Owenahincha

If you follow the Wild Atlantic Way south from Rosscarbery, you’ll soon pass Owenahincha Beach. A belt of dunes shields it from the road, so it’s easy to miss. Owenahincha is notorious for its currents, and it doesn’t take much for the Atlantic to feel fairly rough here. On the April evening when I took my shots, though, things were peaceful. I was standing near the surf and had just captured the last sunbeams. As the sun dipped behind the hills, that reflex kicked in, the one everyone probably knows after a long and productive day of photography: the show is over, time to call it a day. I ignored it and got a lovely reward in return.

A glance at the little handbook of photography teaches us that the blue hour follows the golden hour. That evening, the transition was to happen at breakneck speed. The warm light disappeared with the last rays of the sun. There was no afterglow, no shades of orange colouring the sky. Cool tones of blue and violet took their place immediately.

So instead of packing up my gear, I swivelled the camera eastwards. Over there, where Galley Head juts out into the sea with its lighthouse, a cloud clung to the sky at the end of the bay, one I’d had in my sights the whole time. It seemed to be just waiting to make its grand entrance after sunset. While blue reigned all around, it absorbed the last light of the day and glowed in delicate shades of pink. I had to hurry with my shots, as twilight was very short at that time of year, and night followed the blue hour just as quickly.

Just twelve minutes separate the two photographs shown above. Taken from almost exactly the same spot within a very short space of time, these two images show completely different moods of light. So it pays to look over your shoulder and go hunting for subjects even after sunset. Incidentally, calling it a day had to wait longer, because at Galley Head Lighthouse the light was still burning.