This Milky Way season took me from cliff‑top chapels to engine houses clinging to the edge of time. Dark skies, wild coastlines, and a camera full of stories.
Milky Way astrophotography across Cornwall & Devon:
Botallack, Rame Head, Mullion Cove, Priest Cove & Wembury. Dark skies,
National Trust care, and coastal wonder.
Introduction
As winter’s grip loosens along the South West peninsula, a
quiet magic unfolds long after the day‑trippers have packed away their
blankets. In the stillness of an early spring or mid‑summer
midnight, the familiar coastal paths of Devon and Cornwall transform. That
daytime symphony of crashing waves and crying gulls softens into a rhythmic,
lapping rumble of gentle surf, and as the clouds part, a second, ancient
landscape reveals itself overhead.
Whether we stand on the wind-scoured clifftops at Botallack
or beneath the solitary gaze of Rame Head’s medieval chapel, the
darkness feels absolute. Yet, it is far from empty. Slowly, our eyes adjust to
reveal a canopy of diamond dust. By April, the brilliant galactic core of the Milky
Way begins its annual return to UK skies, rising like a celestial bridge
over the Atlantic.
For astrophotographers and stargazers alike, these protected
coastal margins are precious sanctuaries. In an increasingly urbanised world,
the National Trust’s commitment to curbing light pollution does more
than safeguard our view of the cosmos; it preserves vital nocturnal rhythms for
nesting seabirds, hunting bats, and fragile marine ecosystems.
Capturing these moments requires patience, a red‑lens
headtorch, and a willingness to brave the pre‑dawn chill. But as we watch a
distant constellation frame a historic engine house or mirror perfectly in a Wembury
rock pool, time dissolves. We are left with a profound sense of connection to a
universe our ancestors knew intimately - a timeless heritage written in
starlight.
I have spent much of this Milky Way season visiting
National Trust‑managed coastal areas across south Devon and far west
Cornwall and you can read about my ‘summer marathon’ ambitions here: https://undersouthwestskies.blogspot.com/2026/09/an-epic-milky-way-summer-16-nights-2000.html
Over the next few weeks, I’ll
evaluate each image I captured - what needed improving, why, and how further
editing brought those improvements to life. I’ll place
each “first effort” beside
its refined counterpart, so we can see what progress I’ve made.
I’ve started this writing already and you can find the first preliminary
efforts here:
Astrophotography, I’m told, is harder than daytime landscape
photography. As I don’t do the latter, I’ll take this under advisement. One of
my ‘summer marathon’ aims was to capture just one - yes, one - well‑composed
Milky Way landscape with a clear, well‑focused foreground. I thought
deeply about linking foreground, mid‑ground and sky seamlessly. And
yet, under the extraordinary beauty of the Milky Way core, I often forgot that
principle entirely. My mastery of using ‘leading lines’ will have to wait until
next year instead!
This was the equipment I used during the
spring/summer and the post editing software I used to produce these
images.
Equipment:
- Astromodded
Canon 800D
- Samyang
14mm lens
- Benbo
Mach 3 CF tripod
- MSM
Nomad star tracker
- x 2
power banks
- x1
dummy battery for DSLR
- Small
LED light on tripod
- Small
Vano camp light – dimming
Editing:
- Stacking
in Affinity Photo (Vs 1) or Sequator
- significant
editing in SIRIL v1.4.4
- final
tonal and global edits in Affinity Photo v1
So, for now, here are my first efforts and my musings
about the areas I visited.
Why were they great places for astrophotography?
And, how did visiting these National Trust sites improve
my mental health and well-being?
As always, constructive advice tips and thoughts are
welcome - drop them in a comment box below.
MILKY WAY ASTROPHOTOGRAPHY AT BOTALLACK
As I strolled toward Wheal Owles on my first
astrophotography visit there, I realised Botallack is one of those rare
landscapes that already knows how to pose. Strong silhouettes, layered
textures, and narrative baked into every stone. Wheal Owles offered that
perfect blend of shape and story: its square tower rising against the Milky Way
like a lighthouse for the past. The cliffs drop away so sharply that the
horizon feels impossibly wide. On my calm night the Atlantic became a dark
mirror, catching fragments of starlight and the faint dying embers of a long‑set
sun. On wilder nights, I suspect the waves become ghostly veils swirling around
the rocks.
Stillness settled over the cliffs - broken only by the
rumble of swell, the sharp bark of prowling foxes, and the crunch of other
photographers arriving along gravel trackways. Once my rig is running, I feel
the weight of time - generations who lived, worked and dreamed on this cliff
before me. The sky echoes that history, reminding me that everything is
temporary, connected, and eventually finds its place.
Botallack is a place I’ll return to time and time
again - not just for the pictures, but for the perspective, and to honour those
tenacious, brave Cornish miners and their families.
