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.
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.
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
