaces are etched with fissures, shallow pools, and scalloped edges—evidence of long erosion and periodic collapse. These calcarenite formations, born of compacted marine sediments and shell fragments, carry the memory of a time when this coast lay submerged under warmer seas. At low tide, they stand exposed and vulnerable, momentarily reclaimed by the air and the sun.

The rock pools become small, reflective worlds in themselves, holding fragments of sky and drifting cloud. Seaweed clings to the stone in muted greens and rusted reds, softening the hard geometry of the rock. The water, now stilled and shallow, behaves less like an ocean and more like a mirror, catching the changing angle of light and returning it with gentleness. Every step across the platform requires attentiveness; the ground is uneven, alive with detail, and quietly insistent on respect.

Both Joel and I found ourselves moving slowly, unhurried, as if the landscape demanded a different measure of time. The camera became less an instrument of capture and more a means of listening. Each frame felt earned—shaped by the tide’s retreat, the low winter sun, and the restrained palette of the Mornington Peninsula coast. There was no need for spectacle; the power of Bridgewater Bay lies in its restraint.

When the tide eventually turns and the sea advances once more, the limestone will disappear beneath the water, and the bay will resume its familiar outline. Yet for those who have walked it at low tide, the memory lingers: a sense of having witnessed the coast in a more intimate state, where geology, light, and human attention briefly align.

Sony A7RV

FE 20-70mm f4 G

Linking Water H2O Thursday

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

Charlton town with Avoca River for Treasure Tuesday

 

The Avoca River has known both erasure and excess. There were years when its bed lay bare, a pale ribbon of stones and dust, the water reduced to memory and promise. At other times it has risen without restraint, spreading across paddocks and roads, reminding regional Victoria that absence is never permanent and that return can be forceful.

I had intended to stop in town, to step inside the renowned heritage general store where time is measured in ledgers and worn timber floors. Instead, the river detained me. Beneath the bridge, I paused, and there the Avoca offered something quieter. Trees leaned toward the water, their reflections drawn long and patient, doubling themselves in the slow current. Eucalypts, hardened by drought and fire, softened in the mirror below, leaves trembling between sky and stream.

This river is an old traveller. Rising in the Pyrenees, it winds north through box-ironbark country, sustaining red gums, reeds, and the careful lives of birds that wait for water as others wait for seasons. Long before bridges and stores, it shaped paths for people and animals alike, a corridor of nourishment in a land that demands resilience. Even now, its flow is uncertain, shaped by rain, heat, and the long human habit of taking more than is returned.

Standing there, camera lifted, I understood why the Avoca refuses to be merely useful. It dries, it floods, it pauses in reflective stillness. Under the bridge, with trees duplicated in its surface, the river held both its history and its warning: that survival here has always been an act of patience, and that beauty often appears when plans are gently undone.

Sony A7RV

FE 20-70mm f4 G

Linking Treasure Tuesday

South Bank Melbourne for Sign2

 

I have posted these two images on the other blog of mine Melbourne Street Photography

Both images were first taken in monochrome, their shadows and silences doing all the speaking. Yet earlier today, with time to spare before the cardiology conference at the Stamford Plaza, I wandered along South Bank in Melbourne and felt the city nudge me toward colour again. The river moved with its usual unhurried grace, reflecting fragments of sky and skyline; the breeze carried the faint scent of roasted coffee from nearby cafés; and the footsteps of passers-by echoed softly along the promenade like a gentle counterpoint to the hum of trams and traffic beyond.

On a whim, I decided to give the photographs a muted colour treatment—just enough for the tones to breathe without losing the quiet dignity of their original monochrome form. The results surprised me. Soft washes of colour settled into the images like memories returning after a long absence: the subdued blues of the Yarra, the mellow greys of the paved walkway, the faintest warmth in the late-morning light. What once felt stark now carries a subtle tenderness, a kind of understated calm that pleases the eye and lingers in the mind.

As I stood by the river, watching the city move at its own measured pace, I realised how these gentle hues mirror the mood of the day—unrushed, contemplative, suspended somewhere between duty and leisure. The photographs now hold that feeling too, quietly echoing the simple pleasure of a solitary stroll along South Bank before the formalities ahead.

Sony A7RV

FE 14mm f1.8 GM

Linking Sign2

Stingray Bay Warrnambool sunset for Skywatch Friday

 

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

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

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

Sony A7RV

FE 20-70mm f4 G

Linking Skywatch Friday

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 Tyrrell Sky Mirror for Skywatch Friday

 

In the fleeting minutes of twilight, just before Lake Tyrrell succumbs to complete darkness, there occurs a moment of rare and ethereal beauty. Beneath a cloudless sky, the lake’s surface reflects a magnificent wash of pink and violet hues, as if the heavens themselves have descended to meet the earth. This phenomenon—revered by many and often referred to as the "sky mirror"—is among the lake’s most iconic and mesmerising scenes.