Rame Head is one of those places that feels like it’s
been quietly holding the coastline together for a thousand years - a medieval
giant with weather‑beaten shoulders and a chapel perched on top like a lone
watchman who simply refuses to clock off. St Michael’s Chapel stands
there as it always has, a stone sentinel guiding sailors across Plymouth
Sound, shrugging off storms, salt, and the centuries with the stubborn
dignity of another ancient mariner who’s seen it all.
It has changed little from when I fished off its rocky
platforms as a student decades ago.
Around the headland, the maritime cliffside grasslands hum
with life: skylarks spiralling upward like musical fireworks, rare butterflies
and moths flicker through the scrub, all of them relying on the headland’s
wonderfully dark nocturnal horizon to keep their ancient rhythms intact. It’s
wild yet welcoming, dramatic yet delicate, a place where history, wildlife and
big skies all shake hands.
As with some of the other places I’ve been privileged to
visit this summer, The National Trust work hard to keep it this way,
stabilising the chapel’s crumbling masonry and rallying volunteers to protect
paths and habitats before footfall and coastal weathering nibble away at its
edges.
For me, it’s a forty‑five‑minute micro‑adventure
from home - a ferry crossing on the Tamar, a drive along one of the most
stunning cliff‑top roads in the area. No wonder it’s one of my favourite Milky Way haunts.
One evening I met three lads walking the South West Coast
Path, bivvying for the night in the chapel’s shelter. Exhausted, blistered,
starving - yet brimming with that wonderful mix of gusto and stubborn zeal only
long‑distance
walkers possess. They cheerfully offered to help with light painting, then
attempted Milky Way shots on their smartphones before collapsing into their
sleeping bags. A trio of weary adventurers suddenly transformed into eager
astrophotographers, chasing cosmic wonder with cracked screens and aching feet
- one of those encounters that reminds you why Rame Head matters: history,
hardship, humour and human kindness meeting under a sky big enough to hold
them.
Reflecting on my two trips here, I realise Rame Head gave me
the greatest sense of perspective this season - the right location, the right
weather, the right alignment of the cosmic river above the chapel. Immense
silence. Vastness. Feeling small but connected to my world, my galaxy, my
cosmos. Deeply humbling.
Whenever I come back to Mullion Cove, my mind drifts
to the early 1980s - that gloriously chaotic teacher‑training
field trip where six geology students decided midnight was perfect for “caterpillar races” in our
sleeping bags. We wriggled down the lane like deranged larvae, fuelled by
youthful enthusiasm and a heroic amount of alcohol. It was funnier than it
sounds - one of those moments impossible to retell because the comedy lived in
the sheer ridiculousness of being there.
Even without nostalgia, Mullion Cove feels carved out for
stories. A historic harbour tucked beneath steep cliffs, wildlife clinging to
ledges, Mullion Island unbending offshore, and the Atlantic forever
shifting from turquoise calm to full‑throated fury. The Victorian cottages
huddle around the tidal harbour like old friends sharing gossip, while those breakwaters
stretch out like protective arms. Fish cellars, net lofts, serpentine stone — all remnants of the ‘sardine trade’ - unmistakably “proper Cornwall.” I’ve sat on
the harbour walls many times trying to sketch, write poetry, or reflect deeply;
the results always somewhat ‘mixed’, but the intentions being noble.
The harbour dates back to the late 19th century, built to
support the fishing economy. Today it feels almost cut off from the modern
world, especially at night when cliffs wrap around it like a natural shield.
Light pollution barely reaches the cove — though the odd holiday cottage
insists on installing motion‑sensor lights that flare up at
every passing cat or inebriated wanderer, briefly turning the place into a
budget sci‑fi set.
Here, The National Trust work once again with the local
community – this time, navigating climate realities. After decades of storms
battering the quayside, the policy has shifted toward “managed retreat”:
allowing the coastline to breathe and reshape itself.
For astrophotography, Mullion Cove is one of those rare
locations where everything quietly conspires in your favour. Darkness,
composition, foregrounds - all ready and waiting. The Milky Way rises with
clarity, its spine stretching across the sky like a celestial tide. Harbour
walls guide the eye outward, cliffs frame the heavens, Mullion Island sits
offshore like a granite punctuation mark. Foregrounds abound: textured stone,
weathered boats, reflective water – best viewed by walking down the cliffsides
from the car park by The Mullion Cove Hotel (which is where we saw this July’s
partial eclipse from).
On those magical calm nights the Atlantic becomes a sheet of
black glass, catching starlight and harbour glow. Depending on the season, the
Milky Way lines up over the harbour, boats, or the cove itself. The sky and
land collaborate rather than compete. Anchored yachts drift gently, their mast
lights shimmering like tiny lanterns on a darkened stage. Boats are hauled up the slipway, out for
repair.
