Milky Way astrophotography across Cornwall & Devon: Botallack, Rame Head, Mullion Cove, Priest Cove & Wembury. Dark skies, National Trust care, and coastal wonder.

 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

 If you want to see how I went about editing trhese images - here is my current milky way workflow: https://undersouthwestskies.blogspot.com/2026/10/complete-milky-way-editing-workflow.html

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 

"Just after the sun has fully set"

Wheal Owles old tin mine engine house at Botallack in far west Cornwall

Tracked, stacked composite shot with some light painting of foreground

In the shadow of Wheal Owles, it’s impossible not to feel the weight of its story. In 1893 the mine flooded catastrophically, taking twenty lives and leaving a scar that still hums quietly through the landscape. As I lift my little LED light box and paint the engine house with a warm, respectful glow, I’m struck by how its silhouette feels more eloquent at night than in daylight — a monument to men who worked in conditions most of us can barely imagine.

Perhaps that’s why Wheal Owles has become such an iconic astrophotography subject. Under the Milky Way it stands like a lone sentinel, a square tower rising into infinity, its edges catching starlight as if the universe itself is acknowledging its past. It’s one of those rare buildings that speaks more clearly when the stars are out, when the silence deepens and the sky becomes a kind of cathedral.

Perched dramatically on the edge of the Tin Coast, Botallack is a landscape that carries its history in its bones. The engine houses - Crowns, Wheal Owles, Wheal Edward - all stand as monumental testaments to Cornwall’s industrial heritage, and as a Welshman I can’t help but admire the tenacity and sheer grit they represent.

The National Trust manage the area not as a museum piece to be polished, but as a living, weather‑beaten story needing careful, thoughtful stewardship. Their work is a quiet choreography: stabilising fragile structures, managing erosion along cliff paths, improving access for all with trails for all terrain disability buggies and protecting the wider mining landscape that stitches Botallack to Levant and Geevor. They keep shafts, tunnels and ruins accessible without sanding away their raw authenticity and provide education through fascinating guided walks and talks about the area.

Beyond the industrial archaeology, Botallack reveals a quieter, wilder richness. Fulmars glide on stiff wings, kestrels hover in the updrafts, and choughs sweep through with their unmistakable calls. Wildflowers cling to mineral‑rich soils — thrift, kidney vetch, sea campion — splashing colour across the slopes. Even abandoned shafts have become sanctuaries for bats and hardy plants thriving in mineral‑tinged darkness. Nature has reclaimed industry here with quiet determination. It’s a crucial asset for nocturnal birds of prey and the unique coastal heathland ecology, and the Trust work closely with residents and businesses to promote shielded, warm‑toned lighting that protects this rare darkness - the famous West Penwith International Dark Sky Park.

Later on in the night when the orange glow had faded

Another tracked, stacked composite

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.

MILKY WAY ASTROPHOTOGRAPHY AT RAME HEAD

"A place to pause and rest"

St. Michael's Chapel at Rame Head, south-east Cornwall under a milky way core

Tracked, stacked composite

"Cosmic river of stars"

Same location as previous image

Tracked, stacked composite 

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.

As previous image with some internal light illumination 

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.

MILKY WAY ASTROPHOTOGRAPHY AT MULLION COVE 

"Fisherman's cottage under the milky way"

Shot at Mullion Cove quayside on The Lizard peninsula, Cornwall

Tracked, stacked, light painted composite

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.

"In a calm anchorage at Mullion Cove"

Tracked, stacked composite

MILKY WAY ASTROPHOTOGRAPHY AT PRIEST COVE, CAPE CORNWALL 

"Hauled out safely for the night"

Priest Cove, Cape Cornwall 

Tracked, stacked composite

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 

All this group of images are shot at Wembury Beach in south Devon

All are tracked, stacked composites 

"After the crowds have gone home"

Tracked, stacked composite image of Wembury Beach and the Old Mill House.

The green glow? Emergency exit lighting signs in the cafe! 

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.

"Wembury Mill Cafe - closed for the night"

"A cosmic stairway to heaven"

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.

"On a calm summertime night - the stars come out to play"

MILKY WAY ASTROPHOTOGRAPHY AT WEMBURY POINT 

"The perfect place to muse on one's place in the cosmos"

Wembury Point in south Devon 

All images - tracked stacked composites with some light painting

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.