I have been fortunate to capture numerous such moments, preserving in photographs the tranquil majesty of this place. There exist a few secret vantage points just off the Salts Road track, where the reflections are particularly vivid and the view unobstructed. Yet, the terrain here can be unforgiving. Vehicles often find themselves marooned, their wheels sunk deep into the treacherous mud that lies hidden beneath the salt-encrusted surface.

Lake Tyrrell, whose name derives from the Boorong word for “sky,” is not only a site of visual splendour but also of profound cultural heritage. The Boorong people, part of the Wergaia nation, have long regarded this lake as a sacred space. For millennia, they have observed the stars and mapped the heavens from its shores, embedding the night sky into their stories, ceremonies, and understanding of the world.

Thus, as twilight falls and the lake is transformed into a mirror of the cosmos, one senses not only nature’s grandeur but also the enduring legacy of those who first understood its deeper meaning. In that stillness, history and beauty are one.

Sony A7RV

FE 14mm f1.8 GM

Linking Skywatch Friday

Note to Self,

5 Hindrances to Self-Mastery

1. Sensual desire (sight/touch/taste/smell/hearing) = Am I addicted?

2. Ill will / aversion = Am I feeling a negative emotion?

3. Dullness / heaviness = Am I unmotivated?

4. Restlessness = Is my mind jumping from thought to thought?

5. Sceptical doubt = Am I indecisive?

RAIN (is the solution)

Recognise which one you're experiencing

Accept that's what you're experiencing

Investigate why you're experiencing it 

Non-identify with that experience.

Lake Tyrrell Pastels for Water H2O Thursday

 

Each time I undertake the journey from Melbourne to the more remote regions of Victoria for rural engagements, I find myself invariably drawn to Lake Tyrrell. Situated near the modest township of Sea Lake, this ancient salt lake never ceases to captivate me, particularly at dusk.

Over the years, I have amassed an extensive collection of photographs—sunsets captured in their full splendour, each image a testament to the lake’s ever-changing disposition. The sky, in its myriad hues of violet, gold, and crimson, reflects upon the mirror-like surface of the salt flats, transforming the landscape into a vast and luminous tableau. It is as though nature has claimed Lake Tyrrell as its canvas, rendering a new masterpiece with every setting sun.

Yet the lake's significance extends far beyond its aesthetic allure. Its name, Tyrrell, is derived from the language of the Boorong people, a clan of the Wergaia nation and the traditional custodians of this land. For thousands of years, they have lived in harmony with this environment, drawing upon the stars for navigation and storytelling, and regarding the lake as a place of spiritual and cultural importance. In their tongue, Tyrrell signifies “sky,” an appellation most fitting for a place where the heavens seem to meet the earth.

With each visit, I am reminded that Lake Tyrrell is not merely a picturesque stop along my route—it is a place steeped in antiquity, serenity, and meaning. It welcomes quietly, yet profoundly, with its timeless beauty and enduring stories.

Sony A7RV

FE 14mm f1.8 GM

Linking Water H2O Thursday

Amidst the recent flurry of news concerning tariff disputes, Joel and I have exchanged numerous messages, keeping a vigilant eye on the fluctuations of the stock market. Joel, in particular, finds himself especially unsettled, having made a somewhat premature investment in certain ETFs tied to the U.S. markets. We are both, in essence, enduring a veritable catecholaminergic storm.

Kilcunda Sky Mirror for Sky Watch Friday

 

It was a lucky moment.

Sony A7RV

FE 16-35mm f2.8 GM

Linking Sky Watch Friday

Joel and I are heading to the coast again this weekend. The forecast on Saturday is sunny again. We preferred partly cloudy. 

Lake Tyrrell Sunset sky mirror for Skywatch Friday

 

Sometimes work trip allows me to get the shot. Finally, first sky mirror from this lake this year. It has been a really wet year here which was supposed to be El Nino here. 

Sony A7RV

FE 70-200mm f2.8 GM

I am in a lucky position to work 3 days a week. I post daily on blogspot, Instagram, mastodon and X. Thursday is all consumed on moderating a world page on IG. This is really so busy. I think I over did it again. Really need time to do photography more. 

Linking Sky watch Friday

Sky Mirror at Lake Tyrrell, Victoria

 

I forgot it was a public holiday for school kids. So every touristy location is packed by humans. Full stop. I can only photography humans instead.

Sky mirror of thin human.

Sony A7RIV

FE 70-200mm f2.8 GM

Reflection of Nicolas Garden Image

Sky mirror at Lake Weeroona, Bendigo

 

This lake is located less than 2 km from where I live. Sometimes the sky can reveal its beauty. The river bank is filled with duck poo though. Very organic smell 

Sony A7RIV

FE 24mm. f1.4 GM

Sky mirror

Lake Tyrrell Sunset

 

Another shot at Lake Tyrrell without the sky mirror glamour 

Sony A7RIV 

FE 14mm f1.8 GM

Lake Tyrrell