It was early autumn, 2024, and I found myself once again standing on the familiar, dark sand of one of my favourite stretches of the Mediterranean coast. I had arrived well before blue hour, the air still holding the faint chill of night, my boots crunching softly on the beach rocks and sand as I made my way down toward the shoreline. My camera gear was already set up, the scene quietly waiting — as if the landscape itself knew what was coming.
This beach has almost everything I look for in a seascape setting: a narrow jetty that stretches into the water like a pointer to the horizon, soft sand that darkens when kissed by the tide, and scattered rocks that offer a hundred different possibilities for foreground interest. The layout changes subtly every time I return, but the spirit of the place — its calm, its drama — never does. At least twice a year, without fail, I returned here.
This time around wasn’t only about getting “the shot.” It was about the process, the subtle challenge of reading the sky, of listening to the rhythm of the sea, of adapting the mood and composition to the conditions nature chose to offer that day. Some mornings, the sky gave nothing. Others — like this one — gave everything.
The forecast had promised light winds and scattered clouds—the perfect ingredients for a painterly sky. Along the Mediterranean, I had learned to trust these signs, especially in the cooler months of autumn and winter, when the drama in the sky tends to mirror the deep, shifting moods of the sea.
I captured a blue hour scene, the deep blues and soft purples of the horizon just beginning to stretch and yawn awake. That image alone was enough to satisfy the technical goals of the trip. But I stayed. I always do. There’s a kind of magic in the waiting — the long minutes when nothing happens, followed by the blink-and-you ’ll-miss-it burst of brilliance.
And then it began.
Golden hour crept in with quiet brilliance, the edge of the sun rising just enough to kiss the underbellies of the clouds. Suddenly, the sky exploded in colour—fiery oranges, pinks, and a searing line of gold that traced the horizon like a whispered secret. The sea mirrored the show, catching flecks of colour and scattering them across the waves like spilled paint.
I was overwhelmed, not just by the light but by the feeling. There’s a unique kind of joy that comes with witnessing such beauty after a long, silent wait. It floods the chest and makes your breath catch. In that moment, the world goes quiet—not in the absence of sound but in the presence of awe.
This location will always hold something special for me. Not just for the compositions it allows, or the moods it mirrors, but for the sense of childlike excitement it never fails to ignite. Every visit is different. Every image tells its own quiet story.
And this morning — this golden hour captured at the edge of the world — was one I’ll never forget.