"The perfect place to pause awhile and work out one's place in the cosmos"

A tracked, stacked composite image - looking out over The Great Mewstone and Wembury Bay

This is the only image I have ever posted to Facebook which gained over 1800 likes within 24 hours

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.

Critique of photo of picnic bench under milky way at wembury point on south west coastal footpath

 Self‑Evaluation: A Closer Look at the Bench‑Under‑the‑Milky‑Way Image

Every now and then, it’s worth turning the lens back on ourselves. So, let’s take my recent 'bench under milky way' photo  and give it a proper, honest critique - the kind you’d give a friend over a mug of tea after a long night shoot.

Before we do the evaluation - if you want to read about my milky way summer season - then visit https://undersouthwestskies.blogspot.com/2026/09/an-epic-milky-way-summer-16-nights-2000.html

If you want to see my current milky way editing work flow - https://undersouthwestskies.blogspot.com/2026/10/complete-milky-way-editing-workflow.html

Horizon & Edge Blending

The horizon is level - always a relief, given my failing eyesight - but there’s a soft, slightly un‑natural halo where the sea meets the sky, especially just left of the central rock formation. It’s the visual equivalent of a poorly ironed shirt: most of it looks fine, but one crease catches the eye every time.

Likely culprit: A masking boundary that wasn’t quite seamless. 

Lesson learned: I need to refine those horizon masks so the transition feels natural rather than “pasted”.

Foreground Lighting & Atmosphere

The lantern’s warm glow around the bench works beautifully, in my opinion - casting gentle patches of light across the grass. The head‑torch illumination on the bench itself also feels balanced and intentional.

But here’s the contrast:

The sky is bursting with a vibrant, saturated Milky Way core  - rich magentas and pinks - while the ocean and cliff face sit in much cooler, darker tones. Night foregrounds should be subdued, but the sky’s intensity feels slightly disconnected from the moody sea beneath it.

Corrective action: Dial back magenta saturation a touch, or lift the ocean with a subtle cool ambient wash. Either approach would help the sky and sea feel like they belong in the same nocturnal world.

Composition & Narrative Intent

My aim was simple: a quiet moment at a picnic bench beneath the cosmos, capturing the feeling of pausing along the South West Coast Path to breathe in the night.

The diagonal Milky Way anchors the right side of the frame, balancing my figure seated at the bench. The island acts as a mid‑ground waypoint - a visual stepping stone between the human element and the vast sky above. Ideally, the viewer’s eye follows the same sight line I had on the night: bench → sea → stars.

Overall: I think the human‑scale storytelling works. The scene feels contemplative and grounded. With a cleaner horizon blend and slightly softened sky colouration, the image could step up a level.

So, What do you think?

Have I judged this fairly? Missed anything glaring? Drop your thoughts in the comments — constructive critique is always welcome. We learn faster when we learn together.

Next Steps (The Practical Fix‑List)

Refining the Horizon Seam

To tidy up that ocean/sky boundary in Affinity Photo v1, I need to:

• Re‑select either the ocean or sky area → Refine → gently push the ramp slider outward
• Add a 1–2 px feather for smoother blending
• Use a luminosity selection on a layer mask to prevent dark water bleeding into the brighter sky – don’t know how to do this yet
• On the sky layer, add a layer mask
• With a soft round brush, colour black, opacity/flow around 20%, paint gently over the horizon seam
• This gradually blends the transition instead of creating a hard edge

Knowing what to do is one thing… knowing how to do it without muttering at the screen is another entirely.

 

Colour & Contrast Corrections

To harmonise sky and foreground tones:

Sky Colour

• Add an HSL adjustment layer above the sky
• Switch the colour wheel from Master → Magenta/Red
• Reduce saturation by ~15% to tame the magenta cast

Foreground Ambient Lift

• Add a Curves adjustment above the foreground layer
• Raise midtones slightly
• Lift shadows just a touch to match the sky’s ambient feel

Split Toning for Cohesion

• Apply a Split Tone adjustment to the image stack
• Set shadow tones to a deeper blue (low saturation: 5–10%)
• This ties the cool sea to the night sky, creating a unified palette

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 

If you want to see how I edit these milky way photos - you can see my work flow here: https://undersouthwestskies.blogspot.com/2026/10/complete-milky-way-editing-workflow.html

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