Astrophotography at Wembury Point, Devon: Milky Way Magic and a Midnight Fire Scare

 To learn more about my summer time marathon Milky way shoot visit: https://undersouthwestskies.blogspot.com/2026/09/an-epic-milky-way-summer-16-nights-2000.html

Milky Way Selfies at Wembury Point — Fires, Firefighters and a Very Guilty Use Of The White Headtorch

Wembury Point - a beautiful National Trust‑managed stretch of coastline just east of Plymouth - is one of my favourite “quick escape” astrophotography haunts. The car park may be small, but the views certainly aren’t: sweeping panoramas across Wembury Bay, with the Great Mewstone island rising like a dark, brooding whale, and the mouth of the River Yealm incising away inland into the night. Time your visit right, using Photopills for the Milky Way’s position, and the whole scene transforms into a natural amphitheatre for night sky photography.

 This summer I headed out for two compositions - both selfies, which is unusual for me. Nobody needs a photo of me under the Milky Way. Not even my mother. The only exception? Me.

A selfie, for me, is a memory anchor. A way of ‘freeze-framing’  the feeling of standing alone beneath the cosmos - warm air, faint breeze, no moon, and the Milky Way arcing overhead like someone has dusted sparkly icing sugar across a black velvet tablecloth. The smell of gorse and wild daisies drifting up the slopes. The salty tang air from waves breaking 100 feet below. Badgers rustling along the fenceline, snuffling with joyous enthusiasm, as they discover a gourmet worm buffet.

Cosmic reflections at Wembury Point 

An Unexpected Plot Twist

On the night I captured the “bench selfie”, I’d already bumped into the area ranger striding up the hill to close and padlock the gate. Odd, I thought, as unusually, it had been wide open when I arrived.

“Wildfires across the headland,” he sighed. “No idea how they started. Fire and Rescue have been here for two days damping it down. They’ve only just left.”

We chatted about drought, fire risks, and the general human inability to behave sensibly around dry vegetation. He lamented the removal of the cows - apparently their grazing kept the gorse in check and helped wildflowers thrive. After a brief exchange about astrophotography, he clunked the gate shut, snapped the padlock, and left me to my own devices.

For the next hour, everything went beautifully. I worked through foreground compositions, collected tracked shots at different ISO and shutter speeds, and ignored the large lorry with blazing headlights up in the car park. I’ve seen farm vehicles up there at night before, so I wasn’t concerned.

“You know anything about the fire then, sir?”

My wife almost collected on my life insurance!

Two jacketless firefighters had materialised behind me like ghosts, instantly apologetic when they realised they’d scared the bejesus right out of me.

“Sorry to interrupt your astro session, sir. We’ve had a report the fire has flared up again. We’re trying to locate the flames, but… nothing so far.”

It was 01:50. I genuinely felt for them - three days on the headland, shoulders slumped with exhaustion, yet still professional and determined. We discussed the lack of smoke, crackling, or smell. I’d been there long enough to know if anything was burning. They decided to open the gates, drive across the headland, and walk the entire area again.

Off they trudged into the darkness, leaving me alone once more - grateful for people willing to face danger so the rest of us can enjoy quiet nights under the stars.

 

An hour later, a low shout drifted from the gate.

“Don’t jump, sir — it’s us again! Just updating you.”

Several people had reported a “red flickering flame” on the headland. But still no flames, no smoke, no smouldering.

And you, dear reader, already know exactly where this is going.

Some insomniac muppets in Wembury village had seen … my red headtorch.

The firefighters and I huddled together, laughing at how easily a periodic red glow could be mistaken for raging flames. But we agreed it was better people cared enough to report it. Better safe than sorry - especially on a coastline they clearly love.

As for me? I felt guilty for the rest of the night and promptly ruined my night vision by switching to the white torch. A small price to pay for not triggering another emergency response.

'Is there anyone out there?'

So, Bottom Line - Have I Actually Made Any Progress Since Starting Milky Way Landscape Photography?

As someone who’s spent 35 years in education, I’ve always believed in meaningful self‑evaluation. I won’t bore you with the pedagogical theory (you’re welcome), but if you want to be a lifelong learner - in astrophotography or anything else - honest reflection is your rocket fuel.

Over the decades, countless “Assessment for Learning” strategies have drifted in and out of the UK National Curriculum, like passing comets. But two ideas have always stuck with me.

The first comes from the Growth Mindset world: “We grow our own success.” I’ve always loved that. It’s a reminder that progress is built on perseverance, resilience, practice, and the willingness to try new approaches when the first few attempts fall flat on their face.

The second is a simple classroom classic: “Two Stars and a Wish.” My students swore by it - and I still use it today.

⭐ Two Stars

These are the things you’re genuinely pleased with - the areas where you’ve stepped forward in knowledge, understanding, or skill in a piece of work.

Right now, on my Learning Milky Way Landscape Photography journey, my two stars would be:

• Far better thought given to composition within the landscape. I’m finally thinking about how the Milky Way interacts with the terrain rather than just pointing the camera skyward and hoping for the best.
• Improved confidence using SIRIL’s python scripts. I’m beginning to understand what they do, why they matter, and how to use them to better effect. Baby steps, but steps nonetheless.

⭐ And My Wish…

The thing I need to improve if I’m going to keep progressing?

Simple. Selections, masking, layering and tonality in Affinity Photo.

This particular wish may take a while. Possibly a very long while. Possibly long enough for the next ice age to roll in. But that’s the joy of learning - there’s always another mountain to climb, another tool to master, another “why is this doing that?” moment to swear at.

What’s Next?

Over the coming months, I’ll share more stories from my Milky Way summer marathon - the successes, the failures, the “what on earth was I thinking?” moments, and the newly revised workflows that have helped me improve.

I’ll explain:

• What I do
• How I do it
• Why I do it
• And how it’s better than what I did before

I may also indulge in a little gentle rumination: the mental‑wellbeing benefits of stargazing along our incredible coastline, and whether a finished landscape image means different things to different people.

As always - enjoy the big skies, stay safe out there, and have fun. Keep looking up.

Steve Aka #PlymouthAstroBoy