Now there is a real enchantment after everyone has gone
home. The harbour becomes a pocket of stillness - water trickling down the
slipway, gurgling through stone. Awe expands. Bioluminescence glows in the
gentle swash, waves sync with my breathing, cold air sharpens my senses. The
sky feels enormous yet comforting - a reminder that worries are small and
already shifting away like the tide.
It seems to me that Mullion Cove is a location that rewards
patience and experimentation. It gives me a rare emotional cocktail:
photographic potential mixed with inner peace. A place where I can capture
something beautiful and feel something meaningful. And like all good places, it
leaves a soft pull in the chest - the certainty I’ll return next year, and the
year after, to let the night sky do its quiet, steady work.
Priest Cove is another place that feels both humble
and heroic - a small, rugged fishing cove tucked beneath Cape Cornwall,
carrying centuries of human endeavour in its granite rocks. The slipway,
cobbled apron, boats hauled up against the Atlantic’s moods… all speak of a
community that has always worked with the sea rather than against it. The
Great Brisons sitting offshore like brooding granite guardians. It’s iconic
not because it tries to be, but because it simply is - shaped by tides, toil
and time.
As I stood here, I thought I could almost hear the echo of
old pilchard boats creaking at their moorings, or imagine the lantern glow of
fishermen preparing for a night launch. Priest Cove has that rare quality of
feeling lived‑in without feeling worn‑out.
And then, just after blue hour, as if to consolidate a
point, I watched a small fishing boat navigate in at low tide. Hauled up by an
old pick‑up, I spent ten pleasant minutes chatting with the
three fishermen - grandfather, grandson, and brother‑in‑law.
We discussed the catch, shifting ecology, the Octopus invasion and its
implications for crabbing. Then the pick‑up roared away up the steep track,
leaving me alone to reset my tracker for the Milky Way.
Cape Cornwall is not a manicured area. The
National Trust manage it and the wider headland by keeping it safe,
accessible and true to itself - restoring coastal paths, protecting fragile
cliffside habitats, preserving cultural heritage and ensuring that the
peninsula remains one of Cornwall’s most pristine dark‑sky
locations.
On my daytime recce I spotted fulmars, a red‑beaked
chough, swooping buzzards, surfing seals and cormorants drying their wings. Sea
thrift clung on despite the heatwave, scurvy grass and withering heather dotted
the slopes. Cape Cornwall and Priest Cove remind us that wildlife doesn’t always need wilderness - just a place left to be itself.
This night, I found my leading lines, sense of drama and magnificent
darkness down in the cove. The slipway sat perfectly in line with the milky way,
a natural anchor for the compositions - a granite runway to a cosmic stairway.
Boats, rocks, tide pools - all ready to catch starlight in subtle ways. The
Atlantic, unusually calm, became that smoky dark teal/grey glass reflecting sky
colours in broken fragments. Next year, I will aim to image the whole headland
from further north along the coast.
Anyway, back to the now down in the cove - where else can
you sit on a rough bench with your back against a fisherman’s storehouse,
surrounded by old netting? The rustle of wind through grass, the hiss of my jet
boil stove, the rhythmic clicking of my shutter, the twinkling lights of
Sennen, the sudden flash of offshore lighthouses. Big sky. Big seascape. Deep
calm.
Priest Cove, I found, is where astrophotography becomes more than a technical exercise; it becomes a quiet communion. Perspective, calm, and a reminder that my worries are small compared to the sweep of the cosmos. Standing at the edge of Cornwall, the edge of the ocean, and the edge of the night - all at once – it is breathtaking.
MILKY WAY ASTROPHOTOGRAPHY AT WEMBURY BEACH
Wembury Beach is stitched into our family history - sun‑soaked
days of rock pooling, paddling and castle‑building when the children were
small, memories that cling like sea salt to the skin. It’s one of
those rare coastal places that manages to be two beloved destinations in a
single day: a bright communal playground by day and now, later in life for me,
a quietly magical stage set for stargazing.
From the cliff above, St Werburgh’s Church keeps
watch like a benevolent old lighthouse keeper. The whole beach, irrespective of
time of day, feels warm, open and embracing - a natural amphitheatre where time
slips away without asking permission.
But when the sun drops, Wembury reveals its second
personality. The crowds melt, the tide hushes its voice, and the bay becomes a
darkened bowl facing the stars. The Great Mewstone shifts from familiar
landmark to brooding silhouette; the sky feels vast, as if someone has quietly
lifted the lid off the world. Wembury beach becomes a place where the universe
seems willing to whisper to anyone patient enough to stand still and
listen. Well, it feels that way to me.
I come here as much for the nocturnal wildlife as the cosmic theatre. After the last paddle boarder leaves, badgers begin their nightly commute, tawny owls drift overhead, foxes slip through shadows, mice and voles rustle in the grass, and bats flicker above the car park. Stand still long enough and a hedgehog will trot past; a glow worm will flash neon green. Wembury doesn’t go quiet at night - it simply hands the stage to a different cast.
Astrophotography wise - I remember why I return so often - yes,
the car park is convenient as is the drive short - but it’s more than that. The
Mewstone becomes the perfect foreground anchor for Milky Way landscapes. The
bay offers an uninterrupted horizon for meteor showers and long exposures, and
the National Trust’s “let nature be nature” approach keeps intrusive lighting
at bay. Turn east early in the season and the Mill House becomes another
perfect anchor.
The steady hush of the Channel, punctuated by the occasional
deep‑throated
thrum of a boat engine offshore, turns the place into a coastal observatory
where a night under the stars feels intimate and enormous. Casual stargazers
stay longer than planned; astrophotographers mutter “just one
more shot” until well past midnight – and, no
surprise now, it’s also where I most often meet fellow
stargazers for a night of astronomy.
Ok, go on then, I’ll admit it. Yes - it’s also where I can
do “lazy” deep‑space astrophotography from the back of my car. Picnic
table out, jet boil hissing, snacks everywhere. Lethargic astrophotography,
perhaps, but wonderfully intimate on cold winter nights.
MILKY WAY ASTROPHOTOGRAPHY AT WEMBURY POINT
Another favourite “quick escape” destination - Wembury
Point, a National Trust headland sitting in a rare Bortle 3 pocket. Out in
the bay broods the Great Mewstone: part island, part myth, part 18th‑century
hideout for outcasts and opportunistic smugglers. Another south-west coastal granite
sentinel – this one guarding Wembury Bay and the eastern approaches to Plymouth
Sound. The whole headland feels raw and wind‑combed, a place where The
National Trust wisely lets nature do the landscaping - cliff collapses,
secret coves, ravine‑like inlets, ancient till‑topped cliffs shrugging off
centuries of storms. Even the old remnants of a 1950’s holiday camp!
At night, the place transforms. Wembury Point becomes another
natural observatory - a quiet balcony suspended over the Channel. The Mewstone
turns into a carved silhouette, and the sky opens up like it’s sharing a
secret. Long exposures feel less like photography and more like eavesdropping:
the sea murmuring below, stars sketching slow arcs above, slow throbbing vessels
drifting across the water like sleepy fireflies.
And then the human encounters which make some
astrophotography visits so memorable - two of my best, both on the same night.
First came the NT ranger, trudging up the hill after blue hour. “Three days
of firefighting,” he sighed. “The brigade have only just finished
damping it down.” We talked drought, fire damage, and the loss of grazing
livestock. We admired the rising Milky Way together before he vanished into the
darkness.
Hours later, at 00:30, came the second encounter - and my
wife nearly got her life insurance payout. “Excuse me sir - do you know
anything about a fire picking up again?” Two firefighters materialised
behind me like ghosts, startling me so badly I nearly launched myself off the
cliff. Several locals had phoned in reports of “flickering orange flames” on
the headland. They searched, found nothing, and returned an hour later. I
switched on my red headtorch so they could see my tripod… and they burst out
laughing. The mysterious flames? My blinking red torch. A whole night of
insomniac phone calls — courtesy of yours truly. Oops.
As I look back over this season’s wanderings - the cliff‑top
chapels, the engine houses clinging to the edge of time, the quiet coves and
familiar beaches - I realise that astrophotography has given me far more than
images. It has given me perspective, patience, and a deeper appreciation for
the wild, fragile beauty of our coastline. Each National Trust site I visited
offered something different: a story, a silhouette, a moment of stillness, a
reminder that darkness is not emptiness but a habitat, a heritage, and a home
for both wildlife and wonder.
These places have shaped my summer, steadied my mind, and
stitched new memories into old landscapes. They’ve reminded me that the Milky
Way doesn’t just rise over Cornwall and Devon - it rises over all of us too,
nudging us gently into feeling small yet significant, connected, and quietly
grateful. And as I continue refining these images, comparing first attempts
with improved edits, I know the real progress isn’t just technical. It’s
emotional. It’s learning to stand still long enough to let the night speak.
From caterpillar races in sleeping bags to midnight chats
with fishermen and firefighters… my Milky Way season had everything. And the
photos weren’t bad either.
So, here’s to the next milky way season - new skies, new
stories, new mistakes, new improvements. And here’s to the National Trust,
whose stewardship keeps these places dark, wild, and welcoming for all of us
who wander out after midnight with a camera, a flask, and a head full of hope.
